in parentheses

Marcus Berley is a person, poet, and psychotherapist. After his divorce, he moved out to a farm and forest sanctuary, where he rents a small cabin and spends his time cooking, watering the garden, and smoking on the porch while looking out at the pond and surrounding meadow and trees.

at the gate

I've retreated from life

out here on the farm

under some pretext 

of spiritual development

but I don't meditate

or do much at all

other than getting by

day to day

Afraid to approach myself
 trembling at the gate
 of the unknown

sword

talking to friends

I can turn mean

through the smoke

out of nowhere

cutting away at the soft spot

later, guilt
 surprised by my sharp edge
 I wipe off the blood
 and feign innocence

cool clothes

trying not-very-hard

to dress up my demons

and act as though I know enough

to skate through terrors
 and be some version of me
 who can smile for real

while avoiding the camera
 as though the image = true
 while inside doesn't count

a ragged excuse

an insipid degenerate

left in his cave

drooling at ass

smoking & smoking

how is that bastard

along for the ride

when I button my shirt

and smile at my wife

I only call I the version I like

until it flips

and I'm only the worst

clean up the mask
 the shadow is lurking
 split - by survival?
 a ragged excuse

after the nap

I heard only echoes of life

drift through my mind

I couldn't tell what had happened

and what were only

loose images

situations turned interpretations

then forgotten right away

when waking up