You are a pawn in your own life.
Others dictate your movement, you thrive on hierarchy.
Sometimes you are removed from the game,
only to be told when to start playing again.
And again, you move where told.
And again, you mean nothing.
When will you realize that pawns haven't any impact?
Or perhaps it is the individual pieces that need re-thinking?
Dictatorship appears to have its perks.
In a life of choices, guidance should be more than welcome.
Viewpoints from a few points
I looked toward the sky and the clouds,
and I am reminded of the day I made your eyes rain.
Such a blissful sorrow came crashing down your earthen cheeks.
And I stood there, smirking
as if I had earned a victory.
and I am reminded of the day I made your eyes rain.
Such a blissful sorrow came crashing down your earthen cheeks.
And I stood there, smirking
as if I had earned a victory.
Talking shit about my pretty sunset
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
This needs to be let out, because I keep it bottled up for moral reasons.
It doesnt even matter, you probably dont read my garbage any more anyway.
Fuck you
Talking shit about a pretty sunset is the perfect way to describe this. You were my pretty sunset, there is no reason for me to have to talk shit about you.
But you know what? Fuck it. And fuck you.
I cant stop fucking thinking about you, our time together was the best fucking time of my life. Get the fuck out of my head.
I cant even listen to my favorite fucking band without tearing up because of my memories of you.
So this is to let out all of my pent up anger, my built up angst. As I leave my teenage years behind, I leave you behind as well.
Fuck you and what you have done to my heart. Better to have loved and lost? I think fucking not.
I rather be numb.
I rather be indifferent.
Why do I check for updates on your life? Why do I hope its you calling me even when you are drunk off your ass saying nonsense? Why the fuck did I enjoy it when you told me you needed me months later when clearly you didnt?
Why the fuck can't I move on from this stupid bullshit?
I am miles away from you, our lives are even father apart. Reality is that we will barely speak to each other in the future. So why the fuck am I holding on?
I know it is my own flaws causing this, but I blame you. I blame you for every emotion I feel at any given time because you fucked all of them up when you entered my life.
Get the fuck out of my head, leave and never come back. I fucking hate the idea of you and it is killing me every night before I go to sleep. Just to wake up the enxt fucking day so I can think about you some more.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
/rage
This needs to be let out, because I keep it bottled up for moral reasons.
It doesnt even matter, you probably dont read my garbage any more anyway.
Fuck you
Talking shit about a pretty sunset is the perfect way to describe this. You were my pretty sunset, there is no reason for me to have to talk shit about you.
But you know what? Fuck it. And fuck you.
I cant stop fucking thinking about you, our time together was the best fucking time of my life. Get the fuck out of my head.
I cant even listen to my favorite fucking band without tearing up because of my memories of you.
So this is to let out all of my pent up anger, my built up angst. As I leave my teenage years behind, I leave you behind as well.
Fuck you and what you have done to my heart. Better to have loved and lost? I think fucking not.
I rather be numb.
I rather be indifferent.
Why do I check for updates on your life? Why do I hope its you calling me even when you are drunk off your ass saying nonsense? Why the fuck did I enjoy it when you told me you needed me months later when clearly you didnt?
Why the fuck can't I move on from this stupid bullshit?
I am miles away from you, our lives are even father apart. Reality is that we will barely speak to each other in the future. So why the fuck am I holding on?
I know it is my own flaws causing this, but I blame you. I blame you for every emotion I feel at any given time because you fucked all of them up when you entered my life.
Get the fuck out of my head, leave and never come back. I fucking hate the idea of you and it is killing me every night before I go to sleep. Just to wake up the enxt fucking day so I can think about you some more.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
/rage
I just cant think like I used to, can not feel like I used to.
The water gates have opened and are flooded with a bright liquid,
encompassing my creativity.
I have so much to be proud of and yet my shame is at an all time high.
This contentedness is too much to embrace.
My body and mind have the same argument daily,
fighting over what to miss.
Whether it be suffering or bliss, I can not decide.
I am no martyr, just a confused man stuck between reality and this strange commonality.
Perhaps it is the stale wallpaper I brought with me to my new life,
or a defective mind.
