Small Words.

Is this where I wanted to be,
barely living, before twenty-three?
Mind has changed like a valley
to a mountain range,
but still I find the courage hard
to dig up on these restless days.

Maybe it's the pessimism becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Maybe it's just an utter lack of useful sleep.
My bloodshot eyes can attest.

I've watched the shadows lengthen as the sun sets over five-thousand times,
and I still don't see much difference between the early morning and night skies.
Some say that wisdom comes with age, but I liked it better when I thought I had everything figured out.
I'm no wiser these days than I was when I was barely old enough to define the word drought.

A man thinking and writing in metaphors is just one more useless victim:
hoping to change the world through a computer screen, or hoping that someone can finally fix him.
Some days I feel as if I'm that night sky,
something I know is different from morning;
but in appearance, all that's different
is the direction the sun is moving.
So really they are no more different
than any other dichotomous relationship;
because polarity is strength through magnetism,
no matter what way one defines it.

But the real question I find myself asking is whether,
in this metaphor,
the sun is rising,
or setting.
The sky looks the same, either way.

Pails.

We carry away our troubles in old rusty pails,
riddled with holes; much like the sails
on our ships- tattered and in need of repair.
Land in the distance, but can we get there?

A home is a home is a home is a home isn't home
until there are people enough
to fill it all up.

The sun is the sun and the stars are suns, too,
just like everyone shines: the many; the few.

Brave beyond a capable measurement of merit,
if the world is not meek than who shall inherit
all of this green, and all of this blue:
take what is yours even if
it doesn't belong to you.

A home is a home is a home is a home is a...
lie is a lie is a lie, all a lie when the
cards fall face-down;
when the deck is stacked,
nothing but jokers to be found.

Every Word.

In the worst of times, our enemies make the best muses;
but in the best of times, our family takes their place.
The spot upon the shelf, where the dust surrounds the space
where the anger was kept, unwarranted and useless:
just a shape with a face and a name.

These times are those in which family plays a large role.
Friends and blood alike,
effortlessly influence this life.
And it's with an artist's keen eye for details
that these people shape me.

Every word I have ever written, every sentence I've ever spoken
stands as a monument, a memorial, a memory- a token -
for every second spent holding my hand
as I've stumbled down countless paths, close to cliffs overlooking endless oceans;
each of those bodies of humble water threaten to pull us down if we dare to cross them.

So let's celebrate the very existence of us, this family of friends and of kin;
let's bring the night skies to life with the very lights we've built within.

The Reality

It's on nights like this, where words are not flowing as they should be,
where more blank space takes up the computer screen than anything,
and I find myself needlessly, hopelessly questioning each and every detail
of every single letter within my own wording.
What am I trying to say, other than I'm doing this for a reason,
however lost that reason may be: I have a purpose, other than treason
against myself, against my world;
I love this place, I love my life, and I love the way it's all beginning to unfurl.
Much like a rose is this life betwixt the birth and death of these eyes transfixed,
and superimposed upon the memories of however many people care to remember, or go
to that place where the memory still keeps up shop, dusts and mops its home.
How much like a spider is the heart: weaving webs of truth, lies, deceit, all between two limbs in the tree of love.
So many weave weak strands, and the wind takes deep breaths to swallow them in.
But not all are so blindly taken; without a past to anchor their strings, their fibers of emotive faculty may as well already be deceased.
But there are strong anchors, and stronger builders;
and the webs build by these: they stay up without effort.
They merely do a little dusting, a little cleaning to keep out the dirt;
and to keep out the rain, to avoid corrosion- rust and deposits, like a clearing of the throat: very curt.
And who knows how long the web will hold itself intact?
The only thing to do is maintain every facet of what we have.
Polish the globes, and safely fold up all the maps:
for if the wind does take us- I'd like to know where exactly we're at.
No excuse is enough to allow so much as an iota of forgiveness;
avenge the memories we hold just long enough to give us
some breathing room in our souls, some clarity in life;
it's never over, it just continues to roll,
much like the wind blows on through the darkest nights.
But there's comfort to be found, even when our dreams are far too real:
in the reality of what we've built here, for each other; a place to rest and heal.
To heal our wounds among the familiar; to breathe, love, and laugh as two who are similar; to join hands and walk down paths towards horizons,
heading for points as of yet unknown; but let's keep our eyelids
open as our feet continue to tread
among the sticks, stones, bones, dirt, and buried dead.
The past, like a thorn on a bush full of roses,
sticks us both at times, but still, it is worth it
to see and feel the beauty: to stop and smell the flowers.
Every moment between your arms could easily stretch into hours.
So keep the reality closer than any dreams you and I could ever have:
because dreams are for those who give up on living,
and reality is for those who know that they aren't dead.

