It's weird. . .

The way humans shame those who can and do feel more deeply than them,

For having a more intensely experienced reality,

Just because they can't see it, hear it, feel it, then it must be

That we are just over-dramatic, that we are "making it up" . . .

Right?

But really, who's fault is it that you're still dead inside?

Is this life all a fallacy,
People playing make belief,
Stuck in
dillusional false releif.
Lying to themselves,
Saying, "This is my reality,
Do not tell me anything
Of insanity
And intrude on my normality."
A lethal self-imposed ignorance,
Moving,
Tearing through life
Destroying themselves
and everything they come across.
Is this life just a fallacy,
As I watch them
playing make belief,
Falling in love with vanity.
All so superficial,
Shallow,
meaningless,
Full of poisoning emptiness.
Taking loves purity,
Making one belief
It is just a cruel thing.
But true love will conquer,
Shinning brighter than
a million galaxies.
Bringing Light
To this empty
Consuming
Emotionless
World.

break the poem
open like a pomegranate

spill the seeds
squeeze the juice
and
**** the flesh

when we were kids
we played in
mother's garden:
carrots, strawberries,
rhubarb, tomatoes,
plums, raspberries,
cucumbers, pumpkins,
green beans, watermelon,
onions, potatoes
and
a goldfish named Pierre

he died after
my parents
cleaned his tank
and didn't rinse
it properly

done in by soap--
life can be such a
fragile thing sometimes

we buried him
in the garden
and marked his
grave with a
smooth river stone

one summer
we picked a great
big watermelon
from its dirt nap;
heavy as a bowling
ball and green
as a cat's eye

we heaved it onto
the picnic table
and carved it into
smaller
and smaller wedges
until each one
of us was holding
our very own
chunk of melon

everyone dug in
after admiring their
piece for a moment;
eating it with
their eyes
before their
mouths

but as I went
to bite into mine
I noticed a seed
in the way

so I peeled
at it to free it
and as I fingered
the dripping flesh
of the fruit
the 'seed' revealed
itself to be
not a seed at all

but the eye
of a goldfish
staring back at me
lodged in the melon
in its death throws
gasping for
breath in the
open air

its mouth opening
and closing like
it had a secret
to tell

I stood there
in stupefaction
when suddenly
it slipped free of
its womb
and landed in the grass
behind me

but when I
turned around
to retrieve it
I couldn't find it

there was no goldfish
anywhere in that yard
I checked under
my feet
under the picnic table--
under other people's
feet--nothing

"what are you
looking for?" someone
asked

"nothing," I said,
because who
would've believed it
anyway?--I'm not
even sure if I did--
"just thought I dropped
something."

I stood back up
feeling different
about the world--
like the mystery
ran deeper than any
of us realize--
looked at
my hunk of fruit
and discovered
I wasn't hungry
anymore

so I put
it down on
the picnic table
and walked over
to Pierre's grave

there, underneath
that river stone,
was a watermelon seed
just beginning to
sprout

I smiled in
bewilderment
and gently covered
it with fresh soil
moving the stone
a few centimeters
off the sprouting seed

'Pierre, the watermelon
fish,' I thought--
wiping the dirt
from my hands--

'I wonder what
death has in store
for me?'

I must know the ocean
With every breath I breathe
Not just tender sunsets
But the roaring seas
I must go so deep
Almost scared to find what I need
All those mighty waves
Crashing over me

It’s not enough
To sit on my balcony
If I know I could travel where
The ocean is all I see
I’ll leave the land I came from
To follow where she leads
‘cos she met my every question
And that cry for destiny

You wouldn’t call me a fool
If you’d seen what I see
When I look at the ocean
I know she’s there for me
Her steady, constant waves
Never cease to instruct me
As she leads, I will follow
All the way to the deep