Either way, it would appear that if my heart is not broken, my mind is.
The water gates have opened and are flooded with a bright liquid,
encompassing my creativity.
I have so much to be proud of and yet my shame is at an all time high.
This contentedness is too much to embrace.
My body and mind have the same argument daily,
fighting over what to miss.
Whether it be suffering or bliss, I can not decide.
I am no martyr, just a confused man stuck between reality and this strange commonality.
Perhaps it is the stale wallpaper I brought with me to my new life,
or a defective mind.
Either way, it would appear that if my heart is not broken, my mind is.
Movies no longer emulate life, it is the opposite.
You can't walk five steps in Brooklyn without seeing a small shop full of Mac-owning youth.
The walls conveniently broken, the music so generic it is enjoyable, the coffee hot and plenty.
A disgusting breeding ground for the artistic and pretentious.
Story telling is key in today's generation.
No longer do you need a good personality, you need skinny forearms and an encyclopedia of tales to entice others.
Everyone has short hair and shorter personalities.
Their interests only lie in media and what it means to be young.
Travel to the underprivileged countries you so desire. Take some pictures, bring plenty of weed. Let's take a bet to see how long you can survive without your indie music and your predestined interests.
You can't walk five steps in Brooklyn without seeing a small shop full of Mac-owning youth.
The walls conveniently broken, the music so generic it is enjoyable, the coffee hot and plenty.
A disgusting breeding ground for the artistic and pretentious.
Story telling is key in today's generation.
No longer do you need a good personality, you need skinny forearms and an encyclopedia of tales to entice others.
Everyone has short hair and shorter personalities.
Their interests only lie in media and what it means to be young.
Travel to the underprivileged countries you so desire. Take some pictures, bring plenty of weed. Let's take a bet to see how long you can survive without your indie music and your predestined interests.
Amazing how uncreative these individuals are.
Created to be creative, be unique. Stray from the path and take on the world's similarities.
We were all born to lead, and grown to follow.
So we group together and spew words other have written, have acted.
Relishing in the fact that we know the creativity of others. That we can quote them whenever the scene deems necessary.
The louder, the better.
Fall in line, act out a movie you never created.
Be scared of doing something original. It might just fail.
One creates a novel, one thousand read it.
One hundred make a cinematic, one hundred million watch it.
It truly is amazing that there are so few black sheep.
Black is the better shade to begin with.
Created to be creative, be unique. Stray from the path and take on the world's similarities.
We were all born to lead, and grown to follow.
So we group together and spew words other have written, have acted.
Relishing in the fact that we know the creativity of others. That we can quote them whenever the scene deems necessary.
The louder, the better.
Fall in line, act out a movie you never created.
Be scared of doing something original. It might just fail.
One creates a novel, one thousand read it.
One hundred make a cinematic, one hundred million watch it.
It truly is amazing that there are so few black sheep.
Black is the better shade to begin with.
I normally don't do this, but I love these lyrics too much to not post them on here.
"But all your dreams are over now
And all your wings have fallen down
Oh all your dreams are over now
And all your wings have fallen down
Oh warfarin' terrapin
Unconfined undesigned
Undersigned bantering
Bartering bellowing
Barracking blundering
Pillaging plundering
Living and lavishing
Hammerings harrowing
Flourishing flattening
Levelling reveling
Wrecking and ravaging
Savoring savaging
Oh warfarrin terrapin
Unconfined undesigned
You've got me worried and wondering
All your dreams are over now
And all your wings have fallen down
All your dreams are over now"
"But all your dreams are over now
And all your wings have fallen down
Oh all your dreams are over now
And all your wings have fallen down
Oh warfarin' terrapin
Unconfined undesigned
Undersigned bantering
Bartering bellowing
Barracking blundering
Pillaging plundering
Living and lavishing
Hammerings harrowing
Flourishing flattening
Levelling reveling
Wrecking and ravaging
Savoring savaging
Oh warfarrin terrapin
Unconfined undesigned
You've got me worried and wondering
All your dreams are over now
And all your wings have fallen down
All your dreams are over now"
My thoughts, they run.
Exhale. Breathe in that new life smell.
Enjoy your senses because they won't always be in your possession.
