We know this crowd will hate us.
Yet we know this is our sound.
A sound for gods and daughters,
nuclear bombs, and hatred brothers.
We will endure incoming roses,
because this world is inevitable.
Our future is non existent,
and even this can’t be original.
This circus will start now,
and despite you thought you've stopped me.
Girl, you will never understand this,
i will not cease, my precious darling.
People the world over suffer
They suffer from:
Hard circumstances, warring institutions,
Famine, lack of education,
Drugs and abuse, poverty, the list is endless.
But they are also addicted...addicted to hope.
Hope that things will improve
Hope that their dreams will one day be realized
Hope that what is so hard will finally be a hurtle passed
Hope is their mind's addiction, the fuel for whatever
It is they are striving for
If the temporary satiation of a drug is finally found,
Then their hope for the drug and their hope for the feeling
And their hope for the escape from reality are fueling them.
If they are struggling to make ends meet, to feed themselves,
clothe their children, escape the debt collector, find a place to sleep
Their hope is to not to have to face these same issues
Every day for as many days as they have living.
If suffering from illness, they hope for healing or death
Hope is their addiction when the young children sit in hot, enclosed spaces
Ill, hungry, malnourished, traumatised
Hope for something better, better than what is before them
Hopelessness is acceptance, it is living in the day to day
Knowing what is is, what can't be changed can't be changed
what can be changed for the better,
Well steps towards that then are slowly taken
And the absolute beauty of life, the wonder of these moments
Begin to sparkle and shine in a way that is subtly impressive
Small is sometimes the most beautiful of all
it is solid, it is simple, it is a sturdy brick upon which one can
Always grasp and stand upon...over and over and over
Refreshing and truly adventurous
To see the nature and artifice of the path one is walking
Realizing that each step is a changing landscape
Of environment, perspective, emotion, situation
When one is down they look up with hope, their addiction solidly in place,
To get to the top of the mountain for a finer view
An accomplishment and relief at having succeeded
but the top is always just the pinnacle
And hope to remain affixed in such a perilous place
Is not in actuality possible
Be it a very violent gust that blows you off,
For we all know the wind vortices are something fierce in mountainous terrain,
Or a misstep, a loss of footing as the ground suddenly whithers away,
Perhaps the grasping hands of others trying to join you,
Their hope addiction now at an all-time high because they
Are. Right. There.
Clawing like animals for the last little handhold to hoist themselves up
And in shouldering themselves into a stand,
They accidentally knock you off, or not accidentally perhaps.
Whatever the case, hope addiction swings back into full force
and if it doesn't motivate, it at least satiates the mind
But hope addiction is also deceptive,
It rallies the wild dreams and ignites the heart with delusions
When hopelessness and acceptance and disconnect are a wiser course
For to live on hope addiction alone is not sustaining
It isn't real.
When alternatives and different paths may be wiser, better
To begin walking upon for now
Hope addiction can be misleading, blinding
He beauty of hopelessness is looking then without the hope addiction
At the possibility that this new path, albeit much different from the other
Is only visible up to a few steps ahead
Does it curve? Does it stop? Does it merge further down
With the original path or perhaps another different one?
Hope addiction...I have been addicted to hope
We all have, it is beautiful and it is scary
I live in hopelessness...content, happy, busy, progressing, adventurous, never knowing what little chocolate from the box of life my day is going to taste like.
I must admit though, one a day is not enough to really enjoy a full day...fully.
Oh, I love you,
wish you well,
hope and pray
that life ain't hell
for your pretty eyes.
'Cause there's a devil in disguise
'round this town,
hides in buildings
broken down,
So Baby, don't you dare
go where
the sun don't shine.
Keep your heart safe
'cause the devil's taken mine.
Oh God, he's taken mine.
[chorus:]
I'm falling
down, down where
no light lives there--I'm scared
Baby, but let me go
I know
you'll come out of this alive.
Oh Darling, you'll be fine.
What doesn't kill you
builds you up
--the rest would kill
to make a couple bucks--
but you've got eyes
to guide you up,
and when it feels
like you could give a shit less
I hope, I pray
that you confess
the fears that drag you down
from this town.
And with poison in our lungs,
sorrow on our tongues,
we'll say goodbye
yeah, we'll fly,
but for now
I'm falling
[2nd chorus:]
down, down where
no light lives there--I'm scared
Baby, but let me go
I know
you can make it out alive.
Oh Darling, you'll be fine.
I'm hearing you scream
from across the room
Oh, I wish I didn't have to
go so soon
But Lover, my last advice to you
is to close your pretty eyes
hide them from the devil in disguise.
Yeah, he's still roamin'
'round this town
so keep your distance--
he's vicious now;
He's got his own eyes on
why I sacrificed
myself, myself.
[chorus:]
I'm falling
down, down where
no light lives there--I'm scared
Baby, but let me go
I know
you'll come out of this alive.
Oh Darling, you'll be--
[2nd chorus:]
I'm falling
down, down where
no light lives there--I'm scared
Baby, but let me go
I know
you can make it out alive.
Oh Darling, you'll be fine.
You'll be fine.
Oh Lover, you'll survive.
