Pieces of Me or Ramblings of Donald Pen Prince

There’s a storm in my mind,

a hurricane in my thoughts.

Like the Katrina, Only a lot worse.

All my pleasant thoughts swept away.

Gone with the wind,

and my sanity floats,

Like petals in the breeze.

Sadness and anxiety, pain and loneliness,

are the wreckage that now fill my world.

After one last glimpse of utopia, I grasp the slender branch of understanding and knowledge.

The far-reaching rope of inspiration wound itself around my neck,

And in an instant, everything flashes before my eyes.

Inspiration. birthed by asphyxiation,

I discern all and the grand puzzle of lifw connects in my head.

I see my shattered world whole and hale.

But it’s only a vision,

or an illusion.

And as it fades, I realize,

that I’m still here.

Amidst the shattered wreckage,

The floating debris,

Of what’s left of my world.

And my ever-present companions pain and loneliness, have loyally stuck with me.

One stray strand of insight floats to me from my glimpse into all.

If I am to have a chance at wholeness again,

I must gather the broken pieces of me,

the flotsam and jetsam, from the murky waters of my mind.

If I am to find sanity again,
I must rebuild.

Recreate me from swirling chaos and

enormous nothingness.


a feat which took the almighty seven whole days after which he rested.

I a mere mortal, how am I to manage that?

for I am a mere fraction of our immortal artisan.

And it must take me a hundred thousand billion times the amount of time it took HIM,

to reconstruct my shattered self,

time which needless to say, I don’t have.

Maybe I’ll just leave it to HIM.

If I asked nicely,

Or humbly,

And didn’t shout, or order him about Like a “prayer warrior.”

But these are ramblings of a dilapidated man.

Not poetry.

No flowing verses, or pretty speeches,

No old as time clichés and windy, boring declarations of love.

It is like the wreckage you find after a storm hath vented its fury, and made itself heard.

Disheveled disorder,

in my poor world.

I know what I have to do.

But for now, I’ll just wallow

In sweet pain,

And revel in the exhilarating agony

That’s flooding the broken streets,
and cluttered canals of my mind.

Truly, man is masochistic.


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