the nerve

Actual daily threadbare psychic pain.
Rooted in my brain.
Clinging from the other side.
The other side of what, I cannot know.
Perhaps the what itself
Is the blight, the distractor.
Though also a token source
Of daily pleasure,
Or at least of sensation.
The raw sort hurts so lovely
So long as it's gentle.
The smallest size on the grater,
The surface scratch.
I rub my eyes bare.

lost poems

Inundation of moral quandary.
Quagmire of significant choices:
Put another plastic in the sea?
The best lack all conviction. 
Judgment of a generation as poetry.

Sacrifice is succor via suffering.
Satisfaction is available,
But only to the moneyed and the free.
Death is no better whined at than withstood. 
Moral instruction encased in poetry.

An ancient city buried in the sea,
A museum of entombed fragility.
Testament to a truth that none shall see.
The fascination of our predicament - 
The envelope is scratched with poetry.

Spectral creatures pick at their snacks,
Which collect in pinches and cracks.
Their gazes are glazed and ghostly.
The sour breath shall vanish in a day. 
Most shall see somewhere some poetry.