A poem from the vault of despair

Reading some of my poetry from a decade ago, it's clear I wasn't very happy—except when I was writing poetry about how unhappy I was.

My life is different now. I don't feel stuck. I don't feel exploited. I don't feel like I'm treading water in the shark tank. Becoming a van dweller has been exactly the right thing for my mental health.

But here's a peek at my former self.

Perception

gliding along upside down

looking through rose colored goggles

into backward binoculars 

at a rear view funhouse mirror

in the dark 

with one eye closed

rabbit’s foot crucifix mutant clover

in my unhip pocket

knowing the juju will see me through

get me over the lumps and bumps

and sudden detours over the precipice

solidly grounded in erroneous assumptions

founded upon other erroneous assumptions

about things that never really happened

and never really could

I am certain

I am true

I am safely wrapped 

in fluffy layers of 

non-reflective self-deception

and a wrinkle resistant blend

of delusion and denial

all the while watching

for the deus ex machina

created ex nihilo

and ex post facto

to stretch forth its mighty hand

and save my bacon

making a happily ever after 

ending to end all endings

but in the end

there is no man 

with an inscrutable plan

behind the curtain

pushing buttons flipping levers 

pulling strings on my behalf

in the end 

the pretty myths that keep me afloat

bloat and 

drag and 

drown