We are always trying to become equal
what makes it so special?
That is unique to human nature
to idealize and to hope
And yet,
life isn't fair.
And nature doesn't pretend otherwise
Neither should we.
The lion doesn't starve
to protect the endangered zebra.
No matter how much we fight nature,
We can’t control it.

My poems idealize your tongue on my tongue
your breath in mine,
these verses will romanticize how we skipped from street to street
our arms swinging between your left hip and my right
like I did not think about how my parents
never doubled their strength to pull me up above ground as
we walked through parking lots. I
needed to fly and no adult could let me but you.
The sudden hurt, I have not yet dramatized that morning
you returned my voicemail unsuspecting
unknowing my intention to whisper I hate you I hate you I hate you.
Every bone in my body had broken because we could not
levitate any longer: you were not even strong
enough to keep yourself grounded. I make you sound beautiful
I make you sound ugly, but neither is real, just as
how there are no words for the New Year ball dropping.

These are all just bad beginnings
in my search for a show-stopper,
a jaw-dropper,
trying to be just the right balance
of sarcastic and lovely,
the right balance of writer
that I idealize and am not,
of course,
what am I, a narcissist?

I'm trying to put into words
the feelings I told you I danced
because they are wordless (spaceful)
and because of you
I have to say them with voice;
what a dilemma is this--

That when I tell you with movement
what I can't say
you put me in the place
of having to voice it and now
I have no words
other than bad beginnings.

So is that it?
When I word to you
instead of dance for you (for me?)
what you have to return is a nothing,
a less-than-nothing saying,
saying nothing, leaving me

hurt and confused because
maybe there was a something
in all your nothing that I can't find--
because we are dealing in words now,
and I'm a movement reader.

And I know I will forgive you for this
but I won't forgive me for knowing that.

Even while I'm still so angry, it just reveals
my pathetic (patient?) desperation for your love,

But I didn't say this right.
I need to move (dance) this.

I turn people into gods,
I'm upset when they have flaws.

From the womb we are taught to idealize the prospect of employment...and everything that comes after is done in attempt to attain a job
All the years of school...the pre-job jobs...the extra curricular activities that sparkle like a diamond among shattered glass or dreams on a CV
because employed is secure...
employed is safe...
employed is smart...
employed is successful
Your mom was hoping you would be an accountant like her but daddy thought you'd be a better scientist...so they made you do everything and by the time you realized that you didn't want to do any of those things...you had spread yourself so thin that the wind carried you in every direction and non of them was right...
That didn't really matter as long as you made enough to live in comfort...luxury is like the coin you find under your pillow in return for your fallen tooth...except instead of teeth it's your dreams that you have to trade in...
Because unemployed is unstable
Unemployed is without purpose
Unemployed is poor
Unemployed is a failure
So it doesn't really matter what you are...just as long as you're not unemployed.

I often idealize others, especially when I first meet them, and feel comfortable in sharing the most intimate details
with them. But I often feel that these same people don’t care enough and aren’t there enough for me.



© Copyright Tyler Atherton

I learnt to tie my shoes
I learnt to ride my bike
I learnt to smoke
I learnt the vulnerability of fully exposing an idea
I learnt to tie my shoes
I learnt to adapt my behavior in the light of others' actions.
I learnt the difficulty of sustaining the hopes of youth.

I remember a French girl with an English name.
'Leave me now, return tonight,' she told me every morning, and I did.

I remember an English girl with an French name.
We were the circle that no one could break, or so I thought.


Yesterday I was there.
Today I am here.
The two are light years apart.

I dance with a friend,
holding her hand realize,
how disconnected I have become,
from the simple beauty of touch.


I return and sense,
that things are not the same as before,
but feel had I stayed,
everything would likely seem the same.


Your words touch me.
Your thoughts excite me.
I want to try all that.
Explore everything with you.



Alone.
All one.


If and but and maybe and whatever.
I hate those words.


Everything doesn't have to be perfect.
To idealize is also a form of suffering.

