• Part I
  
  I feel the sunshine,
  The warmth and the beauty
  Of it on my face.
  
  Sunshine in my heart
  Making me sing a sweet song,
  A sweet melody.
  
  Sunshine in my face,
  Leaving me it's pretty grace,
  Of it's love so warm.
  
  Sunshine in my head,
  Making me think of my friends,
  And my parents dear.
  
  Sunshines on you, friend,
  Makes your heart light and happy,
  Makes you feel carefree!
  
  Makes you want to dance,
  Through fields of everlasting
  Sweet and soft flowers.
  
  Sunshines through dark,
  Making everything light,
  It is day again.
  
  Sunshine forever,
  Even through dark times in your,
  Beautiful-bright life!
  
  ~Marian~

We met on a street out in the middle of Brunberry.  Often times, we'd sit on the curb, watching the middle aged man in the corner house fix up his boat-of-a-car.  Or, on Sundays, the chubby, bakery-esque woman would walk her grandchildren down the road to church.  We were young, then.  I still visit that street in Brunberry, and, in fact, it is called Feldspar Road.  The man on the corner, with the old car?  His name is Charles North, and he's a retired mechanic.  The grandmother is dead now, but her daughter and grandkids moved in a couple years ago.  I still come back and check up on those people, and I still watch the leaves fall in autumn and watch water pool around our favorite bench in spring.  The air is just as crisp as when we were children.  Feldspar Road is just as it was when we were young.

--

Just off of Feldspar Road, there is a park.  Really, it's just a wide, open field, with unkempt grass that the neighborhood has picnics and late afternoon barbecues on.  Do you remember when we stopped by the Feldspar block party on your twentieth birthday weekend?  It was warm and the sun was blinding; a perfect July day for grilling out in the park.  You pulled me down onto the dried grass and we watched all of the familiar people gabbing and gossiping with neighbors.  Charles, grandma and the children, that young couple that had recently moved in.  These people were like our family, even though we didn't live here.  They made us feel at home.

--

It's October, and Feldspar Road is coated in bright yellow leaves.  I haven't heard from you in a few months, but I'm sure you're doing okay.  You've been busy with your new friends at your university a few states away.  Feldspar misses you, as do I.  Charles is getting old; his car sits, rusted, in the driveway.  The young couple got divorced, and I'm pretty sure the girl kicked the boy out of the house.  Things are getting dark, despite the turning leaves.  I do sure hope you're doing okay.  The park has a playground, now, and the few children in the neighborhood play there after school.  I've memorized jump rope rhymes, patterns in cat's cradle, and the hardest hopscotch courses.  I know you always loved kids, and watching them play makes me wish you could be here to laugh along with me.

--

I moved out to Kentucky this April.  I needed to get away from home, and away from Feldspar Road.  I visited much too often, and after Charles died, and all new people lived on the block, I felt out of place.  Whatever made Feldspar feel like home was gone.  It's been years since I saw you, and I can only assume you've found someone to love, someone to lay in the grass with, someone to marry.  Me?  I'm starting to meet new people in the area.  I like to spend my time out in the fields by the border.  It's quiet, unless you count the crows and crickets.  It's peaceful, and standing there in the breeze, with the wheat up to my chest, watching the sky turn bright orange in the evening, makes me feel a bit happier.  A little less lonely and a little more at home.

The caricature of a drip
So wet and alive and pendulously hanging
there above my cell as I stare up
lives as free as I'm not
through downward spirals less destructively
than I could do.

On my bunk I stare at the drip
half-wishing it to break
So I can hold for a moment
A cool friend.
So I could receive my first postcard from the outside.

Right now, to me, nothing more than this drip makes sense.
As I gaze quietly, waiting for a sign, still unoffered, that it hears me
when I talk about myself.

When does this drip - my little drip - cease to belong to me?
Is it mine until it falls?
And joins a waterfall of water
that falls down beneath the cementum cracks.

As soon as I primmed this Hard-Composed Verse
Of Thanking her for her Un-Condition
I saw the Door locked; My Key in disperse
For Reasons whose Respect I Rendition
After all, Random be my Identity
For Some who chose those Caves after the Park
Why not? They're there, hoarding in Sanctity
Cry for Silence from this Friendly Remark
Which makes me Wonder - What Error I commit
Save my Recurring Frequency to Love
Such, attitude bid, much Energy admit
Waste the Good Lord's Tears healing from Above.
All, I defer, pry what should not be mine
Interpret, by sudden, your Patience in thine.

