[1984]

There is no sacrifice, there is no destination; only a crown of ice and a moment of desperation. There is no sacrifice, there is no compensation. Through judgements and avarice- trials and tribulationis. only the strong remain. Only the strong stand on their own two feet. And when the song that they sang becomes and anthem to the marching beat: feel proud to where that name, that silent marker of where true and false meet. A single word utter in shame, and you'll find yourself beneath the streets. The pain you know, while no more true than this, will feel only like pinpricks from a great distance. The comparison between night and day will mean nothing to you in that prison. But keep your lips sealed, and your thoughts pure-nothing nothing but good of our name and you'll be free from that punishment; that cleansing; that retribution through shame. I'll lay your head down gently, upon the pillow and blankets covering your bed; but when you wake up, precious, pray to God you'll remember what's been said. The past is only the present, and the future we own, without license or law. We make the past in the present, and alter the future for all who shall come along. Peace is war. Freedom is slavery. Consider this your warning. You'll survive this by behaving. Doublethink your way through the nonsense, and cast away any doubt, because we came along just fine without you, and we'll continue to do so without.

Renewal.

The waters are flowing, the trees are sprouting from beds of black soil.
Fertility showing, seeds have impregnated the impenetrable ground.
The thunder from the skies is lessened; we are able to afford our toil.
Watching the sky- birdless- brings a surreal sense of euphoria to the unsound.

And when my ears hear the music of a harp in the distance, I trudge through frozen plains, hungry mud, and finally I awake.
It was only a dream, after all.
If there's any justice in this universe, the music will cease.
The beauty of its horrid sound has me enthralled.
I stalk upon the broken glass surface of what was once the desert.
My reflection is troubling.
The bags under my eyes are too dark.
The skin is too pale and too wrinkled.
I find the source of the discord,
a broken bicycle wheel with spokes like strings
being strummed by the fingers of a newly sprouted tree.
The wind is just right for the wheel to spin,
not too harsh, or too light, perfect for the sound of music.
And, against all odds, the sound produced becomes beautiful;
even though the strings are old and rusted, and thick with dirt- dull metal.
A voice of sorts is created in the failing light,
and I look back upon the plain of glass, to what used to be the west;
peering upon the ruined skyline of the city, my heart beating in my chest.
I still wonder how long ago those buildings had risen, powerful and vivid.
I still wonder how such beauty can still survive in a place so poisonous and pitiful.
So filthy.
So deprived.
The wind finally stops,
and the music subsides...
and still it provides,
and still it entices,
it gives me a hope
and I feel I can survive this.

Scorched Earth.

Sand is turned to glass;
green pastures have turned black.
The air is thick and rancid with
the smoke; makes us sick.

The price to pay for power,
the price to pay for comfort.
The trigger pulled is the dream lulled,
suspended in time, forever a vision;
forever a hope, eternally wishing.

Wishing for water that is drinkable,
for fruit unspoiled.
Wishing for sunshine that comforts,
for fertile soil.
Wishing for a hand to hold,
a pair of ears, valid;
a pair of eyes, not blind;
a pair of legs to walk on,
a hand to reach up, to the cloud-covered sky.

The price to pay for comfort (the air from our lungs)
the price to pay for power (was taken without cause)
has torn down our towers (for some)
has spoiled our waters. (there's nothing)
A hand to hold (like taking)
a hand to bite (away)
a hand to steal from in the dead of night.
That hand was yours,
that hand was ours.
That hand was there's.
That hand was mine.

There is no box.

there is no box.
we step over boundaries that we've created.
they are not in place.
only our eyes can see them.
so it is our duty to try and reshape
the boundaries that keep us at bay.
to obliterate them, to cast them away.
it is our duty to make our own way.

there is no box.
no matter what anyone may say.
there is no boundary, there is no limit,
there is only the soul and the extent to which you feel it.

erase the lines!
soul, body, and mind!
erase the lines!
boundaries, limits, and time!