I know mine aren't.
Go ahead and scream, the duct tape holds strong.
Your voice is but a tool for the one that bought your soul.
Her name is whatever you need it to be.
So take a seat, lay down with the southern range.
You won't be moving anytime soon.
Exhale. Breathe in that new life smell.
Enjoy your senses because they won't always be in your possession.
I know mine aren't.
Go ahead and scream, the duct tape holds strong.
Your voice is but a tool for the one that bought your soul.
Her name is whatever you need it to be.
So take a seat, lay down with the southern range.
You won't be moving anytime soon.
Collab Poem (in progress)
This is a collaborative poem project set up by my sister. It features seven or eight different writers, and so in effect many different voices within the same setting. The bold+italicized writing is mine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
An apartheid pallor sizzles. Walls on either side,
Brimming in the sweat of Agamemnon.
Where is Oresteia? Entre les rues,
Les journaux of eddying lizards, the posters flame,
Bleaching satyrs of their colors.
Descant of the watery sunrise,
Like the swelling of the Parthenon. Families “surface”
With what they have rid themselves of: their militant heresies
Westward plunging to an increate Thames. Now and then,
Their dotted remnants drift into conflagration,
Major-minor themes, or dialectic written and directed
By David Mamet. Punked-out in a billion flourishes,
Their voices tremble with the genius of their gearing slaves,
A geometry of theater submerged by Pentecostal fire.
II
Smelling salts do nothing for the members of this theatrical performance,
the fire, merely stage dressing.
These creatures of habit see and hear only the lines and the lights,
blind to society.
Blind to Aphrodite.
Coexisting with static characters, value none.
These Athenians smile only at Dionysus.
With cup in hand they cheer at the fictional scene before them,
ignoring the growing fire.
Believing that Hephestas is merely assisting the performance.
Sealing their fates as only the aristocracy can.
And down on the base of the mountain, among the sheep and blood soaked cottages,
the brazen citizens laugh at it all.
Velleity in their eyes as the hierarchy burns to ashes.
III
In Andorra my whole heart burned during dijous gras,
beating with the cool, white blood of night. This was childhood,
always blooming. I slept with my windows open and believed
in God.
We grow older and things change. In Tsiknopempti we
had to leave everything.
This was nothing like childhood,
not the puckered meat of a warm dead body,
the burning wine and lambs in red tavernas.
There was only fire now, the great sorrow of
all things finally breathing in,
glimpsing their memories
through fire and falling to dust.
A woman named Aegea hunched over
me in my sleep at the feet of Poseidon,
where is the water, where is the water?
Clean Monday is coming but everyone is dead,
riding pale foxes toward the sun. In the morning
Aegea will help me smell the skin of my Mother.
IV
One thousand years from now
above the Aegean Sea,
two metal beasts collide,
raining flesh and flames,
the scorch of burning skin.
Ashes of past beauty carpet the globe.
An age of punditry rages.
Safety is gone, its illusion revealed.
A voice commands turn back,
feel fully the space between once and someday.
Theseus's sword saved him from the queen of poisons.
Could we ever be so blessed?
V
For blessings indeed are entombed in doom.
Accounting for loss is a paper task, and
counting the gain is a look back through ash
or forward into partitions of possibility.
Consider the giddy spine of delight
that rises in a ridge along the shell of
horror we wear in fearful times. Consider
the thrill of every scorched breath
drawn in the company of those that breathe
no more. List now those values burnt, but
feel the future freed of the weight and echo of
the crumbling, logos-silenced Parthenon.
