Pissing in piss poor
potholes of indecision
is what every word that
biased intellect did.
So I reflect on times
when my temperature was
tip-toeing on the
line between hot and cold.
A time when thought
was an absolute conclusion.
Not a boat caught in
a brain-storm
of second thinking.
I know there's
a light-house to
bring me to shore.
An idealistic light-bulb
constantly abright.
Not flickering
because the surrounding
Ideas are taking it's energy.
I will stand alone
in the atonement of these ideals.
Hills of public opinion
will not hold sway
on future days of my
renewed prospective.
But I will listen
for without new conversations
can one progress past their own nose.
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