Metaphors and imagery aside, it is you who stands here, by my side.
And with every day that continues to go by, I find myself more thankful than I'd ever thought I was capable.
I take solace in the reality that you are thankful, too.
And that is the truth.

[July 2, 2010]

Don't Worry, it's Just Pretend.

The most I could ever ask is for you to give the world a chance before you cast it away,
unimpressed
with the way that it pretends to be like the lives you see on the t.v.
Is it too hard to take a breath, and use your legs to venture out into the open air?
Is it too much to ask for you to use your voice to speak your own thoughts,
instead of those you hear spoken to you?
The most I could ever ask of myself is to give up the world for a chance for you to be better than this,
because I'm not impressed
with the way you pretend that your life is just like those that you see on t.v.
Is it too hard to change your mind, and use your thoughts like legs to get into the clear?
Is it too much to ask for you to use your voice to sing through the lies, confusion, and fear?
Do you still have a voice, I wonder.
You have the choice to stand idle or wander.

The Trick.

Words are bars to cage oneself in.
Talk a box around the body, and see what can and cannot get in.
The sentences written and spoken-
to ourselves, to each other-
are in many ways interconnected to what we feel,
and the connections we feel to our sisters, and brothers.
There's no denying the movement, there's no denying the pulse.
The beat that falls into line with the beating of all of our rhythmic hearts.
But should that drum stop beating, should that connection- that rope anchoring us to shore- be severed:
what's to stop us from drifting out to see to float aimlessly forever?
It's important to manage ourselves, to keep morality within stable limits.
To force boundaries upon our hopes and dreams, but still continue to try and live them.
It's a game that we all play, that we all must see played to understand the fundamentals if only we could get it down ourselves, maybe we'd be better off.
The trick to winning is not to take part.
The trick to winning is to only make art.
The trick to winning is to make what you feel, to create and inspire no matter what's up, down, right, wrong, imaginary, or real.
The goal is inevitably up to oneself:
a prize only obtainable to yourself.
Maybe something small, such as food to stay alive.
Maybe something materialistic, like just enough money to get by.
But before money, we had freedom; and before freedom we had ourselves.
We built our homes with each other, fed and clothed one another in the hopes that we'd all be willing to help...when the time came.
But the time did come, and not everyone was there to stand their ground.
So the social contract came into being: we can only have our liberties if entrusted with all others' liberties.
It is that freedom that coats the very fibers, the spindles upon spindles of wires, that run through each of us on this Earth.
While some of us are oblivious to the pain of others for various reasons, there are those who are still being hurt.
The trick is to open the eyes.
The trick is to open the mind.
It's a trick not often done in these times, but come hell and high tide, it's time to sign on the dotted lines.

To pay where pay is due: once and for all.
The trick is standing up on our own two legs, and to be stable enough not to fall.

Perfectly Imperfect.

there’s color in honor, only the best;
and when the sun shines through our windows
we sail away like untied ships;
our futures’ at stake, and we play these games
like a spider weaving its web
in spite of the incoming rain.

in debt to the best of my world,
all amounts of money could not repay
the decisions I’ve made,
the family I have;
and how imperfect they are.

we are not perfect, we are not best,
but we know this and try just like all the rest.

Mad the Hatter.

for or against, it makes no difference to most.

from the gutters of the street, to the businessman’s toast:

do us all a favor and pick a side.

because war makes no sense unless someone lies.

just do us all that favor and justify

our disconnect to each other, and lost moral ties.

but it’s easier to win if we all unite,

under one shared belief- that we are right.

cheated out of rights, and left for dead.

this country has become rotten

from the inside.

children unfed.

the little man, forgotten.

all thanks to greed inside of small heads.

