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.

Where Have You Been?

You've been gone for so long.
Crucified by the persecutors of truth.
Convictions held for granted.
Superstition is in high demand.

Coming in too fast, overshot the runway; taken to heart, now-
the futility of reason.
Solid-state compromisation.
Belief beyond doubt- illogic prevails.
(Sanity cannot coexist with the snow.)

Warmth from the solace of spring, the gentle embrace of the breeze;
the sun and the clouds create a kaleidoscopic painting...for our eys to view.
Strings emblazened by the outward force (the rebirth of the trees).
Bells ringing in a joyful chorus (the resurrection of green).
Ears- basking in the heartfelt eulogy: in memory of winters long past, and just past;
barely survived, we barely survived.
Winter dies just in time.
(We our reminded in the knick of time.)

You've been gone for so long, crucified by the persecuting ice;
the lack of valor in truth.
You've been gone for so long, hiding underneath the sheets of frost and ice,
hidden from our view.

Strings ring in harmony.
(We are in harmony)
Dissonance is nowhere to be found.
(As the wind blows)
Smiles fade like waves at sea.
(In our sails: fully opened)
The sounds dissipate like the rains.
(We'll need both hands on the reigns)

Nature's Binary.

Rain wears on the nerves.
It fries the synapses with dull, repetitious vulgarity.
Normalcy erodes the soul.
No nuance to be found in the binary of the world.

Messages encoded between the water falling from the clouds.
Cleansing the dirt from the metal and pavement, while feet hurry their way along without notice.

No composure to be seen.
Avoidance of style noted, all the while the refuge is being dissolved.
The hope of all to be shared is transgressed in the meeting of two hands.
A home rebuilt upon a wealth greater than time's sands.

Take back what's rightfully ours.
Take back what belongs to our hearts.
Take back all words that are lies.
Comprise the future on love and truth combined. 

Thoughts on Belief (March 27th, 2010)

Where has thinking gotten us?
The greatest colaborations in history have been to destroy history itself.
It has gotten us back to square one: afraid of the dark and afraid of each other.
Thinking has gotten us nothing.
The cycle is repeating, a tedious one to say the least, where rationality takes a back seat to what people believe.
Beliefs are terrifying.
Beliefs are fraudulant checks, cashed in the name of an imaginary person.
But...
in a word of checks and balances: rational thought checks beliefs.
While beliefs are important in maintaining a socially appropriate level of composure, they are not a solid basis for which to comprise an entire lifestyle.
Even Christians lie, cheat and steal.
It takes a balance of belief and thought; rationality and the enormous realization that we are small, we are alone, and we are all we've got; we know nothing of anything except what has been handed to us.
Then again...
it is admirable that anyone can completely lay all of their thoughts, emotions, and gut feelings towards one set of beliefs.
It's like being able to stand in front of an oncoming semi-truck without flinching.
There are those who exist that do questions beliefs and have beliefs of their own.
These belong to the greatest intellectual generation to hit the planet in over three thousand years.
To be discretionarily proper, though, I must admit that I've often faltered with faith (belief).
But I know find myself in a comfortable stance on the entire subject of faith and religion.
It's a social comfort.
It keeps societies from warring with themselves.
War within our own country's boarders just isn't the thing God would want...
but we've seen it before.

"Beliefs are dangerous," a man once said.
I concur to the fullest extent.
Beliefs give grounds for bad people to do bad things through self-justification.
It isn't just a matter of principle- it's a matter of justice.
How can their be justice when our systems are based almost entirely in "the name of God" ?

Questions cannot hurt anyone.
Implications, though, can.
The implications of my thoughts, questions, and personal feelings may not be in any way, shape, or form a justifiable reason for my confidance in the general sense.
But I believe I am justified to make the afformentioned proclamatios, statements (both interrogative and general) on the grounds of having the capabilities to produce such thoughts, feelngs, emotions and beliefs.

Which brings up the question: if we can believe it, conceive it, and need it- why can we not say it exists?
This could be applied to God.
To space and time.
To gravity.
To words.
To love.
To anything we cannot see, but generally agree upon its existing.

Just trying to think outside my particular set of boxes for a change.
More to come in the future.

A Year's Nearly Come.

