I Was Feeling Conflicted Poem by Richard Bogartz

I was feeling conflicted
about being restricted.
Then again being addicted
was so unexpected.
So I collected my stuff,
said "Tough! ",
and left.
And right I was.
All night I was rough.
But enough.
One can be gruff only so long.
So I said "So long."
It's been good to know you.
Leaving.Grieving.
Believing you are losing
what you need.
A form of greed.
A seed of suffering.
Buffering perception.
Conception.
Birth.Mirth.
All a joke.
And it started with one tiny toke.
A poke.
So I ran.
I lost my breath.
Hoarfrost my breath.
My inspiration.
My mental respiration.
Meditation.
Trepidation.
Fear comes near
and all I hear is
the call of the wailing wall.
I run away for a day
and stay in a crayon box
next to burnt sienna.
Traces of faces.
Crying erases old places.
Did you think I drink?
I never ‘bibe a beverage.
Too much memory severage.
Too little salvage.
By and by I lie on my high horse.
Of course.
My source.
Sigh.Hoarse.
Sore.Throat.
Horehound.
I was feeling convicted
of being evicted.
Neglected.
Erected.
Dissected.
Misdirected.
It's hard
on the soul.
A house
is not a hole.
A mountain
is not a mole.
I never intended
To pretend.
Intention takes attention.
Pretense is my essence.
Trenchant.
Enchantment.
The light came on.
I woke up with a start.
With the right name on.
Sometimes I forget
my name.
I regret my fame.
Secret.
Moist.
Testing.
Resting up before another trial.
Jury duty.
Imagine deciding on the
guilt or innocence of another.
I can't even decide on my own.
You would think you could do that
on your own.
Confession is good for the solitary.
I confess.Undress my mind.
Regress.
One address is as good as another.
I stand as a brother
To those who died.
A rose that I tried.
Cried.
Roses are ready.
Steady.
Heady.
Violets are true.
Ultra true.
Old flowers reaching
for a new custom.
Teaching.
Old ideas.Bust ‘em up.
Thrust ‘em down.