On me. My. Mine.

What am I doing with my life, calling it mine.
Other men’s names stitched inside my clothing.
Other cities on my lunch beer. Long list of strangers
in my phone. Mine. Maybe. But really not mine alone.
Sharing as a way of life. As ethos.
Let us use sharing as the mortar between bricks and see how well it sticks.
Community. Built of what? Out of unity? Out of punity? Of you and me?
Didn’t read that on the receipt. And I know the price.
But the cost is lost. On me. My. Mine.
I can dig as deep down as I like, what will I find,
a mine for a mind is a noble thing to displace.
Dirt. Rock. Endeavor and effort.
All misplaced and wasted.

If I can not own it, then it must be truth.
And within truth, I am included.
Though I have no name, mine or otherwise,
stitched inside my self.

My Maker could be the pure embodiment of understanding.
Doesn’t make It any better at branding.

Chicken scratch and a life to match.

Teach this lesson: how the most productive among us do not always feel their success. They are not always driven, driving forward, gaining pace in pursuit of their dream’s greatest. There is not a lot of motivation in hypotheticals. If there was, more people would make sacrifices to achieve the things they want. No, the hardest working, most inspirational people, milking minutes and hours from the day most of us don’t even know exist, are not running toward goals, so much as being chased by failure. Self-aware. Knowing all these words and thoughts and chicken scratch will be counted on for a life to match. Afraid for being all talk. Frightened of not being as enlightened as my writing. I heard my life described as if I were working the equivalent of three full time jobs. Keeping up with the money one, the sunny one and the overrunning one. But that isn’t how it feels. I am eternally unsettled. Dissatisfied. Full of angst trying to find ways to give thanks to a God who thinks and seeded a thinking universe like a songwriter puts down a verse, trusting it will inspire a chorus. And here we are. Each one of us. A left brain right brain rhyming couplet created under the cramped hand of an angsty, unsettled, dissatisfied chemical equation. A creator. And it may not have written all this to shape the perfect universe. More likely loneliness. More like an artist. Looking like it’s chasing three full time gigs just to keep up with itself. But the truth is, I’ve given up on ever finding contentment. And it honest to goodness just helps to stay busy.