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.
Something About It
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too rough with her,
I say, "stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you."
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour beer on her and inhale
more smoke
and the bitches and the bartenders
and the strangers
never know that
she's in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for her,
I say,
"stay down, do you want to mess
me up?"
"you want to screw up the
plans?"
"you want to see me cry?"
there's a bluebird in my heart that
hurts to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let her out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, "I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad."
then I push her back,
but she's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let her
die.
and we sleep together like
that,
with our
secret pact.
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep
but you don't
weep, do
you?
wants to get out
but I'm too rough with her,
I say, "stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you."
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour beer on her and inhale
more smoke
and the bitches and the bartenders
and the strangers
never know that
she's in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for her,
I say,
"stay down, do you want to mess
me up?"
"you want to screw up the
plans?"
"you want to see me cry?"
there's a bluebird in my heart that
hurts to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let her out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, "I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad."
then I push her back,
but she's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let her
die.
and we sleep together like
that,
with our
secret pact.
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep
but you don't
weep, do
you?
Find Me A Damn Mailbox
I know that you
Know that the week passes slowly. But
Your work will pay off in the end. No
Pain, No Gain.
I like to incite things, 'enlightenings' I'd like to say.
Want to join?
It requires three stamps to mail three letters.
Too bad the post office is closed.
Just wish that I didn't need to
Wait for this weekend. It'll
Be epic. Yet I must remain
Patient, for out of my waiting comes
My greater rewards.
Friend, don't despair.
Know that the week passes slowly. But
Your work will pay off in the end. No
Pain, No Gain.
I like to incite things, 'enlightenings' I'd like to say.
Want to join?
It requires three stamps to mail three letters.
Too bad the post office is closed.
Just wish that I didn't need to
Wait for this weekend. It'll
Be epic. Yet I must remain
Patient, for out of my waiting comes
My greater rewards.
Friend, don't despair.
Amen
Hey best friend, I heard you went to Mr. So and So,
Knock, knock, knocking on his door again last night.
Said you needed it bad, you know it ain't right,
You've come to me crying, trying to stop.
You said it hurts so bad, but please don't let you go back for more.
A zombie in a body with no soul.
A role you've learned to play in a world today where nothing else matters.
But it matters, we gotta start feeding our souls, not our addictions or afflictions of pain.
To avoid the same questions, we must ask ourselves to get any answers.
We gotta start feeding our souls who've been lost to the millions with lots
Who feed on addiction selling pills and whats hot.
And I wish I could save them from all their delusions, all the confusion
Of a nation that starves for salvation but clothing is the closest approximation
To God, and He only knows that drugs are all we know of love.
Every day we starve while we eat white bread and beer instead of a handshake or hug
We spill the pills and sweep them under the rug.
My best friend is a zombie in a body with no soul,
A role they've learned to play in a world today where nothing else matters.
But it matters, we gotta start feeding our souls.
Hey best friend, I heard you went to Mr. So and So,
Knock, knock, knocking on his door again last night.
He said you needed it bad.
Knock, knock, knocking on his door again last night.
Said you needed it bad, you know it ain't right,
You've come to me crying, trying to stop.
You said it hurts so bad, but please don't let you go back for more.
A zombie in a body with no soul.
A role you've learned to play in a world today where nothing else matters.
But it matters, we gotta start feeding our souls, not our addictions or afflictions of pain.
To avoid the same questions, we must ask ourselves to get any answers.
We gotta start feeding our souls who've been lost to the millions with lots
Who feed on addiction selling pills and whats hot.
And I wish I could save them from all their delusions, all the confusion
Of a nation that starves for salvation but clothing is the closest approximation
To God, and He only knows that drugs are all we know of love.
Every day we starve while we eat white bread and beer instead of a handshake or hug
We spill the pills and sweep them under the rug.
My best friend is a zombie in a body with no soul,
A role they've learned to play in a world today where nothing else matters.
But it matters, we gotta start feeding our souls.
Hey best friend, I heard you went to Mr. So and So,
Knock, knock, knocking on his door again last night.
He said you needed it bad.