                          
                                             ------ by Julian Hibbard



st...26 march 2014

Why is the concept of being forgotten so paralyzingly terrifying to me?
Before the expanse of time,
none of us stand a chance of being remembered.
We will be swallowed up,
only be known as a statistic, a point of reference.
The thoughts we think are paramount
Quail before the laughing face of Time.
God will remember me,
so why do I care about what those on earth think?
Why do I care what people think?
What kind of sick ******* are we that we derive pleasure from others' pain?
Schadenfreude is alive and well
Unlike you and I
Why don't I throw up my hands
And succumb to the ravages of an indifferent Time
And an indifferent society
Why not let them win
Who values a game which is purposely weighted to one side
If not those who have waged something dear upon the outcome
The Ender inside me rejects the faulty system.

Why do I persevere for a "humanity"
which will never improve
In fact,
the more we evolve and know and comprehend,
The more apt we are to be heartless
Because why do we need a heart when we have a brain, Tinman?

Why do we care what we look like
Our bodies are merely
borrowed from the earth
And in the blink of eternity's eye
what we call ours
will belong to another

Why do we live in a world overflowing with bodies
And entirely lacking with people

Why can we satisfy any part of ourselves
by draping on borrowed emotions
Why is the false more alluring than the truth?
Show me an honest person
And I will show you an attractive one.

I am not you
you are not me
And we will never be
The same
Despite the pervading effort of our society
I will not be assimilated.

If we let people in,
They wouldn't hate
So why are we terrified of doing that
Is it because,
If everyone is in,
No one is
And in ceases to exist?

Why do we feel the urge to gloat about things we did not earn

Why does 1
Make more money than 2
Because his nose is straighter,
His hair is curly rather than straight,
Because 1 spends an eighth of his time in the gym
While the less attractive 2 spends 7/8 of his time
Screaming inside
At a society which has cut off its own ears that it can't won't hear.

Why are random genes a judge of worth
While character is a word so overplayed
It folded its hand long ago

Why is the face of a beautiful liar
Infinitely preferable
To that of a plain truthteller
Infinite whys
And a world which whispers
     Cradle me with your honeyed lies
     Assurances of past lullabies
     How do I trust what the mockingbird cries
     When even it runs from the skies
Why do so many see ourselves as bound and controlled by manipulated strings
When those strings are nothing but ropes with which we can escape

Why do we live on top of one another
Without deigning to know our prisonmate
Without so much as a spared thought
For the dead flailing beneath us

Why do I hold dearest to my heart
Past injustices
Counting them as the tiny, insidious proofs
That I am a good person
Because good does not exist without the bad
Relativity is the grip keeping us from sliding
Down.
Away.

Why is it that words spoken can never be taken back?
Simple. We can never reclaim what was never ours.
You think you are original in your menial thoughts
What have you done but regurgitate the thoughts of your predecessors?
Rearranging the same letters
To form the same tiresome conclusions.
We are the worst type of plagiarists.

Why is the only thing propelling you a sense of duty
Why are you devoutly loyal to objects rather than the people who happen to hold them

Why

Why do we invent reasons to hate one another
We take solace in the loopholes which justify our hatred
That we may not be like the "monsters" we condemn

Why are "we" and "they"
Not just markers of distance?
Why must they be very real, ubiquitous mentalities?

Why are somber topics the common stuff of jokes
Because we have grown numb enough to empathy
To shun it in favour of a laugh?

Why is suffering so prevalent
When we have an excess of affluence
Are such extremes what define us as a race?

Why is a white lamb the symbol of pristine innocence
When innocence is slaughtered day after day?
Why are sharks abhorred creatures even though
Our vicious attacks
Far outnumber theirs
Do we idealize them that we may have a reason
An excuse
To assert our dominance over yet one more
To feel the joy of crushing them underfoot
Why do we focus on certain images
When the true image of our society
Is the person who occurs each day,
Who breaks
The answer is because we know
that we
Are at fault.