VI
The Parthenon is in want of a new pantheon,
The statues are gone, let us scatter marble
Like crumbs and try to spread the seed
For temples to bloom in new Cimmerian lands,
Athens, Rome, Alexandria, Constantinople,
This list of resurrections is a great one,
But we have too many millions to fit inside
One agora, one amphitheater, or even the Piraeus,
I fear too much or too little resuscitation,
Much is still covered in ashes and refuses
To be the ground for new legends to grow in,
Pericles dies in Dallas from a stranger’s gun,
Socrates has his liver pecked out in the East Village,
Homer’s son goes mad in a Tuscan prison
And grows sane in a sanctuary by the capitol,
While Euripides dies at his Hollywood typewriter,
Even Alexander finds little hope for change
In the mountains by the Khyber Pass,
Babylon burns, good enough, yet Persepolis
Threatens ever again, Ahura Mazda and Zeus
Still battle for the crescent with their minions,
Bright Apollo’s light and lyre reach the few
As ancient frenzies attendant to Dionysus
Mix inside the painted porch with the Eumenides,
Oh terrible repetitions, we have only taken
The torchlit forms from history’s cave wall
And ruled here with homemade shadow puppets,
Plato, will the fate of one who has seen this,
Alerted the others, and met with disdain,
Reenact the end of your allegory with real blood?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
More to come in the near future.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
An apartheid pallor sizzles. Walls on either side,
Brimming in the sweat of Agamemnon.
Where is Oresteia? Entre les rues,
Les journaux of eddying lizards, the posters flame,
Bleaching satyrs of their colors.
Descant of the watery sunrise,
Like the swelling of the Parthenon. Families “surface”
With what they have rid themselves of: their militant heresies
Westward plunging to an increate Thames. Now and then,
Their dotted remnants drift into conflagration,
Major-minor themes, or dialectic written and directed
By David Mamet. Punked-out in a billion flourishes,
Their voices tremble with the genius of their gearing slaves,
A geometry of theater submerged by Pentecostal fire.
II
Smelling salts do nothing for the members of this theatrical performance,
the fire, merely stage dressing.
These creatures of habit see and hear only the lines and the lights,
blind to society.
Blind to Aphrodite.
Coexisting with static characters, value none.
These Athenians smile only at Dionysus.
With cup in hand they cheer at the fictional scene before them,
ignoring the growing fire.
Believing that Hephestas is merely assisting the performance.
Sealing their fates as only the aristocracy can.
And down on the base of the mountain, among the sheep and blood soaked cottages,
the brazen citizens laugh at it all.
Velleity in their eyes as the hierarchy burns to ashes.
III
In Andorra my whole heart burned during dijous gras,
beating with the cool, white blood of night. This was childhood,
always blooming. I slept with my windows open and believed
in God.
We grow older and things change. In Tsiknopempti we
had to leave everything.
This was nothing like childhood,
not the puckered meat of a warm dead body,
the burning wine and lambs in red tavernas.
There was only fire now, the great sorrow of
all things finally breathing in,
glimpsing their memories
through fire and falling to dust.
A woman named Aegea hunched over
me in my sleep at the feet of Poseidon,
where is the water, where is the water?
Clean Monday is coming but everyone is dead,
riding pale foxes toward the sun. In the morning
Aegea will help me smell the skin of my Mother.
IV
One thousand years from now
above the Aegean Sea,
two metal beasts collide,
raining flesh and flames,
the scorch of burning skin.
Ashes of past beauty carpet the globe.
An age of punditry rages.
Safety is gone, its illusion revealed.
A voice commands turn back,
feel fully the space between once and someday.
Theseus's sword saved him from the queen of poisons.
Could we ever be so blessed?
V
For blessings indeed are entombed in doom.
Accounting for loss is a paper task, and
counting the gain is a look back through ash
or forward into partitions of possibility.
Consider the giddy spine of delight
that rises in a ridge along the shell of
horror we wear in fearful times. Consider
the thrill of every scorched breath
drawn in the company of those that breathe
no more. List now those values burnt, but
feel the future freed of the weight and echo of
the crumbling, logos-silenced Parthenon.
VI
The Parthenon is in want of a new pantheon,
The statues are gone, let us scatter marble
Like crumbs and try to spread the seed
For temples to bloom in new Cimmerian lands,
Athens, Rome, Alexandria, Constantinople,
This list of resurrections is a great one,
But we have too many millions to fit inside
One agora, one amphitheater, or even the Piraeus,
I fear too much or too little resuscitation,
Much is still covered in ashes and refuses
To be the ground for new legends to grow in,
Pericles dies in Dallas from a stranger’s gun,
Socrates has his liver pecked out in the East Village,
Homer’s son goes mad in a Tuscan prison
And grows sane in a sanctuary by the capitol,
While Euripides dies at his Hollywood typewriter,
Even Alexander finds little hope for change
In the mountains by the Khyber Pass,
Babylon burns, good enough, yet Persepolis
Threatens ever again, Ahura Mazda and Zeus
Still battle for the crescent with their minions,
Bright Apollo’s light and lyre reach the few
As ancient frenzies attendant to Dionysus
Mix inside the painted porch with the Eumenides,
Oh terrible repetitions, we have only taken
The torchlit forms from history’s cave wall
And ruled here with homemade shadow puppets,
Plato, will the fate of one who has seen this,
Alerted the others, and met with disdain,
Reenact the end of your allegory with real blood?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
More to come in the near future.
A grand entrance through the door marked "exit"
There seems to be a bittersweet tension between the youth in this room. That we all have the same idea on the tips of our tongues but cannot quite speak it. So instead we consume poison and spirit away to the past. Reveries of immaturity and spelling mistakes.
I can smell the excitement and fear as I stroll between breathing spaces. I can hear the fruitless attempts at social interaction way past its prime. These memories will never be ripe, just a glimpse at a last ditch effort toward no goal.
We are merely youth in revolt at our own decisions. Balancing the existential and the monotony. I can see it, even in the mirror.
I can smell the excitement and fear as I stroll between breathing spaces. I can hear the fruitless attempts at social interaction way past its prime. These memories will never be ripe, just a glimpse at a last ditch effort toward no goal.
We are merely youth in revolt at our own decisions. Balancing the existential and the monotony. I can see it, even in the mirror.
Complaints
Life is unfair in the way that in works my mind. It is more than just angst, more than depression. Less than a suicidal nature but more than just crazy thoughts. I have this itching feeling in the back of my head, this voice that speaks all of my inner desires. My wishes, my hate. I have these thoughts that protrude through the membrane of my mind and steal away my jovial attitude.
It is unfair, the way some judge by the shape of their body.
How magnetized some people are to more socially acceptable people.
It is unfair not being able to turn off your ears to those who cannot properly use their mouth in conjunction with their brain.
It is unfair that "artists" get assistance from substance and are praised for it.
It is unfair that those who do not are looked at as safe and undesirable.
It is unfair the way that I can absolutely hate those that I love.
That I can utterly loathe and have to keep it restricted, binded inside.
It is unfair that I crave others when I am alone, and want nothing more than privacy when I am surrounded.
Life tends to make its own rules in conjunction with souls. Rules attached to personalities that can not be removed, no matter how hard one hates it. Life is unfair in the way that treats its subjects like puppets without regard for these feelings we are all given. Life is unfair that emotions are passive, not operational.
It is unfair, the way some judge by the shape of their body.
How magnetized some people are to more socially acceptable people.
It is unfair not being able to turn off your ears to those who cannot properly use their mouth in conjunction with their brain.
It is unfair that "artists" get assistance from substance and are praised for it.
It is unfair that those who do not are looked at as safe and undesirable.
It is unfair the way that I can absolutely hate those that I love.
That I can utterly loathe and have to keep it restricted, binded inside.
It is unfair that I crave others when I am alone, and want nothing more than privacy when I am surrounded.
Life tends to make its own rules in conjunction with souls. Rules attached to personalities that can not be removed, no matter how hard one hates it. Life is unfair in the way that treats its subjects like puppets without regard for these feelings we are all given. Life is unfair that emotions are passive, not operational.
"Stars"
Forget what they told you about the stars at night,
they lie.
They are mere illusions, facades to keep us from dreaming the wrong way.
The sand at monmouth beach is a catalyst for conceptual realization.
Seek the truth and smell the barriers, they are before you.
Closer than you might think.
Because all the stars are projectors, projecting the world to the sand dunes and the mindless individuals who frequent them.
We see these gas giants, and believe that they are the same as our precious sun.
And yet, who can confirm their legitimacy?
Who can place trust in word of mouth?
Faith will only get you so far in your own reality.
Look up at the stars from a sand dune so close to the sky.
They twinkle the faint light of human creation.
they lie.
They are mere illusions, facades to keep us from dreaming the wrong way.
