The Curse of the Compliment

Giving hope like helium, we float

onward and upward, far higher than we deserve;

ending in a realm of unrealized potential,

wasted on lazy self assurance, our own poisons,

stemming from the moldy compliments, long expired

but often revisited.  I'll claim madness in the poor house.

If we're lucky, we'll eat bread,

but God doesn't seem as forgiving as they say,

Otherwise this selfish pride might not kill us so soon.

As the atmosphere condenses, I try to hold my rubber surface,

but I just slip away in a silicone resilience,

even in the darkness of space refusing to accept my light,

that my serenity has been nothing but my own disillusionment.

Exploding we'll laugh, laugh with God at the mistakes of men,

or with another, at our own blind steps.