Why when confronted about the tiniest aspect of ourselves
We rear our heads in defense
Backing up against the corner of idiocy
The walls built upon the truths we have fabricated
Why are the swirling armor of falsities so comforting
And when pierced
We rebel
With every bit of the person we have built
Lashing out as does a dog chained its entire life
But even a dog
Which is after all "just an animal"
*Is not fool enough to delude itself into loving its chain.

Hide me from myself in the endless forests.
Cleanse my mind in the gentle ocean.
Blow away my hesitation in the canyon's wind.
Grow my life's satisfaction in the bright green valley.
Make me whole in the unmarred fields.
Release these cold thoughts in the woeful glaciers.
Vent my uncertainties in the ominous swamps.
Idealize my peace in the waterfalls.
Present to me solitude in the tundra.
Simplify my existence in the plains.
Show me contemplation in the caves.
Show me truth in the sky.

That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and beautiful words captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.

My eyes aren’t real

I’ve never had two real eyes

My eyes aren’t ready for this

But I’ve been made to realize

My eyes aren’t honest

I’ve never seen through real lies

My lies aren’t real



I need more sleep for my eyes

They’ll see clearer when they’re closed

If I could look into to my eyes

And see what I know is inside I know

Don’t ask me when I look what I’ll find

It depends on the eyes I have on at the time



My eyes aren’t ideal

I’ve never had two ideal eyes

My eyes don’t see distantly

But I’ve seen what it takes to idealize

My eyes don’t see actuality

But I’ve seen through the ideal lies

My lies aren’t ideal



I need more sleep for my eyes

They’ll see clearer when they’re closed

If I could look into to my eyes

And see what I know is inside I know

Don’t ask me when I look what I’ll find

It depends on the eyes I have on at the time



Your eyes are real

I can see your two real eyes

My eyes aren’t ready for this

What I’ve been forced to realize is

My eyes haven’t been true

I’ve never seen through real lies

My lies aren’t real



You need more sleep for your eyes

You’ll see clearer when they’re closed

If I could look out through your eyes

And see what I know is outside I know

Don’t ask me when I look what I’ll find

It depends on the eyes I have on at the time



Your eyes are ideal

It’s no problem for two ideal eyes

Your eyes don’t see into me

But you’ve seen that I like to idealize

My eyes won’t see functionality

But I’ve lived on all the ideal lies

My lies aren’t ideal



You need more sleep for your eyes

You’ll see clearer when they’re closed

If you could look out through my eyes

And see what you know is inside you know

Don’t ask me when you look what you’ll find

It will depend on the eyes you have on at the time

It's not love
It's idealization
Thats what it is
You see ,I keep on creating these little clips
These movies really
Where you come in, or call
More like text since you don't like direct confrontation
Where you ask me for another chance
Another go
But you've never been the one to do that
Maybe once in the summer long ago
Life changes you though
I'm ready to meet someone else
And I've tried
Another boy I tried to make mine
It's not love
It's not love
I swear
I'm too young
I'm too naive
I'm too me to be in love

some of the “greats” are walking among us
making eye contact upon our sidewalks
sharing sweaty seats on our buses
eating tempeh and salad at our cafés
lying next to us, sleeping, in our beds
we shop at their record stores
throw dollars in their guitar cases
curse their driving on our freeways
art and history are presently in motion
the past is just the place where we idealize them

The truth is I don't want to be a lingering after thought. A space that fills void. An unattainable purge of what you have been lacking. A comma in the break of a sentence, I've been in to many situationships to idealize anything less than romantic. To many almost & could have been something's. It's like a reflection of the sun but the heat never dissipates close enough for me to know it's real. The existence of it leaves my soul aching in hunger even though my belly is full. Maybe that's the difference of it, getting high off sugar and the other endorphins. One the body can sustain, the other just a flicker of a high that last as long as the burst of affection. To be desired is a supernova of lust. It's a star that burned out centuries ago but the light still fools you into believing it's present. To be loved is like the moon and all of its phases because even when the moon shows up in parts, you know it's wholly still there. Still yours. Still will rise again tomorrow.