Poesía no son palabras
que un tipo escribe en su casa
ni delirios de un personaje cualquiera
Poesia es la forma
en que se manifiesta la vida
con similes y metáforas tangibles
La belleza esta ahí
existe
poesia es la historia
que trasciende
el entendimiento y las palabras
el poeta
es un interprete
un traductor
un dibujante
no puede ser nunca un mentiroso
no puede ser tampoco
un simple observador
será de vez un cuando un creador
pero solo una cosa hay en esta vida
que es original y posible de crear
y es la forma en que la vives
la huella que dejas
lo que eres capaz de hacer y expresar
It's early morning
I'm sitting here
My pen in hand
Eager to get something on this page
But the words won't come
And it's no fun
Without you here with me
I'm awfully mediocre, darling
I have nothing original to offer
All I can do is hold this pen
And hope that words will come
Or maybe I can search for words or quotes
And tangle them together
In hopes of making some sort of art
To explain how I am feeling
Because I'm awfully mediocre
And I have nothing original to offer
I so desperately want to write to you
And tell you how I'm feeling
But my tongue is tied
My brain is in knots
And I'm growing rather weary
Yes, I can take words from others
And send them to you
But none of them can ever compare
To the loneliness I feel
And the sorrow I bare
Living my life without you
no turning back
i didnt make this up
original thought
is what i speak love
got some stacked
got some on my head
While innocent shadows morph into sinister creatures
I lie
This is something close
To what you’ve already read about once before
Mine is just a jumbled spit up copy
That feels original at first
But then feels like the food we eat
Processed
Keep your piteous stares
And your haunting well wishes
They chase me down lengths of hallways
Dark
Palms down
I run
Oh I just had it there
But it slipped
& It screams
As it drowns
I feel like the blame will be on me
Even though
I’m not the one who designed
the true nature of the thing
Who was I to know it’s double tipped plan
To understand the mystery of it
Takes more than I am
Im digging through the log
looking for where it started
at least the clean stuff that i didnt delete
im about 200 taps in
"load earlier messages"
is going to haunt me
my dreams
i hope they have a sound track
sugar ray, perhaps
i need to lay my eyes on
the first thing you said to me
with that fancy new number of yours
seriously
ive been doing this for an hour
ive only gotten back to march
MID-MARCH mind you
but if i had to be honest
the suspense IS NOT killing me
with every tap
of that god forsaken roll-over
i get a different glimpse
of how we used to be
and how we are irrefutably now
there are times where you
dont even show up in my dreams
all i find
a black tank top
comfy black undies
a copy of atlas shrugged
and a signed cannibal corpse ticket
and NO
i dont put them in
my dream fanny pack
OR smell them
OR pass them out to strangers
i leave them there
i leave them there because
i know that your coming back for them
you left them under the street light
to let me know that you
are just popping in for a pint
just around the corner
though my first instinct
jealousy of course
might take shape
before i had the chance to
rub my eyes
sober up
and actually have a constructive thought
i have to admit
a creature as perfectly sculpted as yourself
walking clad in nothing more
than an original colored landing strip
into ANY public house
would get a better pour
than the next ten thousand
so i fold your clothes
stack them neatly
where you can find them
find a respectable framing shop in the area
that would still be open this late
frame that ticket
dead center
on black matte of course
and pick up your book
until my eyes are too heavy to wait
and my mouth too dry
to turn the pages
and i lay down
head atop a tank
toes inspecting the texture
of the sidewalk
until i awake
again
alone
and as ardent as ever
"who is john galt?"
..................................................................................
Sometimes, every now and again
When he's not thinking right,
When he has put his attention to
Other things, thoughts that swim in
And out from that shaded and shadowed
Primordial ooze of his frayed mind,
He steps out into the gray world and
Touches those things blue and green
With life, and he tortures them
With a merciless amusement.
He doesn't know why he does this.
He's never asked himself
Why. Or whether a why would even
Matter. It is there.
That is all there is to it.
It's there and that is all,
And there is no more.
If it cries out from the pain,
And it's there, that is all there is to it,
And that's all. Nothing more.
If it bleeds as it cries, that is all
There is to it. Nothing more, nothing less,
Nothing in the middle. It is
A very, very simple
Dark thing.
It is a
Dark part
Of him, and
For some undefinable reason,
He is stuck with it.
The doc was wrong when he
Suggested this all might be
The result of a Dissociative Identity Disorder.
And the meds haven't done a thing to help.
Not a thing. Nada. Zilch.
And in The End,
It was as plain as day,
And as obvious
As the sun rising over
Half-baked popcicles
During a thunderstorm.
'There is nothing wrong with me, '
He would council himself. It made far
More sense than anything anybody
Else had ever suggested. 'There
Is nothing wrong with me, not
A single, solitary thing. I
Am perfectly fine. I
Am wonderfully
Original, I am
Uniquely me.
I am a shadow
Of n o t h i n g n e s s.
A breath lost in
Between the
Here and
The now,
I am the If
Caught in a
Swirling vacuum
Of everyone elses
Lifeless nightmares.
'And it is as though I
don't even exist
At all'
Copyright © 2010 Richard D. Remler
................................................
If what you seek is full of grace,
Flawless and without defect.
You will not find it on my face,
I'll disappoint with due respect.
If what you seek is beau ideal,
A paragon of excellence.
You shall not find one as genteel
A paragon in my defense.
I do not thrive on the subtle rays
Of sunlight in my later days.
My face shows age, an age defined
That reflect these years upon my mind.
If what you seek is immaculate,
Double-dyed and without err,
You will not find me consummate,
You will not find perfection there.
I am simply me, every flaw and thorn.
Nothing less and nothing more.
From the very day that I was born,
'tis all that I can answer for.
Copyright © 2010 Richard D. Remler
....................................................
"Insist upon yourself. Be original."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