Sweet Breeze
My limit of potential remains unbounded by infinity
Passion, patience, pride is forever why I willingly
Decide to take the chance to lie to masses that I
Aim to Please,
And choose to prove that unpaid dues leads to the
Lack of Verdant Trees.
In doing so, I splatter rusty paint, I spin and
Fly with ease.
To free my Qi, Electric Juice poured from a
Psychedelic Sea
In the end, you'll want to see,
Inquire me about this please,
You'll thank me for this later, babe
Unbounded by infinity.
Passion, patience, pride is forever why I willingly
Decide to take the chance to lie to masses that I
Aim to Please,
And choose to prove that unpaid dues leads to the
Lack of Verdant Trees.
In doing so, I splatter rusty paint, I spin and
Fly with ease.
To free my Qi, Electric Juice poured from a
Psychedelic Sea
In the end, you'll want to see,
Inquire me about this please,
You'll thank me for this later, babe
Unbounded by infinity.
Suite for Two Sitars
Surprise, surprise!
That I feel so inspired to enlighten your eyes
With my fallible words.
Love, how absurd!
To place credence in someone who lives in disguise,
Those saddened by fact that, while brutal the lies,
Lies barely intact the stories contrived
Intended to cast honest lovers aside.
Teakettles sit as their whistle-lips sigh,
Observing unfortunate quarrels by night,
And hearts as they break with no reason why,
As sweet sitars whisper harmonic cries.
So I keep myself free from the bindings too tight.
I'll fall in love when stars fall from the sky,
And into black waters that quench throats so dry.
I cannot do this, I just want to fly
As I strum sitars and sing sweet lullabies.
That I feel so inspired to enlighten your eyes
With my fallible words.
Love, how absurd!
To place credence in someone who lives in disguise,
Those saddened by fact that, while brutal the lies,
Lies barely intact the stories contrived
Intended to cast honest lovers aside.
Teakettles sit as their whistle-lips sigh,
Observing unfortunate quarrels by night,
And hearts as they break with no reason why,
As sweet sitars whisper harmonic cries.
So I keep myself free from the bindings too tight.
I'll fall in love when stars fall from the sky,
And into black waters that quench throats so dry.
I cannot do this, I just want to fly
As I strum sitars and sing sweet lullabies.
Deism, Part 1.
So I hear that I have some work to do.
I don't have to work on my own shortcomings, no. I need to work on giving it up to God.
God, the majestic omnipresent loving grandfather in the sky?
Or God, the ruthless, jealous tyrant?
Either way, I hear through the wilting Grapevine that He judges you.
I'm glad I don't believe in Hell.
Don't get me wrong. I do have a relationship with God. It may be unorthodox in many an orthodox's eye. Just because I don't practice glossolalia (it got me in trouble on a church bus, once) or find solace in a hypocrite's pulpit does not strip me of my inherent spiritual rights.
Or does it? Because I don't believe in the divinity of Christ or see any good in the "my way or the highway" mentality?
Of course there is goodness in everything, fellowship with others and righteousness included. It's just not all right for me.
And don't think that I didn't try. Oh hell no. Don't tell me that my years of searching for God without the interference of my parents (as in, going to church by myself for 4 years) was not in vain.
Let's take Psalm 37, dear friends and sheep among you. Let's dissect it piece by lonely sacred piece.
"Trust in the LORD and do good, delight yourself in the LORD and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the LORD; trust in him and he will do this: He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn, the justice of your cause like the noonday sun. Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him…"
So I trusted in God. I did good. I stood still before Him, waited for him patiently as I was instructed to do. I lived viciously in what I thought was God, but it was a falsity. I wanted to believe in something more powerful than myself. Was it so that I could place blame on him when things didn't go my way? I don't know. But when persecution for what I thought was goodness and purity arose, I was frustrated to no end. Why would I place so much faith in a God that is not raising me up, as my world around me crumbles to pieces? I relented. I continued to place the last ounce of fundamental trust I had left in myself in that foreboding judge in the sky.
I'm glad I did, in the end. Because now I realize that I was so so wrong.
I don't have to work on my own shortcomings, no. I need to work on giving it up to God.
God, the majestic omnipresent loving grandfather in the sky?
Or God, the ruthless, jealous tyrant?