The Artful Arsonists.

Let's build a fire!
Let's burn our fears away!
Set our worries to the wind!
Bid them farewell, my friends!
Hold safely to one another!
And never see them again!

Hold onto your dreams,
they make quick work of fading.
Silence your needs,
your desires are abating.
Dress in short sleeves,
the sun is awakening.
We'll conquer fear,
our minds are worth saving.

Time is the immortal,
constant but unstable;
and like any Greek god:
it is unwilling although able.
With its own regard held closely,
as if in a game of Hearts,
Time's Eye rolls loosely
in its socket counter-part.
There's an art to survival.
There's a will to do what works;
and a chance to do more than that-
in spite of value or worth.
There's a dance to adhere to.
There are signs to follow;
but no reason to do so-
other than to keep peace.

Burn away the doubt,
let it fall to the sand
so the tide carries it out.
Burn away denial,
suffer from it no longer,
keep close to your family:
your parents, sons, and daughters.

Burn away the youth,
that blameful beast without tact;
let it find its own way home
without ever looking back.
And if the tide does not come,
then the lines will still show
from the fires we've built,
from the stitches we've sewn.

Bandaged wounds still bring pain,
but the dichotomy between bare
and covered is the line between
night and day; death and discomfort.
Pray the moon still allows the tide to rise,
for the sake of our growth, and for the sake of our lives.

[The Student]

Still over a thousand miles to walk before home is within sight, but I find a comfort in this fact; a solace that all will be set right.
I'm not one to preach- my soapbox was never very stable- but this is an important thing to be heard; and I am still alive to speak: I am well and able.
Cherish each and every moment with the clarity of the air during a June afternoon in Maine.
Do not dwell on discomfort; do not live life in remembrance of pain.
Hear me well, I beg, may it do you well on your travels.
You're the light of someone's life, and an umbrella when the sky unravels.
Turn not your cold shoulders to those who would suffer for you;
cast not a fearful eye upon those you do not understand.
What can you possibly know without ever learning it?

It takes a mind, a heart, and a soul to truly determine truth from shit.

The words that I sputter, the words that I mangle with my hands between my thoughts and this page:
they mean something to somebody, I hope; but if not, upon my course I shall stay.
Because time is simply relative: if these words bring hope in future times
then my purpose is achieved, after all; these words are my messages sent through time.

[The Victim]

Lives were changed without purpose or reason;
paths were altered, like the collision of seasons.
In cold blood, fingers traced mortal wounds;
my family is gone, and there is no hope this soul.

Survivor's guilt is the understatement of my life.
I've been alone for three long, wakeful nights.
And each morning as the sun breaches the horizon:
I wonder what makes me so special as to keep alive, when
all I've done with my time is cast it to the wind;
when the only real accomplishments are small in comparison
to the lives that were taken from my heart;
the family that I had loved;
the family that I'd yet to start.
So what is there to do but sit and mourn my dead?
I've tried to sleep, but their voices fill my head.
I'll try to eat, but I know it's all in vain;
it's only a matter of time before he returns to end my name.

So I sit and flip through photographs held in place by plastic,
travelling back to the past as if time was melted; elastic.
I sit up, late at night, before a fire, coaxing the return of my dead.
I cry aloud, but there is no one left to hear what is said.

[The Guilty]

I am the wolf,
     Alone but capable.

I am the knife,

     Gleeming pale silver.

I am the blood,

     Running in streamlets.

I become the sun,

     Rising above this.

A fictional lack of substance.

     I have the tools to reestablish

my very name.

     My very self.

I am the wolf.

     And nothing else.

[The Scribe]

The written word is a written joke.
Behind these lines lie words, like spokes
keeping the rim of the wheel solid, and sure;
keeping the rubber rolling forward, evermore.

