Man as Modern Art

Excuse me
as I flounder through my feelings,
unequipped to see through sandstorms
of emotions flying,
seeking a place to hide
before I am overwhelmed,

Seeking
a path, a way to make sense
of the love and hate, passion and fear
and their diabolical dance.

No one told me.
It was not part of my education.
In fact, they were suspect,
things of no value.

Life was simple.
Be a man
meant never crying,
a stoic face that never cracked.
You were this.
or that.
Never both.

No one told me
life was a constant battle
of heart and head, of emotions
battling in the same soul
like a cage fight
where no one ever dies
and the fighting never stops.

Which is why I stop.
I let the dust settle.
I let the storm pass
as I stand in the rain, arms outstretched.
Still.

I wish,
every day I wish
to be the simple man.
All this.
All that.
Sure.

Instead I am a madman’s canvas,
splattered and smeared
with colors that do not belong with each other,
and yet, somehow
they do.

About this poem.

I don’t do well with mixed emotions. And yet I am full of them. Maddening.

Tom