Either way, I hear through the wilting Grapevine that He judges you.
I'm glad I don't believe in Hell.
Don't get me wrong. I do have a relationship with God. It may be unorthodox in many an orthodox's eye. Just because I don't practice glossolalia (it got me in trouble on a church bus, once) or find solace in a hypocrite's pulpit does not strip me of my inherent spiritual rights.
Or does it? Because I don't believe in the divinity of Christ or see any good in the "my way or the highway" mentality?
Of course there is goodness in everything, fellowship with others and righteousness included. It's just not all right for me.
And don't think that I didn't try. Oh hell no. Don't tell me that my years of searching for God without the interference of my parents (as in, going to church by myself for 4 years) was not in vain.
Let's take Psalm 37, dear friends and sheep among you. Let's dissect it piece by lonely sacred piece.
"Trust in the LORD and do good, delight yourself in the LORD and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the LORD; trust in him and he will do this: He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn, the justice of your cause like the noonday sun. Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him…"
So I trusted in God. I did good. I stood still before Him, waited for him patiently as I was instructed to do. I lived viciously in what I thought was God, but it was a falsity. I wanted to believe in something more powerful than myself. Was it so that I could place blame on him when things didn't go my way? I don't know. But when persecution for what I thought was goodness and purity arose, I was frustrated to no end. Why would I place so much faith in a God that is not raising me up, as my world around me crumbles to pieces? I relented. I continued to place the last ounce of fundamental trust I had left in myself in that foreboding judge in the sky.
I'm glad I did, in the end. Because now I realize that I was so so wrong.
Sidewalks
Strange now to think of you, gone without a statue tall and strong left in your memory, as I stumble down the uneven paths of my mind.
I've been up all night, talking, talking, reading Frost aloud, listening to Hendrix shout madness on the record player.
And I read his few triumphant stanzas aloud-wept, realizing how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesied like Revelations.
Hiding behind memories so hastily forgotten-- time reminiscent of a tortoise and a hare in a story once recited-- the final moment. The lemming jumping with no qualms.
And what comes after,
looking back at the mind itself and how it made its mark.
It's a flash away, the great dreams of Me or You could fall in a crumpled mess in a short moment, found in a dingy closet.
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Dreamers in the Dream, trapped in its perpetuations,
sighing, floating, crying, buying and selling, worshipping themself,
worshipping the Higher Power they wish they could understand.
The thought leaps about me not unlike a dying butterfly,
while it's hues ring clear the beats of its failing wings stutter.
So I go out and walk along the boulevard, my eyes look back over my shoulder and find themselves longing for the playgrounds I once loved, and in an instant the infinity of sky above me dwarfs my reflections and nostalgia, reminding me of my purpose or the lack thereof.
Struggling like the others meandering down the sidewalk divided by cracks towards new see-saws reminiscent of the ones I understand.
Toward education love school nervous breakdowns love and learning to be obscenely beautiful, like in a dream?
You thought you knew, and I thought I knew; strange to have made it where I am by the sidewalks littered with the defilement of the strangers who think they know,
their cries polluting the smoky air with banter better left to unkempt dorms.
But now I accept their infected tirades as belonging to those unknowingly arrogant, who find solace in the cracks of the sidewalk,
maybe they wish to break their mothers back.
And we're not old now, by the way.
Myself, anyhow.
Maybe as young or old as the universe-- and I guess that dies with us too, the propensity to ask questions often left unanswered.
But what is now will be gone in a moment everytime, leaving no room for regret, which is all well,
though at that moment it ravages the psyche, questioning intentions like the narcissist you are.
And it's in this last moment that I hope to remember, and witness the luminescent movie in that split fraction of a moment, the faces of the strangers who walked my same sidewalk.
The ones who squinted into the sun because they were told not to, and were blinded.
Those who pushed me out of the way, who I thought rude but were only escaping the invisible demons that bit at their ankles.
The ones with repulsive faces with hearts that bled red blood like mine.
For when you leave the house, you're out of the house forever; whether you turned the knob with no apparent keyhole or knocked down the door in a desperate mania to escape.
Either way, it's not up to you. There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know which sidewalks you've casually strolled, those which you've spitefully spurned. For I've gone where you've gone, my shoes have well worn souls.