The visual barriers beyond the paper.
The concept of love muddled until later.
In the heart of the night, cold winds are howling:
a quesion some would never dare to think of asking-
Does this matter, after all is said and done?
Do words push back the shadows as sure as the rising sun?
"Write it down," the world demands.
But how can one steady such nervous, shaking hands?
With the very will to inform (to survive, to inspire),
there is no will to conform (to the lies; to truth under fire!)

Words can inspire the truth,
but how do they inspire you?
Uniformity is last in the line
when priorities
are check, this time.

Writing a verse to fill up the pages;
a convenient snapshot of truth through words
that lasts through the very ages.

[The Law]

An unbiased representation
of the unalterable contracts
between the men and women,
between humans, for substance.
Pidgeons to creoles; transitions to new homes.
Follow (follow);
follow or pay the price.
Iron bars are all the company
that you can afford in the night.
Actions are not words that you can erase like graphite;
they are permanent, they are pen.
But one can always amend.
Pray to God...
...as if he supports these memes; these laws of the living.

The Prisoner.

[The Prisoner] (a lyrical work of fiction i.e.: 'I' does not mean me and so on and so forth haha.)


Keep me in the clear, save these hands from shaking.
All I have to fear is losing the progress I've been making,
my dear, my dear.

And despite the risks of drawing lines,
I've found a home right here, drawn inside;
and I've changed, oh, how I've changed.

Hold-ing on to memories, moving fast; like the cars that travel past, this place in which I reside.
Know- that the wheels spin so sure, keeping pace: they're undetoured; like a thought that holds no lie.

And despite the risks of drawing lines,
I've made a home right here, deep inside;
and I've changed, oh, how I've changed.

Time and measurements aside: I ask, ascance, for remnants of lines long since written in pale moonlight.
Hold onto memories perchance that the facts will change the hands that are dealt to us this time.

Once more is enough to last for all of time,
I build you up to break you down in pride;
and even then I knew I'd be rid of you,
I'd be sick of you; and yet I've changed.
Despite the risks of telling lies,
I've made a home of them, inside;
but I've changed, oh, I swear I've changed.

Beware of Quick Sand and Snakes Posing as Vines.

Our past lives bewildered, our new winds deliver;
the stagnant quality of swamps will bother me
no longer; old adages put aside for alternative truths-
shaping myself in this time, now post-youth.

Who is to blame for the time lost?
Where does it go, except to the wind?
Like labelling dreams with high costs:
a season of life where only lies bring wins.

No pattern to this inkblot failure;
no sight to set the scopes upon.
Oh, watch for the heretic enabler;
and beware!
For the season of change has begun.

Where are the Girl Scout Cookies?

Given: there is insult to injury- spoken.
The words delivered to the stranded children.
Break their spirits, and their hearts wide open.
Aged and worn is the innocence held- token.

Like a blanket laundered far too many times,
the fabric of our morals is nothing more than random squares and lines.

Flight takes us above the distinction.
Lies turn our truth into fiction.
Signs pointing to roads far ahead:
the road's straight despite what it says.

Ka.

War and peace are not black and white,
but shades of grey in this failing light.

A key, a rose, an unfound door
leave me tracing my steps back to before.
A note, a cross, and an empty message
find me wishing you well and granting safe passage.

Letters to words to sentences to stories:
we've been created beyond all those boundaries.
From lead to ink to digital computation:
we've been given these hands to shape what we're given.

A wheel, a wind, a renewed storm:
the rains of fate are falling once more.

Blue Light Special.

Every word under scrutiny;
vicious denials monitored.
There's no blood in this mutiny.
Only voices going unheard.

Attention is shifted to the restless.
The power of numbers stands endless.

Gone from existence,
thrown out of power,
words that have kept us
prisoners to cowards.

Dreams become our only posessions.
When they strike with the crudest of weapons.
Dreams are our only possessions
when they take our homes without pension.

A Spilled Glass of Light.

A lead foot and we're racing
to red lights without patience.
Rubber burned into the road,
a footprint left on the pavement,
lines of words we could have wrote:
have been left out for the wind.