I’d give it all to stop them

from tearing everything apart.

for or against, it makes a difference,

choose your words wisely or never speak them;

actions are louder than words will ever be.

it’s far too late for sorry to mean anything.

do us all a favor and pick a side.

because war makes no sense unless someone lies.

just do us all that favor and justify

our disconnect to each other, and lost moral ties.

but it’s easier to win if we all just unite,

under one true cause; turn all the wrong to right.

all the wrong to right;

rewrite all our rights,

and put down the wrong, tonight.

for or against, it makes no difference,

as long as your with us.

Like the Moon.

Modeled after what, I could not tell;
the moon's construction a mystery.
Harboring signs so hard to read,
months spent wasting time and energy.

The tide comes in and goes back out;
the only purpose able to be conceived.
Pressure changes as we spiral 'round
the sun, itself; our center of being.

Every thirty eves, the sun reveals the pale cataract of the moon,
sealed together like a button or a pearl,
smooth in appearance, but just as rough as any other world.
So quick to judge, we once saw faces
with the passing days and the seasons,
discontent with our own graces,
we created demons in the night sky to blame when
all was not well, and amiss;
when we couldn't sleep,
when we were pissed;
we made up phantoms like any child,
and then chased them away with our lights.

And all the while: we built our homes with steady hands,
superstition running rampant through all the land.
And each day we saw a part of ourselves slip away,
and let those pieces fade, into the wind and the sea;
in favor of machines,
in favor of logic.
In favor of rationale instead of promise.
In favor of equations and solid "proof"
instead of creativity and love and truth.

So like our moon, we've revolved into shadow,
the sun missing us entirely.
And while in this darkness, we have lost the will to inspire
both one another and ourselves; and we're growing tired.
But, like the moon, we'll become ripe and full again;
give it time, my beautiful family...
just give it time, my friends.

A Rareity.

Money is short, but someone's pockets are lined.
Although, my pockets are empty most of the time.
It never ceases to amaze me how I waste my time, and the money I've earned and taken, with thanks, from my job, and those I love.
It's a joke.
Good grief, I've given up so much of my time, and so much that I've earned in the sake of escaping what I've ran from for so long during my days on this earth.
The world.
There's no escaping reality, no matter how much fiction I watch on the t.v.
No matter how many different books I read.
No matter how much I do of anything.
I've given up on giving up;
it's time to learn, and grow, and improve
my very being, to uproot my very conscience;
to provide my soul with a tourniquet, and to up the dosage of fresh air and lovable memories.
For purposes unbeknown before this very day, this very minute,
I have tried to turn a cold shoulder on life.
Now, it's time to come out from the inside,
and ride my bike.
To play my instrument of choice.
To keep a steady hand in endeavors from a moral, obligatory, and financial standpoint; in all different manners and aspects of my life.
Time to keep a straight course, to plan, budget, and succeed.

Time to grow up a bit.

Spinning Blue Marble.

Whatever happened to the bond between
mother and daughter,
father and son; sisters and brothers?
Was there ever anything there to begin with?

This Earth is small, on the surface,
but so much goes on below our cities,
and our streets;
so much between the meager hours
of 12 noon and 3pm E-S-T
happens beneath our feet...
and above our heads,
and how much of it do we realize
is happening, without losing our heads?
There's no cause for aggression,
no cause for attacks in the name
of preservation.
Sure we all need to do our part, to keep this planet from falling apart,
but if there's any sort of order in this universe,
if anything is ever planned, ever guessed at, ever seen:
then whatever does that planning, should it possibly exist,
will do as it will with us; as it sees fit.

No matter how we treat ourselves,
no matter how we treat each other,
it is important to stand by family,
to keep close to mothers, fathers, daughters,
sons, sisters, and brothers.

There's a world out there.
A whole world out there.
There's a world out there,
just beyond that door.
A whole world out there,
a rose unfurling without prejudice,
without fear, without judgment,
with only nature's grace.
There's a world out there,
a whole world out there.
There's a world out there
that can say it's not ashamed.

Part Duex

Try not to hide behind things
that give away your lies' lines;
sneak beside the trees, through the grass and twigs and leaves,
like the snake that you are,
slithering into any crack in the foundation that you can find.

If I could tell stories, I'd want to tell them just like you do.
Lies never seemed more real.

Caught; but where's the truth hiding?
Sought after, all in due time.
What matters, now, is whether this is ending or beginning.

If I could tell stories, I'd want to tell them just like you do.
Lies never felt more real.