So walk with me, fingers intertwined, because sometimes the cracks in the sidewalks run horizontal like canyons,
and I'm terribly afraid of heights.
I've been up all night, talking, talking, reading Frost aloud, listening to Hendrix shout madness on the record player.
And I read his few triumphant stanzas aloud-wept, realizing how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesied like Revelations.
Hiding behind memories so hastily forgotten-- time reminiscent of a tortoise and a hare in a story once recited-- the final moment. The lemming jumping with no qualms.
And what comes after,
looking back at the mind itself and how it made its mark.
It's a flash away, the great dreams of Me or You could fall in a crumpled mess in a short moment, found in a dingy closet.
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Dreamers in the Dream, trapped in its perpetuations,
sighing, floating, crying, buying and selling, worshipping themself,
worshipping the Higher Power they wish they could understand.
The thought leaps about me not unlike a dying butterfly,
while it's hues ring clear the beats of its failing wings stutter.
So I go out and walk along the boulevard, my eyes look back over my shoulder and find themselves longing for the playgrounds I once loved, and in an instant the infinity of sky above me dwarfs my reflections and nostalgia, reminding me of my purpose or the lack thereof.
Struggling like the others meandering down the sidewalk divided by cracks towards new see-saws reminiscent of the ones I understand.
Toward education love school nervous breakdowns love and learning to be obscenely beautiful, like in a dream?
You thought you knew, and I thought I knew; strange to have made it where I am by the sidewalks littered with the defilement of the strangers who think they know,
their cries polluting the smoky air with banter better left to unkempt dorms.
But now I accept their infected tirades as belonging to those unknowingly arrogant, who find solace in the cracks of the sidewalk,
maybe they wish to break their mothers back.
And we're not old now, by the way.
Myself, anyhow.
Maybe as young or old as the universe-- and I guess that dies with us too, the propensity to ask questions often left unanswered.
But what is now will be gone in a moment everytime, leaving no room for regret, which is all well,
though at that moment it ravages the psyche, questioning intentions like the narcissist you are.
And it's in this last moment that I hope to remember, and witness the luminescent movie in that split fraction of a moment, the faces of the strangers who walked my same sidewalk.
The ones who squinted into the sun because they were told not to, and were blinded.
Those who pushed me out of the way, who I thought rude but were only escaping the invisible demons that bit at their ankles.
The ones with repulsive faces with hearts that bled red blood like mine.
For when you leave the house, you're out of the house forever; whether you turned the knob with no apparent keyhole or knocked down the door in a desperate mania to escape.
Either way, it's not up to you. There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know which sidewalks you've casually strolled, those which you've spitefully spurned. For I've gone where you've gone, my shoes have well worn souls.
So walk with me, fingers intertwined, because sometimes the cracks in the sidewalks run horizontal like canyons,
and I'm terribly afraid of heights.
Pioneers, Oh Pioneers!
My anguished children,
Follow well in order.
Wait...
Are your angry weapons drawn?
Have you your sharp-edged tongues?
I mustn't tarry long,
We must march on my darling, bear the wrong of dangers and mistakes.
Oh my youth,
and wasted youths,
impatient, full of passion.
Plain I see you, wasted youth,
trampling with the masses.
Have some wiser elders acted?
Do they wilt
and throw their questions,
passive, there,
beyond the limits of a rising sea?
Do I risk a task eternal, and the burdens with it be?
I lunge upon a mightier world, ravenous,
Fresh and strong the world I seize.
My vices, which have pleased,
since thrown across a valley wide,
fall one by one like dying winter's leaves.
Oh resistless, restless minds!
My breast aches with gnawing love for thee,
tired eyes of comrades remain
deliriously blind
through battles and defeat.
Deep pulses of the world,
they beat
for You and I,
An unrelenting rhythm sweet.
Ignoring shouts and shows,
Hapless lovers cried,
self-admitted in their prisons
like the lonely and the wicked,
for vague passions that have died.
Ethereal Spirit,
tripping,
wandering on my way,
through corridors far from the brilliance of day.
Amidst the haunted candor,
Hallucinations of grandeur,
And foggy thoughts so bitterly replayed.