Home has never seemed so far.
The beacon of the lighthouse:
memories turned to scars.
Senses that fail me; untrusting words.
The light from the windows
spilling onto the curbs.

Nights that once were friends to us
have turned their backs in defense;
the cold has snapped all around us
and it's useless to try and prevent.

Nights that once were friends to us
have turned their backs in defense:
the cold that has shaped around us
has kept us from making progress.

Sleepless City

The city never sleeps; fog fills the streets.
Oceans beneath my feet.
The Earth spins silently.

A city that cannot rest; a hollow spot filled
deep within the chest.
Oceans in my heart.
My Earth sees sun again.

Cars that pass so frequently;
punishment is no longer begrudged to me.

The layers of grey dissipate,
revealing asphalt, concrete, stone.
The Earth continues to rotate,
but no longer am I alone.

Faith (Part....3?)

where am i to put all of this faith?
like a tree planted, it has grown well with age.
despite the lack of sunshine and water,
and the incessant axe that was the blunt end of her logic.

but the tree has regrown, the leaves are green;
and the bark is as brown as the hair upon my own head;
and the shadow it casts is like black construction paper that has been pasted to the ground.

but, oh, where do i put the leaves when they fall?
these leaves, these green leaves, from this tree grown so tall?
and, now, even while they are green as i speak, i tarry a moment longer, wondering if time will turn them from green, to gold, to reddish-pink.
i look, i smile, i ponder.

is any container large enough to hold the wealth, the abundance, of which i barely have the capacity to sustain myself?
i mean, i'll try to catch these things- one by one if i have to- until my arms are too full, until i drop my solemn burden upon the metaphorical ground.
my keepsake is my own stake in the faith i have heretofore proclaimed exists once more within my mind.
i keep my own to keep my mind sane for a bit more time.
but the tree must shed it's leaves, because we live seasonable lives.
and to decide is to give rights to unknown spirits; supposed guides.

i'll keep my faith a minute longer.
i'll keep my faith just a bit longer.
the leaves are turning, but i'm stronger, now.
i'll keep my faith a little longer.
just to myself a little longer.
and when my mind's made up,
i'll put my burden down.
i'll keep my faith a little longer.

Corporate Warfare.

A red sun
and a dead son-
fathers' exemption
from the bombs that fall.

Blue carpet stained
with the life-blood
of the father:
a picture is clasped-
all that remains
of the mother:
now long gone.
The memory of
peace has collapsed,
like a poorly
built home that's
made of cards.

Silence without solace
is guidance without purpose.

Wars waged from home without just cause.
We are unjustly charged with the loss.
Wars fought from sofas sewn so soft.
We pull the trigger while they talk cost.

The Sky Aglow

It's a crying shame,
this crying game.
(We lie this way, we die the same.)

All of the color comprising the snow-
a planet of ice keeping the sky aglow.
Absence of color feeds our distress.
A void in the conscious; a void in our chests.

Cure the illness. (The mental sickness!)
Fight the option. (Develop conscience!)

By car, by plane, by boat- we drive.
On foot, on wings, on hopes- we strive.

Nothing Can Grow Beneath the Snow

Into view, into collision,
the universe
holds its breath.
Out of phase, out of present;
past and future:
we see our deaths.

Worlds buckle, beneath the weight
the snow now melts to foster change.

Led astray by the compacts that we'd made (oh, letters from heaven reach only graves.)
Tredding softly to keep our feet dry (tears of the fallen drop to the sky.)

Changing: our reflections.
Taking: the verbal claws.
Tracing: our differences.
Facing: our very flaws.

Blossoming; yung minds are changed (but only after the strong turn the page.)
Trust in the young souls is no longer feigned (letters from the past- the future is saved.)

Do we dare, do we dare,
to disturb
the universe?
Do we dare, (do we?)
to disturb the universe?