We stood on the shores of forever.
The transient waves
lapping at the Cliffside
Grinding granite
to bare sand and
granting mysticism to
           Perception.

Grand piano typebars snicking
to the roar of bonfires
burning the taste buds off our fingers
            Our tongues busy in rituals
          gifting freedom from base function
              to commune with Passion.

Newfound Oldschoolism
        stuttering confidence
                and alcohol imbibed clarity
screaming Ginsberg at Apathy so that sand might best stone

                  Spinning dizzily
in Rockland in Moloch in Purgatory
Dying vicariously under the table
while illiterate Jazz read
our right accusatory
                                 for falsifying veracity

Sitting in jail cells in
San Francisco for setting
         the sky aflame.
        And it is aflame.

Inmates burning with
unspoken tomes spoken
Who in madness spun truth
        in whipped tongues, begging
        for something worthy of Censure.
Who Rapture took under wing
        and proclaimed “Child!”
Who ripped open the sky
        to play with father time
        while mother earth ran green
                   in envy.
Who were acquitted on appeal
        to dance in the moonlight on the
        shore once more together,

        Who found lust skipping stones alone
and welcomed her to join us
Hedonists wearing it like a
badge on bare underbellies
rubbing orgied in reverence
       Running fingers through coarse
hair windblown and sparking
with electric sensation.
       Exploring, pioneering
quivering legs and chests
beneath and atop us.
       Inventing love while sinking
quickly in slow sands
while smooth hands grasped
for the fleeting finite
      Whispering sweet everythings
without words for they
would be wasted here.
      Pulling needy lips away
to idealize Communism
as Bourgeois swine wallowing
in prosperity and sweat
of our nightly deeds.
      Complaining of lost chances
and brevity of copulation
when we’ve defeated the bedsprings
      and Fantasizing of the bed, car,
floor, park, studio, and once
on the hood for good measure
      Forsaking sleep to defy
the mandate of the setting moon
      Praising the glinting ******
of Adonis and Aphrodite
in mutual longing
as the sun blinked into
existence through the window
until in merry acquiescence we
     dozed, dreaming
we had set San Francisco aflame
and lit our cigarettes on its
                embers,
While we slipped little squares
under our tongues and GoldenGatePark
turned alive and welcoming;
Gleeful mourning at the loss of self
        at the University
Rambling on about enlightenment
        full of pretentious humility
Establishing Anarchy in our veins
        so we might be closer to god

               And god lives right there
               in the shack atop that
               hill, handing out nature
               to the masses
sitting on benches, fried to comprehension.
       Proclaiming that the world
was bleeding glory to bewildered
               passers-by.
       Breathing in fog and smoke
to join oblivion quickly
       Bumping Kerouac’s ashes in
the selfsame alley
       Piling intoxicants to run sleepless
through the streets
                                       wild-eyed

Dragged out of gutters
        covered in nothing
               the morning after
                     finding our clothes
                          draping streetlamps
                     and leaving them
               in testament.

Yearning for that heavenly connection
         and finding it
             together.
Scaling the walls of
        the mind to
find mountains at
        the summit and
        climbed those too
and clamored past
        the clouds
and the stars until
       We found worth at the edge
of the universe.

                                             20 September 2010

the romantics
after meeting you
will idealize love

the poets
after loving you
will romanticize loss

This is not a poem to idealize you, but
I remember your body well.
I miss how soft your skin was, the way it smelled
like your bed, back home when we…when you
would hold and kiss me lightly.
I hadn’t loved you then.
You were a stranger, with new paint and gold embroideries,
a beautiful boat in a safe harbor.

No, I did not love you then.

It was when I could see my fingerprints on your windows,
the scuff marks on the floors,
and the nights I’d hear you creek and moan.
It was when I felt the dulling of the brass
on the railings I used most often,
the day I memorized the placement of every
chip of paint, and ugly barnacle.