The lonely mystic nights,
delusional dreams,
They rise and cling desperate you and I
Not for reminiscence sweet;
nor faulty tale or lie of life replete...
But for now,
peace in pure duress.
A lunar sky descends,
light upon a road, so toilsome of late,
And regal trumpets yell past the distant horizon,
How inspiring do I hear them press!
And nodding on my way,
a passing Lover snatches me,
on His back I ride towards
comforting arms I seek.
Follow well in order.
Wait...
Are your angry weapons drawn?
Have you your sharp-edged tongues?
I mustn't tarry long,
We must march on my darling, bear the wrong of dangers and mistakes.
Oh my youth,
and wasted youths,
impatient, full of passion.
Plain I see you, wasted youth,
trampling with the masses.
Have some wiser elders acted?
Do they wilt
and throw their questions,
passive, there,
beyond the limits of a rising sea?
Do I risk a task eternal, and the burdens with it be?
I lunge upon a mightier world, ravenous,
Fresh and strong the world I seize.
My vices, which have pleased,
since thrown across a valley wide,
fall one by one like dying winter's leaves.
Oh resistless, restless minds!
My breast aches with gnawing love for thee,
tired eyes of comrades remain
deliriously blind
through battles and defeat.
Deep pulses of the world,
they beat
for You and I,
An unrelenting rhythm sweet.
Ignoring shouts and shows,
Hapless lovers cried,
self-admitted in their prisons
like the lonely and the wicked,
for vague passions that have died.
Ethereal Spirit,
tripping,
wandering on my way,
through corridors far from the brilliance of day.
Amidst the haunted candor,
Hallucinations of grandeur,
And foggy thoughts so bitterly replayed.
The lonely mystic nights,
delusional dreams,
They rise and cling desperate you and I
Not for reminiscence sweet;
nor faulty tale or lie of life replete...
But for now,
peace in pure duress.
A lunar sky descends,
light upon a road, so toilsome of late,
And regal trumpets yell past the distant horizon,
How inspiring do I hear them press!
And nodding on my way,
a passing Lover snatches me,
on His back I ride towards
comforting arms I seek.
A Lonely Dock
Seasick friend,
a careening ship has sailed
far from a dock so dear,
delight I found prevailed.
Now sense is near,
brass bells I hear,
my logic all but spent;
as fellow eyes glance in surprise at I,
while changes lack such pure intent.
But these eyes! And tears, as poignant water-darts
they rack the eager mind that tears,
to capture ever-changing heart.
You fiend!
Listen, heed the bells!
But do not act, as you have done;
for you the flag has flown, and now are shunned.
For you such lavish gifts,
Once upon our rising sun.
Gaze silent at the curious ships, their eager faces turning;
Spite so bitter-grown, as you sit fire-burning,
these dreams are now your own.
Silently I peer, lips pale and still,
As they bestow to me enticing thrill.
While you deny I’m anchored safe and sound,
A newly colored flag does swell.
Despite the race, a victor ship has now an object found.
Sing, my fertile shores,
ring the dusty bells!
And now with mournful tread
you walk a deck that sails no more,
while a lovely captain’s whisper
echoes sadly in your head.
a careening ship has sailed
far from a dock so dear,
delight I found prevailed.
Now sense is near,
brass bells I hear,
my logic all but spent;
as fellow eyes glance in surprise at I,
while changes lack such pure intent.
But these eyes! And tears, as poignant water-darts
they rack the eager mind that tears,
to capture ever-changing heart.
You fiend!
Listen, heed the bells!
But do not act, as you have done;
for you the flag has flown, and now are shunned.
For you such lavish gifts,
Once upon our rising sun.
Gaze silent at the curious ships, their eager faces turning;
Spite so bitter-grown, as you sit fire-burning,
these dreams are now your own.
Silently I peer, lips pale and still,
As they bestow to me enticing thrill.
While you deny I’m anchored safe and sound,
A newly colored flag does swell.
Despite the race, a victor ship has now an object found.
Sing, my fertile shores,
ring the dusty bells!
And now with mournful tread
you walk a deck that sails no more,
while a lovely captain’s whisper
echoes sadly in your head.
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