Low Visibility

Worlds, barely visible
upon lains of snow, drifting;
frozen and mastered, by temperature,
conducive of the cold; winded.

Knew the view would be askew
but this tower, toppling, is unexpected.
The response to power so
unchallenged and relentless.

(Contrast)

Breathless!

Air from our lungs
was taken without cause;
for some: there is no such thing
as taking away.

(Chalk) Writings on the Wall

So many miles beaten into the ground
by old leather soles that stand as stone.
So many choices left so far behind;
brought along as new voices to pass the time.

He cannot choose this, and it picks up again.
Right where it left off, soon to change options.

He revelates his task before him,
he elevates the very goal.
He eleviates the burden of failure,
he lightens the pressure; unfolds.

Busted and beaten, the struggle ensues.
He begins again.

Sideways Eights and Spiralled Straights

red eyes are yellow, and blue eyes are violet
open your shallow, newly formed eyelids.
distress is meager, and arkess is your world;
young and so eager: your mind as it unfurls.

petals of flwers, a rainbow in blossom.
it has an attraction; takes your eyes just to cross them.
returns to your memory, to your pas recollectioin:
an amazing wealth of empathy towards any colorful impression.

color and greyscale have been at war
for rights of your vision, your memory;
a newborn to this world so frighening-barely, yu balance te exten of your pain.
it's no longer your struggle
to be tough enough not be toppled.

open you deepened sockets, your eyelids:
you've grown, dear child- do not deny it.
to deny the startling spiral of color that compromise and compirse the orb that you stand on is to deny what makes you human: acceptane of beauty; and th ignorace of the amazing.
so embrace the wheels of color.
red, blue and green: make up what you see.
accept the impossible; embrace the unbelievable.

sideways eights and spiralling straights:
it goes on and goes on; get down to the indivisible.

sideways eights and spiralling straights:
it goes on and on; get down to the very minimal
units of  measure that cannot be measured.

distinction of light and absence thereof, and everything between.
deny the serousness of things grey and serene.

open your colors, your powers;
use them to paint a new world.
open your colors, with honor;
paint the flower petals as they unfurl.

Arming the Bomb

Wakeful, but martyred by silence. Decisions
made to leave behind this
atrophy, restrained the urge
to open up the mouth, to let the throughts out.

Cheated out of the goal that set
precedent, before all of the bowed heads.
To emulate the concern of the masses
is to conversate; to set aside our masks and
try.

Sweat rolls down
the palms: like rain
on the window.

Papers shuffled, feet scuffled,
used to the useless minds: dishovelled.
Pray for pensiveness, pray for the truth again.
Pray for weapons if you pray to be home again.

Um, I Think We're Gonna Need some Windex.

Give in
to show the
wisdom beneath the...
words we scream, the words we breathe;
no conscience is conscious enough to part the seas.

The answers, the questions:
all fall prey to
exuses, we alter
realities that we
barely even know.

Piles of glass
of houses once smashed
by stones...
that we threw first.

The styles of pasts
that we have let pass.
Let us sweep up...
our broken homes.

In This Here and Now: Part 2 (10/19/09)

This is the too be continued of my first blog post, I think... haven't really done a whole lot of deep thinking lately. Now I'm gettng back in the habit of doing it a little more regularly.

Drinking some warm tea, waiting for yet another class to begin on this somewhat pleasant Monday. The sun is out, and that affects people's moods directly; and, as a result, most people appear to be in a good mood. I am one of those.

Life is just way too good right now to be anything but content. A beautiful women that I care about and who cares about me, a steady income (although that income is meager...) and great friends. A band in the works. Great music to listen to during all walks of life. Hilarity in all aspects of the word. And that elusive creature that is happiness...which is really just being more comfortable and accepting of the sources of depression that are in everybody's lives. I heard this in a movie...or maybe it was a book I read it in... the whole idea that "being more comfortable/accepting of your depressors," is what happiness actually translates as.

