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]