I wish you felt the same.

When we met, I was far away
(I had not loved you then).
You saw my silhouette and imagined
a glowing vessel of gold and pearls,
delicate and wild.

I’m sorry to have disappointed you
with my wooden frame, and chipped paint.
The creaks and moans of a body at sea.
The parts I loved of you,
you didn’t wish to see in me.

So let me set aside the flowery words
the alliteration and simile.
Let me speak plainly.

You are a miserable self-fulfilling prophesy
riding on the coat-tails of sympathy
with an ego so self-righteous, so blind
that if you were handed a mirror,
you’d only see another stranger to criticize.
You wouldn’t know love if it hit you in the face,
And it has, on several occasions.
I now fully understand the stories
of women running you over with cars,
and screaming profanities from 2nd story windows.

You called them crazy, but,
I only wish I had the nerve to join their ranks.

You are a judgmental, emotional leech
squirming in your own self hatred and soiled clothes,
imposing your disparaging insecurities
onto the ones who try to clean you up.
So please believe me that when I say

“*******”

It is only because they have not created a word
powerful enough
to describe the sour taste your name leaves in my mouth,
or the sparks of hot metal it leaves
when it crosses my mind.

When I say “I never want to see you again”

It is only because I am so embarrassed
by your appearance in my recent past
that if you were to:

fall into a hole,

float out to sea,

or disappear into your own puckered ****

I would breathe a sigh of relief.

So, yes- I miss the way your skin smelled;
like your bed, sweet and sour.
but there are beds
with more loveable personalities
than you.

Don't take me places
You know we can't go
I'll want to stay
You'll raise my hopes

I'm crushed by disappointment
I'm sick of seeing possibility
I'm sick of being told
"Don't want everything you see"

I'm willing to use some effort
To reach the highest slopes
But you won't even consider
So please don't raise my hopes

I'm fragile, I swear I am
I can't handle too many falls
I can't take to much hope
So don't raise mine at all

I can't seem to correctly explain
Just how hope can stab me through
Because I fight to be pessimistic
But when hope joins the fight, I lose

When I lose, I see options
I see every possibility
I see everything you won't
I see everything I need

I could idealize anyplace
If it so appealed to my hope
But I'll always be let down
I've grown used to these old ropes

So leave me be, I don't care
This is a downward, spiraling *****
And you must be a sadist, this is torture
Please, don't raise my hopes.

Love is never an accident.
Whether it be love at first sight,
Or whether it’s cause to lament.
If you fall in love it was right.

Each time we love we were meant to.
Whether it comes after a chase,
Or regret of the depths sent to.
To feel love is an act of grace.

The feeling of love never lies.
Whether you love somebody wrong,
Or someone you idealize.
Love and truth together belong.

Love is never an accident.
Whether it makes you feel guilty,
It’s always a gift Heaven sent.
Love is absolute purity.

Your love is like the horizon,
perceived no matter where I stand,
unclear which world that it lies in,
in and beyond my outstretched hand.

Your love is like that distant line
where heaven meets the earthly plane,
the beginning of my sunshine
that bounds a limitless domain.

Your love is like the horizon,
connected wherever I go,
comfort I idealize in,
the only constant that I know.

Your love is like that distant line
that never will recede from view.
Surrounding me and only mine,
I’m there in the center of you.