The sand at monmouth beach is a catalyst for conceptual realization.
Seek the truth and smell the barriers, they are before you.
Closer than you might think.
Because all the stars are projectors, projecting the world to the sand dunes and the mindless individuals who frequent them.
We see these gas giants, and believe that they are the same as our precious sun.
And yet, who can confirm their legitimacy?
Who can place trust in word of mouth?
Faith will only get you so far in your own reality.
Look up at the stars from a sand dune so close to the sky.
They twinkle the faint light of human creation.
Transit minds.
On the train with myself and lonesome
the paltry hour drifts as I sip at forgetfulness, laziness.
The conductor in the worn suit slips me a ticket and jets away
his daft hand assists the other passengers, accepting money for a ride to their fantasies.
And as I watch this
I question.
Pondering about the impeding seats between souls.
The barriers of the train, so closely resembling society.
The hard knocks, the smelling salts we call catastrophes.
Why do we wait for dire straits to act?
Situations that call for action.
Nothing happens until the situation arises.
So us lovers, time wasters, we fumble along on this train of fearless antiquity.
Telling ourselves that this moment, this existential period, is but a facet.
That things will get better.
That our lives will change after we depart from our seats on the train.
the paltry hour drifts as I sip at forgetfulness, laziness.
The conductor in the worn suit slips me a ticket and jets away
his daft hand assists the other passengers, accepting money for a ride to their fantasies.
And as I watch this
I question.
Pondering about the impeding seats between souls.
The barriers of the train, so closely resembling society.
The hard knocks, the smelling salts we call catastrophes.
Why do we wait for dire straits to act?
Situations that call for action.
Nothing happens until the situation arises.
So us lovers, time wasters, we fumble along on this train of fearless antiquity.
Telling ourselves that this moment, this existential period, is but a facet.
That things will get better.
That our lives will change after we depart from our seats on the train.
What happens when the lights go out?
when the turn table stops
and your eyes adjust to the darkness
What happens when the blood slows?
when the setting changes
and the birds sing a different song
A momentary lapse of tranquility
and the fist comes falling down.
Reality sets in and nature follows suit
it rolls in on that red carpet of trust
of lust
of persuasion
and delivers swift defeat to hungry hearts.
So what happens when your speech turns real?
when your eyes can see past illusions
and your hands can grip the future
A fleeting glimpse of short lived romance is left in the dust
when the turn table stops
and your eyes adjust to the darkness
What happens when the blood slows?
when the setting changes
and the birds sing a different song
A momentary lapse of tranquility
and the fist comes falling down.
Reality sets in and nature follows suit
it rolls in on that red carpet of trust
of lust
of persuasion
and delivers swift defeat to hungry hearts.
So what happens when your speech turns real?
when your eyes can see past illusions
and your hands can grip the future
A fleeting glimpse of short lived romance is left in the dust
Paralysis
An unending paralyisis
the impeding reality approaches
and the fear ensues
The fear of your return
your tales
your nights alone without me
So paralyze me, keep me immobile
fill my ears with music and my eyes with distractions
anything to evade the truth,
the harsh words on a B line to my heart
My hands tremble despite the paralysis
the butterflies are ravenous kamikazes
attacking and destroying me, from the inside, out
the nervous jitters I once had, now but a burden on my soul
So I will embrace the paraylisis
cover my ears
shut my mouth
and cower in a corner, dignity absent
the fear is too much this time.
the impeding reality approaches
and the fear ensues
The fear of your return
your tales
your nights alone without me
So paralyze me, keep me immobile
fill my ears with music and my eyes with distractions
anything to evade the truth,
the harsh words on a B line to my heart
My hands tremble despite the paralysis
the butterflies are ravenous kamikazes
attacking and destroying me, from the inside, out
the nervous jitters I once had, now but a burden on my soul
So I will embrace the paraylisis
cover my ears
shut my mouth
and cower in a corner, dignity absent
the fear is too much this time.
Comments
Finally, these things decide to work. Leave a comment or two, let me know what you think. I feel like kicking myself for not having figured this out say, a year and a half ago.
