she holds her breath as vacancy glitters around her.
violent silence forms this canyon of conversation...
rumpled and uncertain
their morning fog was heavier than expected
and she faked a smile.
the logic and the lover,
the patience and the urgency,
the misunderstanding a doorway...
the cold and uncertain streets of dawn,
the smell of the highway when she was seventeen.
she hears the dust talking of last night's storm.
voices float into the bedroom...
lunar and fragmented
as if the sky had let them go
long before her birth.
The bestial part of me
It makes sleep impossible
It craves the basic things
Feeding it is impractical
I caged all my demons
The only tomb was my body
They gnaw at their bars
Now I have heart burn
This long battle of ethics
It hasn't made me happier
I know I have honor
I fear it is worthless
I gutted my romantic
His entrails became beautiful
My logic has new wallpaper
I miss being infatuated
I cleaned up my appearance
I covered it in fallacy
That make-up is acidic
My honesty is melting
When I lay down to rest
My beast screams for freedom
I hates its captivity
It must remained chained
The truest of Answers come not from the Left-Brain nor the Right-Brain;
The truest of Answers come from the unification of these Hemispheres:
Universe of Meaning and Reason,
Union of Creativity and Intellect,
Unison of Mythic and Logic
Alas, the Unity of Duality.
To isolate one is to disrespect the other,
thus, because the system is Holistic,
to isolate one is to deny thyself either.
If the world is small, how is it also
Infinite? What whirls us round, throwing me
To you, for you? Every kiss, the world forgoes
Despair and turns again. What is to be
Flawed, is also divine. Logic dictates
That we are fleeting, and yet words linger
Through ages; we touch the souls, traverse straits
Of heroes thought (at world’s end), at fingers’
Touch we fall apart. Are we the stars’ dust,
Or the dust of bygone beauty? Why fall,
If all falls from us. We darest this, for just
Knowing you is proof of little at all,
And yet all is found in your star-filled eyes,
Turning on me, reflecting star-filled skies.
Logic tipped with poison
Passion with a purpose
To manipulate the puppeteers strings
Perched on insanity’s brink
To give love freely
To feel but not always to think
With the mind of my father
The heart of my mother
I dare you
a joy it would be to be loved
to have that sensation
of knowing there is a person
that cares more for you than words can explain
a joy it would be to be alone
to have the sensation
of knowing you can't be hurt
that no one can be close enough to eat you alive
ignore the pain
ignore the worry
ignore the sadness
ignore the pity
what a choice
logic or passion
bliss or ration
such a silly
Sky scraper pristine, crystaline
Oxygen deprived. Logic on the head of pin
Nearer my gods to thee. Ohhh the dizzying spin.
Father sun come down and cradle my chin. Lift my face skward.
Pray for return of the fiery.serpent birds of PRAY.
Come back to teach us the way.to the stars.
Atlantis today tomorrow the moon. Voyager fahter.
Planted the seed.
Summit to chasm
The higher we climb the less we can sea.
Reach higher still.still higher
and much higher still.
Instincive desire to follow and play with fire
We build the stepping stones to touch god's face
We are destined to all leave this place.
That made me question the church for the first time and always.
Freedom is a myth.
There is no time,
and no society
where it can be real.
And I can offer proof...
with actions comes
an ethical lifeline
which ties you to
resting on it's pulse.
I see the reason,
I see the logic,
the neatened box in
which our world is
I crave release.
I crave a freedom
to break the bonds of
and be me.
Be mad without the fear
and be happy
and be free
and to not be scared.
To still feel safe
because I don't,
and I really rarely
I am yearning...
for an impossible dream.
To have a day,
which I don't calculate,
and wait in fear of
And that is what it'll stay...
And hauntingly wonderful one
Bitten by a spider
at the oddest hour.
His whole body throbbing
with his own pulse.
All his insides are charred
but sleep is not a willing
The eternal coronation,
death as his champion.
Sweating through a thin veil
of details, begging the question,
begging for recognition,
even the most elegant logic is an ugly thing.
In delirium, he tears his journal apart-
that's how an artist starts.
He is ugly,
he is crude,
he drank some poison
down in Greenwood.
he becomes quite faint
when struck with the
that even the heavy
has finesse, and feeling too.
Vindicate the journey.
Justify the placid education.
Give meaning to clamored
Uncommon are the steps prevalent to
understanding. First we trust in logic
~ appending even clever reason, to
enlighten our wisdom. Teaching us by
grace, tenured and wise is the old man.
Second we must conceive the rebirth
of the soul.
And nurture the rigorous energy
As such is the steady old man,
calm in demeanor, and living as the
wise without regret ~ for the rest
of his years. In his mind the past
is marinating within, as a mental
treasure. In idea profound and
willingly he carry’s us to a fashion
so right. These are the lentils of
the presence ~ of the clamored
misconceptions, of the old man.
Thus with little merit to write, I
celebrate those growing old and gray.
Believe in his destiny. Only a mention
to mind his presence and grace. A
thread to celebrate the qualities of this
dumb old man.