The Bottle of Water By My Bed

Parched so oft,
Everything dried out,
Throat, life, poetic inspiration,
Yes, getting out of bed is hell on earth.

The Bottle of Water By My Bed,
She makes sure is always there,
Named and bottled from a special source,
"I'm Here, Don't You Dare Leave"
Says the label, further noting that source of this water is
Heart Springs Eternal, USA.

Ha. Smile. Get outta bed, take a sip,
Damn that bottle of loving constancy.

You, who for some infallible reason, was weeping, said-
"You are lying, and that makes me sad."
"But I never told you a single lie."
As soon as I said that, you started crying once more.

I used to reassure myself,
When the paper airplane that I threw-
Full of my foolish whishes that seemed so beautiful at that time-
that didn't reach the sky, but instead
came back down to my feet-
"It was just too far away.
That's all.
That's all."

And-
there was a time when I climbed the side of a radio tower,
repeating desperately to myself that the stars up there were not a myth.
At the top,
overlooking the city,
I tired to reach those lights.
"..I'm just not tall enough."

Now,
I think to myself,
my beliefs are just a mirror,
Reflecting my repeating delusions of a perfect world.
But when that mirror,
that sick fantasy,
that desperate,
oblivious
illusion shatters-
There is nothing but shards of dust left on your palms.

Did you know?
I am scared of the moon.
Mainly,
because I think, sometimes,
"That could be me, up there."
With no light of my own to shine upon the world, only reflecting what others saw.  
But, still.
The sun's warmth was too brilliant and bright,
my pupils couldn't help but dilute every time I faced it.

I've almost given up on the exuseful theory,
that everything in the world is masked
beautifully.
And that only the gifted,
and few,
could unveil that ugly screen,
and see the true façade underneath.

Until I have found a warmth untriumpthed by any other,
until I find a kindness that lets me say-
"Thank you, Thank you, Thank you-"
Over and Over and Over again,
Until I find a feeling that makes me feel like the world,
is somehow,
sometimes,
beautiful,
I guess,
I'll try to stop making excuses for everything-
and accept the fact
that the world
has its secrets too.

Even now as I live, sing and paint
Eat drink, love and make merry
Wondering of my source, roots unknown
Aware of this body and the world transient
A pushing soul ever screaming for good
A mind pondering of my seed and state
A million eons past,zillions more in future.

WHO AM I ?!

Still tempted by flesh, corrupted in greed
overcome by the same transience perceived
When the universe expanded shrinks fast
To an atom, a silent sound unheard by earth
I am just bony dust in a star afar dead again
Do I matter? yes I am here and I am now, mindful
Of right and so UN-scared of death,the seed of life
I live paint and sing,for my place on the star afar dead!

I AM THAT.


Jeez,reading after four whiskeys it sounds crazy! What the heck! Still makes some weird sense to me!

A smile like gold,
A heart like dust.
Eyes like the rain,
A face that will only bring pain.

He tells you things,
Like how you look nice.
He kisses your cheeks,
And makes you blush.

Uses your body,
Like you're a doll.
Tells you sweet words,
To make you fall.

Pushes you down and takes control.
He doesn't care about you,
Or anything in this world.

He tells you he loves you,
He tells you he cares.
He tells you he will always be there.

His lips only speak lies,
His hands only do what they know how to do;
They softly brush your heart,
And then they tear it apart.

You read me like a book
Papyrus skin telling tall tales of
Life written on my skin
Engraved into my skin
Line after line
Have me looking like a zebra
Caught off guard with my mind in the heat of
Being grabbed at,
Careful not to rip the pages
This story has been told to few
And yet no one has taken the time to
Analyze, annotate, and agonize over the details
Because it’s not what I buy in retail
That makes me retell these stories
It’s the person within
That only knows how to sin
While trying to maintain a fake grin
Because you read me like a book
And on to the next chapter, I implore!
But this is a never-ending story
Falcor will tell you more
If what you see entices
This story you read may splice
With the emotions you’re feeling
Do I keep you reeling?
Wanting more, waiting for the next book to come out?
Well it won’t.
I’m one of kind, a one hit wonder
A book written by an author
Who only became famous after dying
Yet I breathe, living this story
So I guess you can say I’m not famous
But if I'm boring, then close this book
Move to the next if too much do I perplex
Inflicting thoughts and emotions never felt before
Coming at you, giving you more and more
Than any genre can give you.