Artist's self portrait

I ponder myself in my own distorted reflection.
Look true, despite restless discomfort, honest sight prevails.
I am Herculean, yet insomnia reprehensibly restrains.
The picture is unclear, but I think of things long past.



O that I am still alive and see the world through these.
My passionate, melancholy, bottomless eyes.
My body continues I fight for a semblance of normal.
An artist eye sees beyond the caricature of a man.



I am too much in quest of solitude, a successful loneliness.
Although others sit before me, I travel lonely lanes.
Like Atlas, I bear a hefty burden.
I keep it hoisted while I yet walk this plated orb.



Mechanical inventor extraordinaire, portrait or hands, not drawn.
Stopping existence for an instant, look within to see.
Coming back rhyming, always so tired and restless.
Painless torture, continue on, outward I look okay.



Today a movie, dinner with mate, and chocolate cream pie for cake.
The wind of the fan tickles my feet as I recline within the couch.
Inside this modern day cave, I am safe and sound and everything is okay.
Life in the slow lane, I have let the speeders pass, I view the scenery.



Bitter is life's wine, the poisonous concoction ravages my body.
Liberty and mind with price, costly passion through oppression.
I must run on, head on towards that finish, and look not back.
Finish last. Just let me finish even last my self-portrait.



I have traveled halfway around this sphere physically.
Mentally, I have circumnavigated the globe many times.
Libraries are glorious institutions; they allow light travel to a distant oasis.
Treasures on shelves for all to see, read each line, but carefully.



I paint myself too well, stupidity too I see there.
Honesty mingled with stupidity shows another side of me.
Courage with cowardice I see too. Opinionated malcontent stirs within.
I have fought in the mud of disobedience; I am no victor, victory I seek.



My god, or my enemy, allows my slow destruction, as happens to all.
Hatred I see within those eyes, yet compassion softens the blows.
Love cannot be beat from me; I will remember the smell of burning autumn leaves.
Sorrowful soul hold onto love, finish the portrait and sign it at last.



Look back at better times, and hope for good times again.
Keep the thoughts deep within, of times that grow me well.
Forget the uncomfortable, sullen days, and pretend them all away.
I will paint a true picture of my yesterdays from todays recollection.