I saw/heard (I really wish I could remember better...) this and instantly agreed with it. And since then I haven't felt down at all about life, other than being brokeskies; which happens.

Things to remember:
Stay positive.
Stay on task.
This all means something later on...right?
Keep an open mind.
Yearn for peace.

Crash After Crash

The road to hell is
paved with conscious
decisions held up
to the motives;
and with each step
made towards the fate:
they lie to fill spaces
because the truth
is not worth the time.

Pull aside
the curtains
and watch the
shadows fall...down.
They'll find
for certain
that the wise
are no longer...around.

Bridges have burned,
time has reset:
the past is in ink,
and it is permanent.
Bridges have sunk
into the river, and flown
downstream into the sea,
where they are lost,
among other things.

Choose your words wisely,
and keep an eye out
for the langoliers of memory, dear:
they tend to cut right out...
parts of lives that have seen the sun,
the memories you go back to, but
when they come, the day then fades
while the shadows crawl across the pavement,
and the grass, so tall and lean, like
upright, miniature trees that we walk on;
oblivious as any fish
to the existence of man, walking upon the ship deck.

The tide is strong, the waves are fierce,
the ship is in transit, and the crew is in fear:
the storm has swept in, and the cargo aboard
does not float, and will not make it to shore
lest the prevailing winds die down in some fright;
lest the rain is kept inside the clouds on this night:
memories, all memories, down in the hull,
barely recognizable after this translantic haul.

Wheel by wheel, hour by hour, the memories return,
to the beginning, but soured;
like lemons left out beneath the blazing sun
for far too long,
for the shade bid farewell,
and from the skin of the lemon it was shunned.

Now know the surface, and know the past,
use your fingers to grasp and to trace the laughs;
trace the tears, and trace the strain;
there is no such thing as progress in less there is pain.
Now hold strong, hold fast, hold steady,
the ship is pulling into the dock already,
but the speed is too fast, the waves were too strong,
the motor was too small to take all of that water on.
The wooden planks crash, but the jetty stands firm
and does not lose mass, because, like us, it doesn't learn:

crash after crash, bitter but still stone,
it stands fast, and it stands alone.

Once precious cargo, without a glance,
cast into the shadows, barring any chance
it had to regain the hold
it was once capable of having upon the soul.

Crash after crash and as strong as stone:
we stand fast, but we are not alone.

Redemption Song.

With each leaden step, with each cage of steel:
we hold our hearts in our chests, we receive bitter meals.
But, even with the anger swelling, and the past forthcoming right:
we must not allow the red to overcome our thinking or our sight,
see- for every fabled love song thought not to be true:
there is a core to every myth, one as false as the sky is blue.
And for every valued second, for every memory loved,
there is a virtue in the conviction that God lives up above;
and the stars are simply painted on the dark sky-canvas, black;
as if the devil made something beautiful while God had turned His back.
Like chips of ice made especially to meet our eyes,
or the flames Prometheus shared with us, but dyed a brilliant white.

Now, see, there are truthes and there are stories,
and which is which is for one to decide,
but if there's any indication of both existing within the same core:
it's how people hearing such things should react when a character dies.
The reaction is not always the same,
some will cry, but some will only blame.
Would you protest, or only deny the deep-seeded feelings?
I for one would question: why must anyone die for innocence?

There are allegories and morality stories and movies and books made by the minute
that point to God being an actual, truthful, omniscient sort of being;
but if this were true, tell me: where is his voice?

What happened to the bush that was burning?
What happened to the shepherd who was herding?
What happened to enforcing what was etched in stone?
I've strayed in my beliefs and judgments; and I have changed as I have grown.
I've grown for the better.
I still believe in the unimaginable, the limitless, the infinite, and invincible potential; in our opportunity.
I cannot be the only one that sees beyond politics, religion, and race;
this life should be about cooperating, not making the small things a giant fucking debate.
Let's show them what we think, let's celebrate our differences:
if it's not enough, we won't give up; we'll keep on with this.
Our train, our engine, our drive- so true;
what was once innocent and hopeful, what used to stand for red, white, and blue.

