Always getting in trouble and blaming it all
On the bad hand dealt to you, you sometimes forget
That your turbulent nature is most commonly
The denominator episodically.
Your behavior in public you often regret.
As an adult you feel that you’re hopeless and small.
Who is this speaking to me? This self knows no one
Who would lay out the truth to me in quite this way.
So perhaps it’s my conscience. That would fall in line
With how I would prefer to be – sane and benign
With who all I encounter in each brand new day.
I reflect the archetype of the bastard son.
The serene disposition subconscious in me
Is not calling the shots, and this should be the case.
With my conscious decisions I have some control
But when passion erupts from the depths of my soul
I become too impatient with my human race
And this self, made inclusive, would rather not be.
The Appropriate Outlet is limp to be found
In the objective everyday world. My release
Is in knowing that one does exist just for those
Who exude creativity but who oppose
Existential confinement. I may find my peace
Through the guidance of spirit which is the most sound.