So purposeful, the notes singing through strummed strings;
the frets so worn, but worn by me.
They were my frets, and they were my strings.
You took them.
You took them and gave them away.
And all for what?
Don't we all have bills to pay?

Red

Blood is red for a reason.
To remind us we're all the same,
no matter color of skin,
beliefs, faith, or season.
A color of love and anger,
a line sometimes blurred
between the two by dirty fingers
smearing the ink,
rest assured those fingers belong to hands
that are controlled by minds that never think.

The color of love,
a beautiful existence;
a thing we cannot see.
Only by feeling,
and, for some, by messages from great distance,
can we truly know that it's a real thing.

The color of rage,
a thing ill-composed,
red turned black is
the story usually told.
Vigor and vitality
snuffed out in an instant of greed,
seeing only shapes and thinking in waves
of feelings and distant connections
that the mind can be relate.

The color of blood, the color of life;
a color of strength that causes so many to unite.

Blood is red for a reason.
We bleed red for a reason.

White

The color of innocence.
Falling from the sky
in unique formations of molecules imposed
upon the very air we breathe,
the color of air in the winter wind; a sigh.

The color of bone, solid and composed;
rigid and well defined; yet so easily broken.
Tooth and nail, solid but frail.
Inevitability is a token;
a universal rule:
that all things innocent
cannot last,
except when in the presence of fools.

The color of paper, all colors combined;
every single detail of line so well designed
drawn only to take away the blankness of the sheet;
art is destruction, and destruction is sometimes discreet.

Black

The color of birth, the color of death,
no color at all to be found in its depths.
Cast onto the various environmental shapes
in which we're surrounded by every single day.

The color of nothing, the color of memory,
the color of the pasts we try to forget in vain, it seems.
The color of night, the color of coal;
the color preceding diamonds;
and for some: the color of the soul.

When we step blindly from the darkness
and into the world, inevitably towards another place just as dark
as the space between the iris and eyelids,
keep in mind that how you finish things
is just as important as how you start them.

Acknowledged Knowledge on the Ledge Knowing.

a lack of understanding remains; "who makes the tests?"
is exceptionally blatent,with its effects on the rest.
residing in upright houses, flat-topped desks
for writing and judgements, words like waves, as the crest.
judgements of intelligence
a bias remains
calculate relevance
by burning the page
with red ink.
inform through research,
conform through ignorance.
elusive,maintain the search:
fire- full steam ahead!

shortcomings ensued, divulged prophecy;
push comes to shove: a stone cast, miserably
into th water, a destroyer of peace-
image of reflection immediately recedes.

we are depleted, but not defeated.
we are cast down, but not cast out.
opening our books once more,
finding our places
to succeed without failure
is to prosper, without anger:
we strive.

Citizen Journalism.

Say you see beyond.
Say you see right through the masks we all put on-
the mask that's at home on you.
Scorn without discrimination,
cuts without prejudice.
Walk the tightrope with determination
until you actions stir up the winds.
Your assumptions are boundless,
and founded on thin air.
Affections are founded by hunger, by lies shared.
By lives smeared.

The Red (Tape) Sea.

Wage war for net gain,
a profit-driven virus-strain:
infecting our senses; concepts of our messes.
Tangible: blood on the pavement.
Intangible: love, hate, and music.
Money keeps the world on its toes.
Report the story so everyone knows
(everyone knows...just what you want them to know)
Who decides what we buy?
Who decides what we know?
Terrified daily by the way we live,
the way that we're controlled.

Cut the strings.
Move your limbs without aid.
Without aid.
Can we survive?
Can we survive...without trust?
Without choice?
Without being able to use our one true voice?
Without truth?
Without hope?
Without being able to see that we're caught up in ropes?
(No gain, no gain, no gain, no movement; no dreams, no dreams, no dreams, no improvement)

Vote or die, they tell us, but what's the difference?
We'll have the plug pulled no matter what the outcome is.

We're always drowning....
feels like we're drowning...
drowning in red tape.

Bookmark.

Coda.
     Come back to the bookmark
     (that marks our page)
Titles.
     Pictures we've painted
     (to show what words can't convey)
Stories.
     Told through blending truth
     (and fiction; at times, one and the same)
Choose.
     what your truth is.
     (wisely.)
Choose wisely.