These days, I look both ways before I step onto the street;
but before now, I'd taken blind steps:
on the off chance that I'd find some relief.
But my shoes have grown tiny wings, and have kept my feet
safe and dry, off of the ground.
So when it rains, I confess, my dear friends: that upon my feet
not a drop of water is to be found.
For the sake of what's late, and the punctuality of such keenness-
I've come to terms with the sickness that I'd caught.
And, just in time, just before the final stages-
I found the cure that I'd always sought.
Like the fabled scene, from that movie,
where vinegar helps the pain,
and water makes it even worse.
There was a chemical burn,
not so soothing,
a hurt like a curse.
But the comfort to be found
in the arms of another who genuinely cares,
is better than any relief I could have dreamed of,
and its ours, only ours, and it can never be theirs'.
Pray tell, my mind fell short, all that time ago;
but it grew wings, and flew forth
to safety: below the thermals that destroy fragile wings.
A year's nearly come since the clarity of your voice stilled the beating of my heart.
A year's nearly come since I've been saved by your hope, your steeled determination to press on.
A year's nearly come to remind us just how real all of this is.
A year's nearly come to keep us humbled in the company of our peers.

Oh, how lucky I am, how lucky we are- something so strong and pure;
we'll surely go far.
Oh, how lucky we are, how lucky we've been to avoid pitfalls that drag others just like us in.
Oh, how lucky we are. How gracefully we stride. How faithful we are, not concerning ourselves with the sin of pride.

A year's nearly come, and I'm counting each day as a blessing;
and counting all of the ways
I've come to love you these past months and days.

You are my wings.

Who Needs Anything Else?

With friends like these, who needs anything
other than their company?
Other than them to stay?
With friends like these, one can go a long way.

I love you because I knew I would;
and that I could: because from bad things
often comes the greatest good.

We share a common goal, to create things that inspire.
Without being too overbearing, we've set out with high hopes
and wind in our sails.
Pray tell, we'll see if we prevail,
despite windows being of glass- so frail.

With friends like these, who needs anything else
other than the company they bring,
than the hopes they sing of,
than the music they play?
Other than the words they speak,
and the laughter they bring each day?

With friends like these, who needs anything else?

Walk a Mile Without Shoes At All.

Before you set foot beyond that doorway,
before you say your path is hardest without a doubt,
you have to wear another's shoes without prejudice.
You have to walk a mile without shoes at all.

Say you've given it all a listen.
Say you'll try a thousand times harder on the next go around.

Before you set foot on your own way,
before you say your feet hurt more than anyone else,
you have to wear another's shoes without practice.
You have to walk a mile without...

Say you've heard it all before.
Say you'll try your best just to fail us all once more.

Before you go anywhere- listen.
Before you say another word- think.
You have no idea all that you've missed when
you say you're the only one
who wanders the desert without
a single drop to drink.

Say you've heard this one before.
Say you'll try your best just to fail the world again.
Say you've heard this all before.
We all know what will happen
when you say you'll try again.

Fire with Fire (Resurface).

There's still so much to hope for.
There's still so much to see.
We live and we die for
what we've yet to see.

There's still so much to hope for.
There's still so much to know.
We live...and we die
like the leaves before the snow.

Take cover beneath the city.
Reach for shafts of light- from the surface.
Recover from darkness; dilemma-
fires cannot be put out from a distance.

There's still so much to see,
there's still so much to see;
so much air to breathe.

There's still so much to see,
so much to set free;
to take in sight
like a draught of water
in the desert moonlight.

Be thirsty no more.
Take one last chance
and fight fire with fire:
and kiss hope goodnight.

Lost Friends and Old Jokes (It's On You).

I'd love to see you go, and I'd love to watch you leave.
Hope and trust are like keys-
their presence sets the heart at ease.
And in dying there is comfort
in knowing that pain cannot
follow you through
to the other side of the coffin.
To put its hands on you.
Innocent until proven guilty.
Knives still set in backs.
Never has a chest been so empty.
Never has their been less respect.

I'll rejoice in your leaving,
and in waving you goodbye.
It's that time of season for blooming,
and for rain to mask your lies.

It's perfect weather for thievery,
with an atmosphere of leaving;
put one foot in front of the other
and stop dealing out your brand of giving.

I'd love to see you go,
and I'd love to watch you leave.
Leave behind a note,
if it makes you feel anything.

In passion there's a discourse
that takes place, which you've denied.
Always staying directly on your course;
always moving on your own time.

Make the world a better place and just move on from here.
Nobody needs your presence in this place anymore than they need to feel fear.
So put one foot in front of the other,
and keep walking until it's done-
this segment of three brothers
is ready to watch the others...
finally move on.

Equivocation and Eternal Sunshine

Overcast and sunshine
each at thes ame time;
paradox of living
all the while dying.
Fair is foul and foul is fair,
a still day; breeze in your hair;
a masked, naked face;
a smile, slowly, being replaced.

