Till It Bleeds

The grip is slipping, blood is slick,
Holding on, and feeling so sick,
I wish there was a better story,
But this one is not filled with glory.

I put my pants on, one leg at a time,
Trying to form lines that may rhyme,
But I walk wires, over a train wreck,
And my halo fell long ago to the deck.

So I stay here, waiting for the answer,
But nothing is said to this lonely dancer,
I will wait until the last one falls,
Or until the final bell sounds the call.

Stoic Poetry

The Stage We Are Upon

Every movement that we make
Every word we may have to say
Always looking for the mistakes
Never forgiveness in any way

So we live in this shackled life
A smile that is never returned
Walking a sharp edge of a knife
And no one seems concerned

Alone we keep it to ourselves
Sharing; such a dangerous act
So we live our lives as shells
Missing everything we lacked

Stoic Poetry