Sometimes, you know the real reason, But you still can’t be the one to say it You know well why they did the thing, But it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all
It must come from within, in its season On some level, they know but won’t admit The canary’s mouth closed; it will not sing And Van Gogh’s ear refuses the call
By themselves, they’ll have to figure it out No matter how obvious it may be to you If you spell it all out, simple and plain They’ll only reject it as a selfish ploy
Some fall deep into the well of doubt, Won’t do what the heart most wants to do They’ll forge on ahead, no matter the pain Things that love, and are loved, destroy
Avert the eyes of the face in the mirror, Admitting mistakes, the need to change, They’ll rake themselves over hot coals To keep everyone happy, all but the self
Unless it cuts deep, so they feel it clearer Regardless of how unnecessarily strange They’ll stick to expired, worn-out goals Try not to look at the dreams on the shelf
You want so badly to explain it in detail You know their truth even better than they If they’d only admit it, they’d be satisfied You want to scream, draw them a diagram
If you say it for them, your intentions fail Suspicious of the things you do and say Fear, manipulations; you must have lied Some play the willing sacrificial lamb
It’s easier to suffer in miserable silence Than admit what it is they want the most Swallow feelings, cause no one displeasure Love is expensive; it’s cheaper to scream
And their beautiful vision dies in violence While they suffer daily as drudgery’s host Twist in boredom’s unhappy full measure Hold the anchor and let go of the dream
I see the length of rope that hangs you I know how you are trapped from within There’s nothing for you that I can do Don’t expect you’ll come down again
The invisible shackle on your leg I feel its ponderous weight, as well The lock and key don’t belong to me And neither does your hell
There is no gag to mute your voice You chose to choose, to beg, to ask When asked about your final choice The words could not escape the mask
The floor is yours; of me, no trace Stepping away, discharging a sigh One heavy heart, one double-face For someone other than I
The Music, Poetry, and Madness of Kevin Trent Boswell— Most recent book release, available on Amazon —Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
once, the roads all lay wide open before us, turning in hundreds of different directions, taking people on magical journeys to numberless destinations, along magnificent trails of gorgeous scenery
yes, there were always a few dead ends, here and there, but one could always turn around
you could backtrack, without experiencing too much anxiety over lost time
you’d happen upon interesting choices, unmarked intersections, where there was no signage to help you navigate your way
it was all up to you
choose your own adventure, twist-a-plot, flip a coin, “eeny, meanie, miney, moe; my mother told me this way… and you… are… not… it”
and so, you’d set down a path, with guesses, hopes, and fears, but no real way of knowing what was up ahead
it was all an exciting gamble
you might meet your death but, you might find treasure, fame, or perhaps, unravel a mystery
“once there was a way to get back homeward.”
see? Paul knew the deal.
but now, the roads have all narrowed
many of them, if not most, are blocked off ||||| completely impassible
storms have knocked down trees, barring the way
some roads are blocked by protesters
many streets are just too full of potholes
you can’t drive down them without wrecking your vehicle
all the roads, even the dirt ones, are littered with toll booths, every half a mile
insane fees extracted like teeth
the “protection money” extortions of gangsters looks like chump change in comparison; third-graders, threatening to beat you up for your milk money
half the available highways have fallen too far into disrepair; you can’t walk down them, for fear of stepping in a hole, breaking your ankle
of the remaining roads, those still open and drivable, the traffic is maddening
each thoroughfare congested with vehicles, all belching exhaust, and piloted by madmen, caught up in the throes of full blown road rage
too many cars, even though the travelers on all of these roads already know…
there’s nothing at the end of any of these highways; nothing they’d actually want, anyway
the obsession is no longer “where are we going?”
it’s now “how long can we keep driving, before we run out of gas?”
we no longer worry about how long it will take us to get there, because we know…
there’s nowhere to go
now, we just try to lose ourselves in the experience of the drive, desperately trying to forget why we ever got into the vehicle in the first place
we no longer ask ourselves why we even have a vehicle
such questions would only cause us to think about what is at the end of these endless roundabouts, and dirt paths, running through fruitless orchards, as far as the eye can see
asphalt and concrete conveyor belts, mindlessly herding us through the turnstiles and metal guide-rails of urban slaughterhouses
what was so important? that we had to build these heartless machines?
pay all these tolls?
deal with all these crazy people, rudely plowing ahead in all these ugly boxes?
and, more importantly, if whatever it was…
isn’t even there, anymore…
then, why the hell are we still out here?
why are we still on these
tacky footpaths, made of gauche steppingstones, leading only to the madhouses
these dry, dead riverbeds where five out of every ten tankers are beached, or rudderless
three more of them are sinking
and one more has been pulled over, by the police
only one out of every ten vessels on our peculiar, asphalt rivers is in good working condition, and sailing on nicely
and, even that one still lacks any sense of where it’s headed
what fever is this, that overtakes us, compelling us to pursue these
godforsaken freeways of the damned
infinite trails of tamed wilderness that lead to absolutely nowhere
Kevin Trent Boswell 