LOOKING FOR TOMORROW

LOOKING FOR TOMORROW

Looking for tomorrow, amidst the wreckage of the day,
Here somewhere amidst the trials that life has sent my way.
Looking for a rose that grows not overgrown by thorns,
Sifting through the rubble in a soul that's grown forlorn.

Pleading for an answer, I go crawling on my knees,
Treading water by my boat that's capsized on the seas.
Trying to find a purpose, trying to say yes,
Trying to find a sliver of long lost happiness.

The evening tide is easy, most times the nightfall calms,
Sleep descends like a blessed friend, wraps me in its balm.
I go floating somewhere on a little death, somewhere out in space.
On a cloud of Klonopin, I am lost without a trace.
When morning sends Aurora like a vision across the plains,
I shake off sleep and sometimes weep that day has come again.

Looking for a purpose, now that life is free lance,
Now that I am all alone as day begins its dance.
My love begins his long, hard day, complete with long commute,
And I am here all by myself, with a lonesome attitude,
The brain cells they have died and walking is a chore,
I drive myself short distances, perhaps to the grocery store.
But ennui lurks in every corner, so it's radio and TV,
And music on the stereo, whatever comes to me.

Perhaps the existentialists were right, and life intrinsic has no meaning,
We recreate our own lives daily, once more now with feeling.
So I sit and fill this screen with words, listen to the chirping birds,
Hope that someday someone will take the time to read,
The words that spill onto my page, a massive molten bleed.
Sometimes a trickle, sometimes erupting, like a glorious Mt. Saint Helens.
At times I don't know what to say, at times resort to nonsense.
It's the way I choose of staying sane, confronting every peril and pain,
Each lost and lonely labored breath, leads inexorably to death.
The only question in my mind that spins,
Is how to spend the interim.
I recreate myself each day, with the words I write and the things I say,
Take my daily happy pills and try to forestall sorrow,
Turning over brand new leaves, looking for tomorrow.

Looking for tomorrow, at last my love is home,
A kiss and then a cuddle, and then we lie alone.
Time for the cloud of Klonopin to wrap me in its sheets,
The boat of life it floats ashore and it anchors at my feet.
I fall asleep in a bed of roses alas untouched by thorns,
Sifting through my dreams that fall, noisy as a newborn.
It's sometimes a cloud of sleep benign, sometimes a nap of nightmares,
The soil of the subconscious sends terror up the stairs.
Up the stairs and sometimes creeping stealthily up the spine,
A most malicious mauling by a troupe of valentines.

Pleading for an answer, to send the demons on their way,
It's a tricky exorcism, fraught with much dismay.
It's getting harder to find that purpose, harder to say yes,
Stubbornly I sift and cling to my sliver of happiness.
Amidst the autumn of my life that echoes fast its sorrow,
Turning over every leaf, looking for tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FRESH NIGHTMARES

FRESH NIGHTMARES

Sailing down my private Styx,
Searching for a brand new fix.
The coiled serpent around the neck
No longer does the gruesome trick.
No longer in his vaunted mesh
My weary thoughts enslaves and snares.
I'm looking for some nightmares fresh
Brand new scandalous scares.

Nighttime is my fright time,
How like the lion it once roared.
My dreaming and my inner life,
Were the only ways my spirit soared.
Armies encamped on the field,
Mine vanquished by a slash of sword,
Felled by gargantuan guillotines,
The horror leaves me cold and bored.
I hope I've not become blasé,
I hope I'm not desensitized,
I think that I just need to find,
Some brand new theater of the mind.

Fresh nightmares to pluck at the eyeballs,
That leave me intoxicated with the rush of a highball.
Some new drama, perhaps an alien in the force field.
Some super hero enemy, thrusting out his shield,
Leaving me to sally forth and parry,
The weight of disease on my back I carry,
Into the confounded conflagration,
Like some ancient knight of yore,
A nighttime private exhortation,
Full of guts, chock full of gore.
My private horror movie screening,
Replete with blood and my own screaming,
Designed to waken my sleeping will,
My emptiness of days to fill,
Fodder for a novel perhaps,
Devilish accompaniment to naps.
Some twisted weird reminder that I am still here,
Vibrant and ready to conquer the fear.

I'm ready for the heady rush, all I need's a little push.
Ready for the night of the living dead,
The monsters in waiting beneath my bed.
Just give me a nightlight and a flask,
Then bring on the ghouls in their gruesome masks.

When all the muscles freeze and stiffen,
When all I have's imagination,
I toss my hat into the ring and join the celebration.
My dream life a perilous plunge deep into the restless sleep.
Of a tainted twisted fairy tale, where the handsome princes weep.
Trapped in some familiar once upon a time,
Where life was one of normalcy and endings so sublime.

Sailing down the river Styx,
Hopes and fears into the mix.
The same old tripe to the surface bubbles,
Mind-numbing as all my toils and troubles.
The frightful it can be delightful, as long as you stay fast asleep,
Fresh nightmares, new night scares, they crawl and they creep.
Meaning no harm, they disturb and alarm.
Leaving me shaking and stifling my screams,
Falling headfirst on the sword of my dreams.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED