I learned one day [twas a summer day] the meaning of life and its curious way
I was at the beach when it came to me that there is so much more to see
Than Waves as They lap like an old lover on the Sand.
How you can hold neither one with an open hand,
Though together they build a castle grand.
Enchanted by turrets of simple design, what beautiful outcomes when unlike combine.
What power you wield when you harvest water so free
Take for yourself a bit of the sea
For what is an ocean without each drop, what is a shore without each grain
What simple thoughts to entertain.
As my castle grew higher, each addition so planned,
The Waves grow closer to Its lover, the Sand.
But how can I stop such a natural thing? None can do so, neither pauper nor king.
What of the Moon and it's purpose pure? What of the tides that run so sure?
What then of my masterpiece?
Does its wonder detract from the fact so assured that everything beautiful will eventually cease?
So many questions you may inquire as I add dainty shells to each towering spire.
Haven't you built a sandcastle before
So close to where the Sea meets its lover the Shore?
Or have you left the beach before that fateful reach
And fail to learn the only lesson those beloveds can teach?
What I learned is that all things in life die,
The love in your heart and the clouds in the sky.
Your friends and your enemies will one day be gone
For everyone moves to the beat of one song.
At first I was angry, my work and my toil!
Sand, I concluded, is simply just soil.
But then I saw truth so simple and sweet
Of each grain settled below my feet.
What I saw was my hard work destroyed
Nothing to show for, my heart so devoid.
But what of the Sea and its wish so fulfilled?
I saw it so clearly as my own tears were spilled.
Though it took what I treasured [though I know it was fleeting]
I heard so faintly that Its own heart was beating,
Longing so dearly for its lover the Sand
Never truly together, Ocean and Land.
Forces resume, Moon's inevitable tide
Teasing the groom away from its bride.
So I let my castle wash away,
It's the closest I've gotten to learning today.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
7 Years of Bad Luck
Because it's mean doesn't mean it's not true,
You know, what people think of you.
Men are mean, and so are boys (fuck the girls, they're full of noise) reluctant to think about themselves
and who they are and what they want.
Your lackluster features, your dull sense of wit.
Yeah, maybe you are full of shit.
But so what, it's not the media, right? What your best friend tells you late at night when you can'tsleep can't eat can't stand to see yourself and who you know you are and want to be?
Do you know the secret of mirrors and how they line the halls of Kings?
They are very honest very true blue sorts of things, they show you your reflection who you are and where you stand [I once saw this in Wonderland]
Who are you when you see your image when the mirror's in your hand?
What is a reflection but the opposite of you, pull it up in photoshop reflect an image I speak the truth.
Technically, it's really you, but the other side.
Glass with cheap reflective back is what you'll let tell you who's you?
You You You.
Who Are You?
Who. R. U.
Will you let the caterpillar, searching for his butterfly, ask you who you are when his hookah runs so dry?
Everyone is like a cup.
Fill 'er up [yo get fucked up]
Optimism, pessimism, no one truly gives a fuck.
But instinct wants you to be filled (anything from being killed)
Your lighter, sharp razor, your condom, your Bible,
You're searching to serve your body's [temple] Disciple.
A name's just a name, and since life favors fighters
You don't need me to tell you why your future ain't brighter.
You know, what people think of you.
Men are mean, and so are boys (fuck the girls, they're full of noise) reluctant to think about themselves
and who they are and what they want.
Your lackluster features, your dull sense of wit.
Yeah, maybe you are full of shit.
But so what, it's not the media, right? What your best friend tells you late at night when you can't
Do you know the secret of mirrors and how they line the halls of Kings?
They are very honest very true blue sorts of things, they show you your reflection who you are and where you stand [I once saw this in Wonderland]
Who are you when you see your image when the mirror's in your hand?
What is a reflection but the opposite of you, pull it up in photoshop reflect an image I speak the truth.
Technically, it's really you, but the other side.
Glass with cheap reflective back is what you'll let tell you who's you?
You You You.
Who Are You?
Who. R. U.
Will you let the caterpillar, searching for his butterfly, ask you who you are when his hookah runs so dry?
Everyone is like a cup.
Fill 'er up [yo get fucked up]
Optimism, pessimism, no one truly gives a fuck.
But instinct wants you to be filled (anything from being killed)
Your lighter, sharp razor, your condom, your Bible,
You're searching to serve your body's [temple] Disciple.
A name's just a name, and since life favors fighters
You don't need me to tell you why your future ain't brighter.
Hypnophobia
Take not for granted the ancient Moon,
Holding Its place low in the sky.
Silvery light splayed over the dunes
Demands your respect when you close tired eyes.
What becomes of those who sleep?
They pray the Lord their souls to keep.
But when all you know is wide-awake,
You pray to God your soul to take.
Oh how I have murdered sleep!
How seemingly innocent this need may be...
But when you relinquish control to the infinity sheep,
It makes you see things you wish to not see.
What is closer to death in life than this?
When you hear your subconscious mind that tells you who you were, who you are, who you will be?
Subliminal bliss.
What terror trembles deep when dreams reveal to me.
No truer soothsayer than your internal purveyor,
This is what scares me, I hate these thick layers.
And when sleep is the only thing between myself and me,
The darkness of the night will be my favorite to see.
No greater battle than between you and yourself
Battle till the death [or R.E.M.]
When you value sanity over health,
You say so sweetly, "It's me or them."
Holding Its place low in the sky.
Silvery light splayed over the dunes
Demands your respect when you close tired eyes.
What becomes of those who sleep?
They pray the Lord their souls to keep.
But when all you know is wide-awake,
You pray to God your soul to take.
Oh how I have murdered sleep!
How seemingly innocent this need may be...
But when you relinquish control to the infinity sheep,
It makes you see things you wish to not see.
What is closer to death in life than this?
When you hear your subconscious mind that tells you who you were, who you are, who you will be?
Subliminal bliss.
What terror trembles deep when dreams reveal to me.
No truer soothsayer than your internal purveyor,
This is what scares me, I hate these thick layers.
And when sleep is the only thing between myself and me,
The darkness of the night will be my favorite to see.
No greater battle than between you and yourself
Battle till the death [or R.E.M.]
When you value sanity over health,
You say so sweetly, "It's me or them."
Sympathy
I know what the caged bird feels.
When the sun glistens on verdant slopes,
When the wind blows tenderly through springing grass,
And the river floats like a sheet of glass.
When the first bird sings and new lovers hope,
and the faint perfume from a bud-chalice steals.
I know what the caged bird feels.
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
till its blood is red on cruel steel bars,
for he must fly back to his perch and cling
to dreams of being on a bow aswing.
And the blood still throbs in the old, sad scars
and they pulse again with a familiar sting.
I know why he beats his wings.
I know why the caged bird sings,
When its wings are bruised and its bosom sore.
It beats its bars and would be free.
It's not a carol of joy or glee,
but a prayer that it sends from its heart's deep core,
a plea that upward to heaven it flings.
I know why the caged bird sings.
When the sun glistens on verdant slopes,
When the wind blows tenderly through springing grass,
And the river floats like a sheet of glass.
When the first bird sings and new lovers hope,
and the faint perfume from a bud-chalice steals.
I know what the caged bird feels.
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
till its blood is red on cruel steel bars,
for he must fly back to his perch and cling
to dreams of being on a bow aswing.
And the blood still throbs in the old, sad scars
and they pulse again with a familiar sting.
I know why he beats his wings.
I know why the caged bird sings,
When its wings are bruised and its bosom sore.
It beats its bars and would be free.
It's not a carol of joy or glee,
but a prayer that it sends from its heart's deep core,
a plea that upward to heaven it flings.
I know why the caged bird sings.
Essay#1
What turns me on?
Neither light switches nor cute guys with no shirts.
In reality, it’s pursuits of the mind. Art. Poetry, philosophy, literature, and the like. Searching for spirituality at three in the morning while endless-momentum birds dip their inquisitive beaks into glasses of water. Listening to my dad’s vintage Led Zeppelin records as I stare at my ceiling, which morphs into pictures, depending on how long I gaze. This turns me on.
I’ve heard that when one’s senses are compromised, the others are heightened. I understand this to be true. Closing my eyes, sometimes, helps me perceive things that I could not observe otherwise . Being able to circumvent normal human limits. This turns me on.
Writing poetry based on experience, not dogma-directed rhyme schemes. Recurring themes and feelings that, when written stanza by lonely stanza, is therapy for my soul. Because inspiration is derived from classical melodies and lyrical passion. This turns me on.
Neither light switches nor cute guys with no shirts.
In reality, it’s pursuits of the mind. Art. Poetry, philosophy, literature, and the like. Searching for spirituality at three in the morning while endless-momentum birds dip their inquisitive beaks into glasses of water. Listening to my dad’s vintage Led Zeppelin records as I stare at my ceiling, which morphs into pictures, depending on how long I gaze. This turns me on.
I’ve heard that when one’s senses are compromised, the others are heightened. I understand this to be true. Closing my eyes, sometimes, helps me perceive things that I could not observe otherwise . Being able to circumvent normal human limits. This turns me on.
Writing poetry based on experience, not dogma-directed rhyme schemes. Recurring themes and feelings that, when written stanza by lonely stanza, is therapy for my soul. Because inspiration is derived from classical melodies and lyrical passion. This turns me on.
Rhyme? And Reason?
Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle.
I know I can't go back to yesterday - because I was a different person then. I can't explain myself so well, I'm afraid, because I'm not so well myself, you see.
So, if I don't know where I'm going, will any road get me there?
One day a young blond girl came to a fork in the road and saw a wily Cheshire Cat perched in a tree.
"Which road do I take?" she asked.
"Where do you want to go?" was his quick response.
"I don't know," she answered simply.
"Then", said the Cat, "it doesn't matter.”
“But I don’t want to go among mad people," she remarked.
"Oh, you can’t help that," said the Cat. "We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad."
"How do you know I’m mad?" said she.
"You must be, or you wouldn’t have come here.”
His answer trickled through her head, like water through a sieve
So she gave herself very good advice [although she very seldom follows it]...
"So I need to be what I would seem to be - or, to put it more simply, I can never imagine myself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what I were, or might have been, was not otherwise than what I had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise."
Then she paused, realizing that human strength will not endure to dance without cessation; and everyone must reach the point at length of absolute prostration.
I know I can't go back to yesterday - because I was a different person then. I can't explain myself so well, I'm afraid, because I'm not so well myself, you see.
So, if I don't know where I'm going, will any road get me there?
One day a young blond girl came to a fork in the road and saw a wily Cheshire Cat perched in a tree.
"Which road do I take?" she asked.
"Where do you want to go?" was his quick response.
"I don't know," she answered simply.
"Then", said the Cat, "it doesn't matter.”
“But I don’t want to go among mad people," she remarked.
"Oh, you can’t help that," said the Cat. "We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad."
"How do you know I’m mad?" said she.
"You must be, or you wouldn’t have come here.”
His answer trickled through her head, like water through a sieve
So she gave herself very good advice [although she very seldom follows it]...
"So I need to be what I would seem to be - or, to put it more simply, I can never imagine myself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what I were, or might have been, was not otherwise than what I had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise."
Then she paused, realizing that human strength will not endure to dance without cessation; and everyone must reach the point at length of absolute prostration.
Upside-Up
If tripping weren't lovely and the day was the night,
And speed was bad, and a lie not a lie,
Life would be a delight.
But things would never go right
For in such a sad plight,
I wouldn't be I.
If hell was heaven and now was hence,
And future was present, and this lie were true,
There might be some sense.
But I'd be in suspense
For on such a pretense,
You wouldn't be you.
If fear was rational and children were spared,
And dirt was clean and tears were free,
Things would seem fair.
Yet they'd all despair,
For if here were there
We wouldn't be we.
If I were wrong, and you were real
And love was possible, if life were thus
I'd like to feel
Some emotion revealed
For through our unspoken deal,
Us couldn't be us.
And speed was bad, and a lie not a lie,
Life would be a delight.
But things would never go right
For in such a sad plight,
I wouldn't be I.
If hell was heaven and now was hence,
And future was present, and this lie were true,
There might be some sense.
But I'd be in suspense
For on such a pretense,
You wouldn't be you.
If fear was rational and children were spared,
And dirt was clean and tears were free,
Things would seem fair.
Yet they'd all despair,
For if here were there
We wouldn't be we.
If I were wrong, and you were real
And love was possible, if life were thus
I'd like to feel
Some emotion revealed
For through our unspoken deal,
Us couldn't be us.
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