(oh, oh-wuh-oh-eh-oh-uh-woh-oh-oh) x4

Hands yearning to pull (push)
you up (over) from the edge.
Heart beating wildly (falling still)
as the Earth continues freely (without me)
our bodies are not vital (we move the worlds)
to the order (with our hearts)
of the universe (with our minds)
our words mean nothing (everything)
they cannot change things (they can fix us)
for the better- we're staying broken (for our health, we can heal.)

We can heal
We can die
We can feel
We can try
The very depth, and width of emotions
is a pardox: why feel when most bury themselves with
money.
power.
drugs.
the hours:
running...
down the drain.
(we can heal, we can die, we can feel)
We are alive (we can try)

Free

Above and beyond all reasonable doubts,
held fast and kept on, two hearts beat without
lack of motive; faith holds true and firm.
Justly devoted to a soul that seems to stand by her word.

Bring me evidence, because I've never been tricked before;
bring me conscience: clean, elementally pure.

Snake in the grass, avoiding fires I've set
to smoke the serpent out beyond a shadow of a doubt;
a lingering motive; can faith stand true and firm?
Still devoted to a soul; hanging on her every word.

Webs of lies, spindling like drapes over windows and doors, softening the corners of shapes.
What is this but a fog, shrouding reality in a mist?
I didn't think I'd ever get through it.

You pull me out, beyond all reasonable doubt,
you cast it out: the snake, thrown into the river to drown;
you put stop to fears: like cankers on my soul-
if this lasts for years: it won't ever be long enough.

And like the sun, you burn away the fog
so that I may see the trails that I've walked,
and what lays behind is desecration-
what lies in front is a true foundation:
to build a life on, to build a home upon.
To keep confidence stored
within my confidant.

You saved me.
Believe me.
Pulled the fangs from my body,
washed the wounds and stayed with me.
You set me free.

Prism.

A gray sky keeps solace at bay;
keeps a peaceful soul from comfort.

The blue sky, in memory, brings a smile;
keeps happiness on a short leash.

A smoke-riddled horizon fills the heart with fear.
A tree-filled horizon brings memories, so clear.

A different view from a different world:
a different pair of shoes to fill.

Preach, jest, and command so many things
of those who know no better,
and to those who do not care at all,
without acting in the way of the words being said.
Acting just as selfish as anyone else,
just as useless as anyone else.

A poor soul, pouring time down
a dark hole, watching it run all the way down.

A gray sky calls the kettle black,
pushes the mind over the edge
with no hope of coming back.

A blue sky calls the kettle clear,
pulls the mind back to safety,
whispering, "There is nothing to fear."

A world torn apart by nature;
a world torn apart by nurture.

We are the latter of the two creatures.
A world full of consumers.

Why bat an eyelash when there is something to buy?
Something to save up for?
A job to go to?

Why pay attention when its hard to afford survival?
Hard to believe the Bible?
Hard to keep the eyes closed?

Why give up what is yours when its the fittest fighting for survival?
When the money stays in your homes?
When you steal from those who rebel?

Why give optimism when your world is just a prison?
Just a routine of wakefulness and sleeping?
Just a solid life of taking?

A world torn apart by nature;
a world torn apart by structure:
worlds torn apart by disasters.

The Shepherd.

Some would just as soon eat their young
than cry wolf out loud,
rather than asking for help with some
problem they can't face.
Without
a little help, a little hope.
A pocket full of pills,
or a tightly-noosed rope.
Others would cry wolf before trouble even arrives.
Before the culprit commits the crime.
To make haste of the imperative,
to lay waste to the incentive.

Why cry 'wolf!' when you are the wolf?
You'd just as soon kill your own
than let your weakness be known.

Why scream 'run!', when you are the sheep?
A tattered fluff of white on the hillside by moonlight.

How could you know any better?
How could you know any better...
when you were never taught a different way,
when the sights you'd seen were the same you've seen today?
The same old scene, as old as tales can be;
an enduring tale received through tradition;
a classic tragedy.
Around the fire, you would learn of the wolf:
feared in the night, but banished in the light,
as if you were unable to be harmed;
and slowly, you become the sheep, going along to get along,
unaware of the real dangers in your life,
of the reality of the wolf's charms.

Its smile invites you.
Its tail hypnotizes you.
Its eyes enthrall you.
Its mind entraps you.
(Oh, what big teeth you have!)

But don't give in, despite the misinformation: you are strong;
don't let the words in your head, echoing, tell you any wrong-
because the truth is: every heart has a power of its own,
unable to be tapped into by outside forces joined together or risked alone.

Don't give into the arid, hazel-green light
reflecting from the eyes of the wolf
as the sun begins to give you sight through daylight,
don't let it talk you into its mouth;
and if it should wraps its jaws around you: struggle until you get out.

