The Cardboard Breadman

I’m in this world on assignment;
I’m a part of the Master’s plan;
I often feel I’m in confinement;
and that’s how my life began.

I’m not here to build, or reform;
others can do both, quite fine;
nor to exhibit frustration, or scorn;

The artist set up his palette with paint;
all the rainbow’s colors were there;
dabbing his brush, showing little restraint;
sending colors descending everywhere.

But more than paint; He also sent sound;
a crescendoing, thundering roar;
everywhere you could see;  all around;
with the finesse of a musical score.

I am an aspiring artist,
painting the world I see;
reality is really just a mist;
I am, what I’m painted to be.

I don’t dab paint on a canvas;
writing is my medium choice;
but still, I am an artist;
words have expressions to voice.

Words turn

The present has become a poison to me;
its toxic effects cause me despair;
unwilling to endure that past I still see;
and unable to discover the where.

I used to long for a future place;
surely it would be my where;
But I’m unable to reach that space;

So, we think we’ve had our fill of pains;
we’ve caused even more for our brother;
and to reality, who, over us, reigns;
we’ve given so much sorrow to another.

Greed and envy, always fill up our plate;
pride is a most arrogant master;
and, faced with

How is it that thoughts, deep in my mind;
keep finding new ways to come out;
is that how it all, is somehow designed:
how it is that speech comes about?

It’s as if my mouth fills up with thought;
until it overflows with words.
Without considering what it