When feeling down, depressed, detached, isolated, or lonely, don’t forget everything you’re already a part of. Your family, your community, your country, the broader population of all humanity. Even if all of them leave you with a sense that you don’t belong, that you have no value, and that you are not worthy, remember that you’re not the first, nor the only, nor the last made to feel this suffering. Close your eyes for a moment, take a few deep breaths, and remember all that you do not see. Remember the all-pervading interdependence that weaves between all things. Remember the universe did not make an exception when bringing you to be, and you share an interconnected existence, same as everyone and everything. Remember that you are worthy and of value in the architecture of the universe and no one has the right nor the power to take that from you, not even you, and this is true, absolute, and forever it will be. Find yourself by knowing, feeling, observing, the others who smile in silent disdain, who wake up aching in their cores, rising to meet another day. Find yourself in those that have yet to come, for those that have yet to break, yet to despair. For it is there you’ll find yourself, in a place, in a time, preceded by all that is the past, amidst all that is current, so that you may find a way to ride the wave into the future and vibrate vibrantly for eternity. Find yourself in human history, the rise and fall of human societies, the historical human afflicted atrocities. Find yourself in the grand and universal architecture, for you are there, close your eyes, breath deeply, and may you see. May you find your strength, your will, your courage and let your heart be still. May you find it in yourself to take that torch, handed to you by those who battled doubt, were ostracized, those who before you, found a way out, to idealize, who against the darkened odds, kept on seeking better and brighter days. They’re waiting for you, but wish to see you flourish before you join them to perch upon eternity. Sometimes all they did was endure, and maintain dignity and grace. Or simply made attempts to change what many around them thought was just the way it would always be, who simply dreamed what those around them could not imagine, the ones who thought of you, who had yet to be, and your place in this universal scheme. Who found themselves in you and their hopes for all that you could be, who found themselves and let themselves believe. May you find yourself assured that simply being you is all you have to be and that it is okay, it is enough, and the universe will see. May you help carry forward the human legacy and bring forth humanity into a moralistic and heartfelt harmony.

summer in kansas is like being underwater,
humid and oppressive as our state’s current legislature.
our skin would get stuck together, when we pulled apart
it was like we were unzipping parts of ourselves.
painful.
there’s a metaphor in there,
somewhere, i swear.

some breakups are like surgery; removing a part of yourself,
coming out of the operating room and still leaving things on the table.

we spent a lot of time stuck together
then being pried apart by the air conditioner, among other things.
you make me feel like i have too many nerve endings
and not enough skin.
i think it must be a ******* talent to make someone feel like
too much and not enough at the same time.
we spent a lot of time driving with the windows down,
music filtering out of them
like we wanted people to know what we had stuck in our heads.  
you groan when i turn on 95.7 and whatever top 40 tune
dubbed the “song of the summer” comes on.
see, i kind of hate people who hate pop music
because honestly get the **** over yourself
and admit that taylor swift songs are catchy already
but i still like you.

so the speakers are blasting “fix you” by coldplay
and i’m wondering why songs that are written about things
i’ve never really experienced
are always the ones that make me cry.
my mom always says that i am the most empathetic person that she knows.
it always just makes me feel ashamed of all the times
i have felted shuttered,
judgmental and close-minded.

i am usually glad that people don’t know me like i know myself,
i’m afraid you wouldn’t like the inside of my head;
it’s not like i always do.
sometimes when i’m sad and my head feels foggy
and i want to unzip my veins
or something else ugly and over-romanticized like that,
i think that universe is trying to reject me
like a bad ***** transplant
like i was something never meant to be here in the first place
and it’s trying to right itself,
find equilibrium.
i know it’s not true but i still think it sometimes.

i think i love myself too much or not enough.
i am not good at equilibrium.

when you said, “i think i love you,” i thought you were joking.
i don’t know if that says more about me or you.

i’ve always been afraid
there is something terrible and fragile and hopeful
about young love that i will never get to know.

love is probably at least 70% proximity and i’m okay with that.
so you're kind of like my spleen,
i could survive without you
but it be pretty ****** to have you torn from of my ribcage.
because love is not completing a set,
it’s just finding something you really ******* wanna hold onto.

sometimes when you’re a poet you tend to idealize love into stanzas
instead of realizing that love is not poetry --
poetry makes too much sense.
love is a long-*** novel that you get bored of sometimes.
love sneaks up on you, it grows inside taking root like… honeysuckle.
an invasive species.

and honeysuckle are no roses, they’re prickly in a whole different way.
just the same,
nobody tells you that love can often be so ugly.
but a lot of kids still pick handfuls of weeds,
dandelions and clovers and grass stains,
and present them to their mothers
with a fistful of pride.

maybe love is not a victory march.
maybe love is just… the drive home.