A conversation between the mind and silence
These late nights, they call for reminiscence
thoughts and feelings roam like unbridled mercenaries
and though my memories suffer from apartheid
I look on
I need the morning, the freedom it brings from the bedtime silence
because it is then that I long for whats gone
I need the morning, and the enthusiasm it promises
Still, I look on
You infiltrate my head, sly as a love bird
My heart, hidden like a sky scraper
Blood, safe like alcohol
I desperately try to look on
thoughts and feelings roam like unbridled mercenaries
and though my memories suffer from apartheid
I look on
I need the morning, the freedom it brings from the bedtime silence
because it is then that I long for whats gone
I need the morning, and the enthusiasm it promises
Still, I look on
You infiltrate my head, sly as a love bird
My heart, hidden like a sky scraper
Blood, safe like alcohol
I desperately try to look on
A Celebration
I traded in my ticket stub for a pre-made dream. I traded it for an abstract view of normality. Keep me away from the congregations, show me the room for three. I rather the solace of solitude than trying to keep up with the masses.
The scene: a hot mess evaporates in the corner, ignoring familiar faces. He feels awkward around these supposed friends, longing for an escape. To escape those that frequent the life he left behind. Guilt devours him, comfort absent from the area.
The mind set: Eye contact would be the worst. Stop looking up, stop it. What do you want? To ignore or to embrace? Make a decision. No you don't have to talk to people, but eventually they will inquire what is "bothering" you. The alternative is forcing conversation. Both are unappealing. Stop looking up! Get a beverage, make a joke or two, use the bathroom every five minutes. Check for messages every twenty seconds. Keep yourself occupied in their presence. What is wrong with you?
So that is what the trade got me. That which resembles malaise, a feeling that everyone hates. To be out of place somewhere that is most welcoming. But it is too late now. I have made the decision to thrive my own way.
The scene: a hot mess evaporates in the corner, ignoring familiar faces. He feels awkward around these supposed friends, longing for an escape. To escape those that frequent the life he left behind. Guilt devours him, comfort absent from the area.
The mind set: Eye contact would be the worst. Stop looking up, stop it. What do you want? To ignore or to embrace? Make a decision. No you don't have to talk to people, but eventually they will inquire what is "bothering" you. The alternative is forcing conversation. Both are unappealing. Stop looking up! Get a beverage, make a joke or two, use the bathroom every five minutes. Check for messages every twenty seconds. Keep yourself occupied in their presence. What is wrong with you?
So that is what the trade got me. That which resembles malaise, a feeling that everyone hates. To be out of place somewhere that is most welcoming. But it is too late now. I have made the decision to thrive my own way.
Muscles relax, loss of tension.
Vertebrae collapses, loss of mobility.
Mind numbs, loss of focus.
Of feeling.
Loss of reason.
These episodes result from your witch craft. Your voodoo charm.
The novelty that has worn but remains in the finger tips, it's your magic.
You kept the dark permanent, for so long.
With a stroke of luck, a stroke of light will appear.
Vertebrae collapses, loss of mobility.
Mind numbs, loss of focus.
Of feeling.
Loss of reason.
These episodes result from your witch craft. Your voodoo charm.
The novelty that has worn but remains in the finger tips, it's your magic.
You kept the dark permanent, for so long.
With a stroke of luck, a stroke of light will appear.
For the college bound kid
She smiles at the weather, be it rain or shine
appreciation in her soul, envy in her eyes
she writes her woes away, with but a touch of simplicity
and envelopes the words before you without animosity
Memories are pathways to her heart and soul
recorded in her head, dialogue and all
she sings praises behind a hidden fort
stranger to life, she is nothing of the sort
Now decision made, shes headed to PA
Unsure of the road, she will get her BA
It is bittersweet, she will be missed
I'm calling it again, within 14 years, she will find bliss.
appreciation in her soul, envy in her eyes
she writes her woes away, with but a touch of simplicity
and envelopes the words before you without animosity
Memories are pathways to her heart and soul
recorded in her head, dialogue and all
she sings praises behind a hidden fort
stranger to life, she is nothing of the sort
Now decision made, shes headed to PA
Unsure of the road, she will get her BA
It is bittersweet, she will be missed
I'm calling it again, within 14 years, she will find bliss.
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