Now open your arms, and open your eyes,
set down your weapons, and put differences aside;
reach out and take the hands of the world:
of each man, woman, and child;
every little boy and girl.
Be sure that they are safe and sound,
that their hearts have yet to rest.
Because the most beautiful things on this planet
will come from inside their chests...
and our own.

We sing our songs-
of redemption, of forgiveness, of sorrow and of pain;
we forgive our words, we find the sun despite all the storm clouds and rain;
we have yet to falter, our generation, so proud to stand tall and so true.
We are the lovers, the fighters,
the soul of this nation:
beaten black and blue.

This is our song,
our redemption song;
we sing it loud and we sing it proud:
please, oh please, put your weapons down!
This is our praise,
our forgiving praise;
we sing it loud and we sing it together:
please, oh please, hope lives forever.
This is our hope.
This is our everlasting hope:
we wear it now, and we wear it proud;
please, dear God, please:
don't let it falter now!

A Plague of Locusts (And The Door Won't Close)

One of them stirs, and the rest then take flight.
A difference of words: and the world is candle light.

If one is for all, then all is for none!
Common enemies will move ahead.
If one is for all, then all must move on!
The countryside has seen its last sunset.

Ripple effect.
They're going, spreading outwards.
Gathering force.
Nothing can stop them from...
becoming...

a horde! a plague!
write your words down to uphold your sway!
a horde! a fake!
withering leaves will not stop all your teeth.

Pair of Dimes Paradigm

Walking to run- a paradigm
of progress. We run
before we walk, sometimes.
I'll slow my speed
to mark what I pass;
to gather up leaves:
a new sight for sore eyes,
oh, open at last.

I won't blink, then,
for days and days:
a newborn man-
had lost his way.
How do I love?
Let me count the ways.
What was once lost
is now found and safe.

Globes in the Graveyards

Bandaged wounds bleed, though out of sight.
A dying lung breathes: despite all its plights.
And just like the rain: we'll soften the ground.
With our marching refrain; with our voices unbound.

Shadows will fall as the sun sets,
the chips will then fall upon the hedge bets.
Roads are not...roads are not...
concrete! Concrete!
-our roads are of bones!-
Defeat! Defeat!-
we cower in homes;
oh, we cower alone.

Grand Theft Arson

Recognize-
that we are not on track;
see the lies-
for what they stand for.
The straws that are breaking our backs.
The garbage...washing up on our once-clean shores.
Pulling the weight for those who lack
the will to try for themselves anymore.
For those who take... and never give back:
we're wising up- we're onto your plans.

Fires left burning by moonlight,
left burning for others to find and put out.
Fires left burning by oversight:
grand theft arson- noone to be found.

Why?
Because we didn't know anything else.
Lies-
used to get what you needed, for yourself.
Why?
Because you must not know anything else.
Lie-
one more time; we're used to it. It sells.

Sunsets Before Breakfast

Give me a name
so I may wear it upon my sleeve.
Show me the cure
so that I can glimpse what I
can't
have.
What I want to have.

Solemnity
a gift in ignorance;
I know how this works,
and I'm not falling for it again.
Sobriety,
an awakening by choice.
I lift up my words,
I become a choir with one voice:

Hear us now,
hear us, we beg:
the sun will go down
but we'll still live for today.

Follow to Fail

Follow to fail. We are children: where is our mohter? Where is our home?

Reading the book the author has wrote;
pen left on ice- the soul wanders, broke.

Leading to try, we are able to soar.
Hopeless as whales, we yearn for the shore.

The Best We Can Do

What is there to call safe and sound? To call home? Familiar? Any place able to be labelled as 'found'?

Who am I save for bones and skin? An attemptee? A failure? A 'once-was' kid?