You're not the prey, but the hunted:
there is a difference.
The prey are caught; captured;
the hunted: are only chased after.
You may feel the teeth abrading the surface of your skin:
but be thankful, at least, that you can feel, and that the wolf cannot win.



You are not the sheep, but the Shepherd,
a voice going mostly unheard,
and the Shepherd watches all, and watches with great interest;
aware that the strength in mortal beings is worth the tactful distance.

Keep In Mind.

It's almost like sleep has no meaning, it loses its grip on me and leaves me seeing
the light of the world altered by night, as the moon rises high above me tonight.
I'll ask the trees if they ever miss their leaves, if they feel any need to know the concept of greed
beneath the sky turned from the brightest blue into a lamp-black canvas.

The whispering sigh of the wind rushing by, pushing drifts of snow through the streets,
keeps me hopeful when the sun's rising looks millenia away.
And the barren trees still speak to me, despite the lack of leaves: they still sway.
The wind is their voice, and in that wind I hear a fragile voice say:

"If you're terrified of what's to come, because you cannot see around the bends:
keep in mind you're not alone, and at the very least you have someone to hold your hands.
If you're worried that the world won't slow, or you won't be fast enough,
for you to get to where you need to go: keep a level head and keep your chin up.
There's no need to worry about those things over which you have no control;
it happens to everybody: getting overwhelmed, getting sick, getting old.

Keep in mind you are not alone."

Mountains and Bridges, Shaman and Witches

Together: mountains are mole hills;
apart: our tears are like oceans.
Bridging gaps without haste.
Tight-rope bridges being replaced.

Nails are loose, struggle is strong.
Nevertheless, we carry on.
Rivets and iron do hold
more tightly than we could have known.

Witches and curses, shaman with voodoo,
consequences adhered to by youth;
supersition without admisson.

Talk of betrayal best left behind.

Trust thrown away!
(Through their admission!)
Lies make them famous!
(Through their admission!)
A moment of weakness!
(A thoughtless condition!)
*Through their admission!*

Snapshot.

The sun sets and lights the skyline like a torch,
a moment seen over a thousand times before,
and yet it stops me dead, as if it were the first time.

The artist me is struggling to come out,
but all it ever sees is beauty where there is doubt.
Where shadow trumps light, it feeds from the image;
an apt oversight, where ignorance becomes priviledge.

The scientist in me is in the same boat,
but instead of seeing beauty, it tries to rationalize love.
Where the water reaches the shore, where sand touches
the grass, the pebbles and rocks: it screams
'These things have come from the past!'
And beyond all it sees, lies emptiness,
so much for depth;
a stillness behind the playhouse curtain,
atuned to the rational, useless- not adept.

The child in me cries for comfort from cold,
and when the world starts to breathe:
it takes shelter in its hole.

The self cannot judge itself without harshness,
a blind discomfort to all that is contained within the conscious.
"Let's talk you!" "No! Let's talk me!"
A supple young shyness
overcast by the slyness
that all may yet hold,
we're all bows without arrows
until someone comes near,
and threatens our dear hold on ourselves:
what if we lose ourself in another?
Does that make us a weapon
for one brother to kill another?

Bows turned to arrows;
sticks turned to knives;
coals turned to fire;
curiosity turned to lies:
we're all capable of evolving-
evidence has been found-
but this does not me we have to
continue to break the very ground
with our hammers and chisels;
drills and shovel heads.
Some of us are victims, others are culprits;
some of us are living, while others are dead.

American Nomad.

From A to B we take flight,
daring ourselves to live life.
Pencils down, the test is through.
The basics of comfort are lost to you.

Home is a box between the streets,
a narrow place where the buildings meet.
Test was failed, the trap's been set.
Money and power far above your head.

Work/ every/ single/
day of your life,
just to find
a scrap here and there,
a meager shelter to share.
Work/ every/ single/
day of your life,
just to find
another cross to bear,
a little comfort;
two hands making a pair.

When winter comes,
a fire is all you can ask for.
When summer shines
its burning sun upon you:
all you can ask for
is a bottle of water,
or rain to cool the skin,
until autumn blows
its sallow, germ-ridden wind.

And pray for spring!
Where frost starts to melt,
the flowers are a shelf
for hope to lay its weight down!
Where bees start to buzz!
Where trees start to bud!
Where life can be loved!

Hold on tight,
don't be weighed down by the winter snow's weight,
don't be blown over by the winds of autumn,
don't be burned up by the suns of summer.
Hold fast until spring
and the renewal it brings.