Battle Cry against Obsession

Let not a single thought

Much too obsess you.
Become it'll, I doubt not,

A giant fireball. Consume you.

Feed it not another thought,
lest it became a cranial gout.

Trifles forgotten, ah but all forgot !
It'll rein you thither, around, about.

Play not with fire, they say,
in their wisdom infinite.

Fight this fiery monster, I say

slay it with all your might.

Let it not push you around,

you're no so so boy,

We will fight, teeth and sound

till our sanity holds sway.

Till the world revolves around,

we might have to fight,

but we must, we are bound,

till our enemy sees flight.

And then we'd bid kind adieu,

for our souls will be cleansed,

we'd harbor no residue

of ill-will, hate or incense.

For we are just curious kids

in a ripe universe,

playing about, tied to her bids,

Immaturity our curse.

But we will grow up too

and make our enemy our friend

and each thought, given its due,

will coexist amongst a blend

of insights and ruminations,

syllogisms and paradoxes,

all our mind's concoctions

like colours in colour boxes.

Yes, Yes, there's hope

for sanity and the sane.

O Rational Man ! Vouch to fight and cope,

for thought's dear own sake - Amen.

-------------------------------------------------

An Apology in Post Script

PS : As for me, O dear Reader,

'm an incompetent pursuer,

And there's something I greatly fear.

Lend to me a kind gentle ear.

After all, What is a Poem ?,

but - to me - a device sincere.

Shows where the poet is coming from.

Is Not - I strongly feel - a liar's gear.

And who is the worst liar ?

A simple man in a trap severe ?

Or our well meaning mischief maker ?

No, unforgivable is the unbelieving Preacher !

Hence sermonizing I try avoid,

'cause I'm a lazy man in plain speech.

I'd rather dream in an empty void

Than Practice not what I preach.

So then, the first poem was to be

a reflection on obsession,

Got carried away, me poet wannabe,

Off in a different direction.

Moved I was to relate,

quite involuntarily,

For what reason I forget,

Except I was guilty,

of thinking thoughts perhaps trifling,

over and over and over again.

Till I was pretty much obsessing,

Exaggerate if I may, going insane.

Probably a happy accident

delivered me sane again,

Rid of the predicament,

I set to write then -

Or maybe, in the throes

of useless synaptic firing -

in verse as opposed to prose.

I forget the timing.

Started I to write earnestly,

stumbled onto a writer's block.

Gave up too soon too easily,

Should have shown some pluck.

Chanced again on those scribbled

stanzas, on a random day.

Read them quick, then dribbled

the idea of finishing without delay.

But the muse had other ideas,

Ended up writing what you read.

Seeded though the poem was

with a different dye and different thread,

To me it read differently.

A Cry against thinking Singly,

dogmatically, fanatically.

A Cry for thinking rationally.

Alas ! it is ironical,

that this chance meandering

on a landscape literal,

sedimented something

that pertains only too closely,

to the times we inhabit presently.

Thus, veer I did, but sadly,

this apology seems unnecessary.

A farewell note, my dear Reader -

Tolerate this poem affably.

Apologetic it may appear,

but is not written insincerely.