Shine all the light in the world upon questions, and see for yoruself that there are no answers. No satisfaction, we'll be alarmed but not surprised.

Shine all the light on this earth, should you ever get a chance to, upon the night sky; for hope of catching a reflection from God's very eye.

And hallow as the ground may be that we tred; I feel no thing partial to the soil; I do not deny my broken bread.

I sustain my body. I do as seen fit.

We all do the same. We all paint the same pictures; sad tales of loss and of then finding our way; tales that lead to gain, lead a tired soul to exclaim: "Dear God, I am happy!" in those brief moments in our lives (Dear God, I'm not happy.), only to be rained upon in short time.

But the best we can do is take the good and the bad like the sun takes the rain: and make something beautiful.

Leaders to Liars

It started with a flash
that quickly turned to smoke;
reminiscent of the past
and all the lies that you spoke.

Coax the herd;
poison the feed.
Sell the cure;
harvest the need.

A cook and a vial,
a need and a choice;
poured in the poison
and took away their voice.

Shepherd the weak;
poison the wells.
Make them all drink
until the fix sells.

Secondhand Bullets

Don't be afraid to die,

by seconds, instead of bullets.
Throughout all of time,
we rewrite these vital moments.

Days and nights well-spent
negate all the time wasted;
like dirt smothers fires;
like truth coming from liars.

We built walls to protect!
We grow up to lose
all that we have to give!

We built walls to protect,
now rubble is all that is left.

In this Here and Now

Change often comes in many forms, and often these forms do not wait in line for one another to take place, or have a specific order in which they come; almost always, these changes set themselves upon the soul and alter it in ways that we not only need, but in ways I feel like most of us want in one way or another.

Take a snapshot of yourself in your mind. A picture of how you imagine yourself. What kind of person are you? What kind of person do you want to be? The wanting to change is what I'm talking about. Some people are able to change on the spot, with nothing more than shear force of will for a catalyst in the process, and they come out on the other side as better people; at least to their own eyes.

Some people are incapable of willingly changing, at least on the conscious level. I think I'm one of those. For starters, I'm using myself as an example for my own point that I'm trying to make...what does this say about me? That I'm often very self-involved, and, consequently, seem like a self-centered person in most lights. That's pretty much the truth; or at least it was. I changed, though...not by a shear force of will, but over period of time in which pressure was applied mentally, physically, and, specifically, emotionally.

That pressure, over time, began to alter the landscape of my personality: instead of caves and valleys, mountains began to rear their summits towards my inner-skies, which, in turn, were clearing up like an aged face will clear itself of acne. Rivers were running, and thought-fish, (what better way to explain a thought than through a fish?), were now in abundance.

It was a dramatic change.

It was not facilitated by me.

So that begs the question: who, or what, changed me?
God?
This could be argued, being that the change was generally for the good.
But I am more partial to this explanation: my subconscious changed my conscious mind for the better.
One can argue against the existence of a subconscious; could even argue that it is simply the workings of sociological theories on one's mind; such as this: perhaps over time, my mind picked up enough bits-and-pieces on how to apply several minute changes, over a period of one year, from television, radio, the internet, and other people as a whole.

Sure.
One could argue that.

But, really, who ever thinks of what they absorb on a conscious level?
Ask anyone. Take a poll. Make a survey and distribute it.
The answer will almost certainly be the same: nobody, (or at least something very close to nobody), does.

In this here and now, in this very moment, I have come to the realization that life is a series of circles; a series of cyclic pathes worn down to dirt in the fields of our minds; old roads that we make for ourselves over and over again, throughout our short-term lives. The vital question is this: will I break from the routine and run a straight route, fresh and unknown, to wherever?

Well, that's food for thought until the sequel is written, I suppose.

Things to remember:
Postitive Mental Attitude.
Nineteen is an addicting number (look for it, I dare you.)
Stories don't tell themselves.
The key to any one's heart lies in the power of art.

Sincerely yours'-
Miles