Destiny has cheated me
upon what I couldn't see
Looking back at who I love
only praying to the stars above

That the girl I idealize  
is now in the arms of another guy
wishing that I could have changed things
am I really that's all to blame?

How could I have cheated fate?
It was so clear I could suffocate
the fact that I am no longer
the man that you deserve.

Without you dear I have nothing left
so now I take my final breath
to say goodbye to the one I love
to watch you fly while I burn below.

This sickness
Of dwelling in the past
Of not letting go
Of refusing
To accept change
And embrace the wonder
Of the present
Is not what God intended
For decay and ruin
Are the fruits of this neglect
And distance and isolation
Follow closely
Memories of what was
Are not meant
To be a prison
But a source of joy
And the sadness
Of the passing
Of what was good
Is not meant
To weigh us down
There is something wrong
If we idealize the past
Because it was
Just as full
Of fear and evil
As the present
We’ve only chosen
To let this be forgotten
These selective memories
Do not serve us well
If we **** the present
For a past that did not exist

Drop
          Drop
                    Drop

That could either be the sound of rain,
Or the beat of my heart retreating from the dead.
Beating for you –
Like it used to.

Drop
         Drop
                  Drop

You hear that?
Tell me if that was the sound of the storm
Or my heart weeping once again,
For you.

You would have thought
I was over you.
But once a broken heart,
always a broken heart.

Sure you can mend it-
But can't you see the lining of the cracks engraved?
See how deep they've gone,
Enough to ruin it forever.

I may not cry much now,
But the silent, unshed tears
Are the ones that matter the most.
They carry my soul
Through each non-existent molecule.

You can't hear
The screams of terror
For thinking I still love you,
Through the undying storm.

When you love someone
You idealize a dream
With the two of you.
And when when you find out
What you wanted was one-sided,
Would you wish to still love them?

It's hard when what my mind wants
Does not synchronize
With my heart.

It's hard to breath
With all this air surrounding me,
Giving me space to think about you,
And I refuse to.

Why can't the rain
Dampen my feelings
To the extent of being paper,
And tearing easily apart?

Why can't the storm
Soften my  heart,
Leaving it numb
So my desires would be hidden,
And finally, weaken.

Leaving no space for you.

But, here's the thing:
The untamed storm
Perfectly reflects my devotion
Of what I once had-
And still have- for you.

I carried an eternal infatuation for you,
And I still do.

Life is but a song,
A different kind of song,
It marches to its own drum beat,
Yet repeats the chorus
to idealize the past.

It begins with a story,
And ends with a solution,
I can see what life is like
When each lyric stripes a memory,
And each memory plays a chord.

Years and years can even pass
For the final thought
In that special song,
But when the time comes,
You know you have
Passed right through.

Completing your song
Into a world class masterpiece,
One where history will never
Forget your inspiring words,
As you keep in tune
With reality.

Writing about all your struggles,
Until one day,
For when the time comes,
You have created the worlds most
Sweetest melody.

my words
splinter and die
rodent feet
pointing ramrod into the
smeared horizon of prose
frozen with rigor mortise and
dread, dread, dead
in a lingering way,
completely unlike the
clean bleach
coffin sealed
pool of blood way
you idealize
this is
rotting and putrid,
there is no
embalming fluid
for bad poetry

they came to me with Big Books
they came with appeals and threats
but I said:
*Go, for
there is no philosophy,
no revelation
no dependence, no authority;
there are no terms
and one is free of all propositions;
there is none higher, none lower
and therefore all are same and even;
one does not slide to the past or tradition
and one does not idealize a future
and time is done and thought is observed;
there is no judgment here
no conditioning and beliefs
but one rests in what there is