Plain rubbish

And what does one write at 2.00 in the night? Stories of love, horror, friendship or just plain rubbish?
I think I'll settle for plain rubbish

My poems start with questions...complicated ones
Answers to which are things I already know..
But I choose to be blind or bury my head in the sand
Oblivious to what keeps talking in my ear all along

For I already know, it is what to do with that knowing
Accept it and live..or fight and go upstream all along the way
I'm of divided opinion...my mind swaying like a pendulum

Rarely do I believe I have the courage to accept what is..
And what will be, and what was...without any illusions

Mere mirror and smoke...an essence of solidarity
A hint, a glint..but you puff at it and it's gone
Is the knowing then better? For clarity and sanity?
Or is too bleak an opinion, devoid of light and positivity?

Introspection, which always scares me...I leave it halfway
Always, to never go back on the same point...till it bumps up again
And I have to sort it....as best as I can..which isn't much
It's silly how I crave what others have, while denouncing the same

If someone asked me what I want right now...I would say the power to live
With my choices, half baked ones, bad ones, good ones...the ones I will make
And be happy...just happy without endless agony over the if's, but's, why's and I don't think so's