Kill the Ringer
Pictures of you, that keep the facts
about you glossed, must meet the ax.
With all its barnacles intact,
one's pride pretends it isn't cracked.
then whines. " its neither right nor fair
when I, at last, let down my hair."
The reason why we're kicked so hard,
or take bum steers with poop for prize,
is due, in fact, to mental lard
which clogs the byways of our eyes.
A mind is clear when freed from sleaze
and functions like a lasered jewel.
Ideas, thoughts and memories
all need to feed on psychic fuel,
whose final form is made from stuff
we glean, distill and drain of guff.
Not grown on trees, we must concede
to fund the heavy lift, and clear
our inner home, so purest mead
might flow through pipes, not just stale beer.
We see ourselves one way, as do
all men. To see what's truly true
lends much to guide a planner's hand.
Mechanical habits and thoughts
snarl up the mind with endless granny knots.
The clash of masks, creates unplanned
snafus, that sap one's will to force
Soul's river through a better course.
So long as one plays star of show,
he's first in line to stop a pie.
The shallow glories reaped by Ego,
shrink and shrivel, when challenged by
the slightest whiff of perfect peace.
Work done to learn from and release
the inmost Being that we are,
brings forth light from the one true star.