"What's this life?" the caterpillar asked the grape.
"I'm not so sure," the grape responded. "Maybe it's what we become later on."
"How so?" the caterpillar inquired.
"Well, think about it, we're both waiting for something, you're waiting to become a butterfly, and I'm waiting to be pressed into a fine Bordeaux. We're both growing, and preparing ourselves for what lies ahead."
"Interesting," said the caterpillar. "But I know I'll become a butterfly. And in my comfortable larder I don't have to worry about being preyed on. I can just eat this spinach and prepare. How do you know they won't turn you into a raisin?"
"Well," said the grape, "they told us from early on that we can become anything we want to if we just put our mind to it."
The caterpillar considered this for a moment. He knew that the grape hadn't realized that in this larder the most likely place he was destined to end up was in a fruit salad.
"I think that things will work out fine for you." said the caterpillar. "I believe in you."
"Thanks." said the grape. "I know that once you're a butterfly you'll go and see more of this world than this larder. We both have so much ahead of us."
The caterpillar held these words in his mind, the grape reminded him of back when he was a little larva, and he believed that if he really worked for it, he could become a wood pigeon. Now a little more mature, the caterpillar understood that the world has already made plans for caterpillars and for grapes, and for every living thing in between.
"Do you believe in destiny?" asked the grape.
"No." said the caterpillar.
"You believe that you have the power to shape your own path?" said the grape.
"No." said the caterpillar. "I know that there are limits to what I can do in this life, I know that if I try to fly now, I'll fall, but if I eat enough of this spinach, I'll be able to grow wings and fly, but even then, I'll never be able to swim, I'll never be able to build a house."
"What's a house?" asked the grape.
"I believe that I will make decisions, and from these decisions, consequences will emerge, and from these consequences, reactions will emerge, and from all of this, my life will take shape, but it will be a caterpillar's life, not a hedgehog's, and not an orange's."
"I think you're a pessimist," said the grape. "If I was to think like that then I'd give up hope. I know I'm a grape, I know that I can become a wine, or a raisin, or I can rot in this larder, but I still believe that if I try hard enough, I can become an apple."
At this the caterpillar scoffed. "You'll end up in a fruit salad, you're not going anywhere, trust me. You grapes all think you're going to be something when you come here, but I watched your packet get picked away, just like I saw the last packet get picked away, you're not destined to be anything."
The grape was hurt. The caterpillar's words he thought were mean and sharp. Words, the grape thought, were weapons when used in such a way, and they left scars on the grapes you used them against. The grape looked up at the caterpillar, he was looking away now, with a hard expression on his face.
The grape rolled over on his side, he thought that all his dreams did seem pointless, he knew that when he was picked, he wasn't sent to be pressed into fine wine. He knew that when he was packaged and put in the fridge that he wasn't going to become a raisin either. He never wanted to be a raisin, but now he felt jealous of them.
He lay there for what seemed like a long time, still. He could hear birds chirping in the distance. The larder door opened and a large hand got hold of him, suddenly everything was dark, he felt a blunt hit in his side. He thought he could see, but he wasn't sure what was happening, he felt hot, and cold at the same time, he looked down and saw that he had been bitten in half, it went dark again...
The butterfly sat upright on the branch, the little grapes were listening with their beaming little eyes and ears. He told them that if they tried hard enough, then they could be taken to be pressed into fine wine. They liked the sound of that.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 5:24 AM UTC
Play music and you’re an instrument,
Make dinner and you’re a chef,
Paint a canvas and you’re an artist,
Open a door and you’re a key,
Set fire to a Polaroid, and you’re a photographer.
Burn candles and you’re a priest,
Pull pages from a book and you’re a writer,
Dodge traffic and you’re a warden,
Break a heart and you’re a lover,
Lie and you’re a promise,
Hide and you’re invisible,
Think and you’re emotional,
Cry and you’re a nihilist,
Learn and you’re a sponge,
Sense and you’re a silhouette,
Flicker in the background.
Scream and you’re a vibration,
Sweat and you’re still,
Run and you’re somewhere else,
Look back and you’re a stone,
Stand on the roof and you’re a bird,
Fly and you’re wings will burn,
Look down the hole and you’re human,
See white lights, and green and yellow,
Stop looking and you’re dead.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC
She sits half full of optimism, half a pessimist
sometimes happy and seldom blue.
Lay your head back she persisted,
Such eloquent charm to be resisted,
All the times she's helped you through.
Follow her tail wherever she leads,
and lay your head back once more.
Through your lips she softly bleeds,
And quenches all your desperate needs.
Until you need once more.
In the sweetest whispers never misconstrued,
all she confides you keep secluded.
All the while she sings softly to you,
Assuring that you'll make it through.
Until your time here is concluded.
With the world now off balance beneath your feet,
shes the only one who stops to greet you.
Mixing clarity with deceit,
And keeping her from angels teeth.
How could they bite the hand that feeds you?
Drink more then old friend, perhaps you will see,
that her affection is distilled in misery.
But whilst she fills the glass in your hand,
It's anything but a tragedy.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
Sometimes I go back
To summer days in the fields of time
Evergreen dreams casting shadows on the dirt
Echo’s of voices with charming rhyme
Doors that close behind my back
And windows open to see the sky
Engines rolling across grey tarmac
My hopes answer when I ask them why
Sheets of paper folded to fit your name
Grass brushing the soles of our feet
Unknown strangers line the paths we tread
Take us back to the day we met
Starting to fret at the suns shallow streams
Falling out of the sky into restless night
I only see you now in my dreams
That take on forms of passion so light
Come back to me one Sunday afternoon
And I’ll show you all the secrets kept
Behind my eyes and the far side of the moon
Are the memories of you over which I wept
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
Run ranting raving reeving breathing
Into the floor and unto the ceiling
Sanity dismissed like a rabid dog
Put down with dreamlike toxins...
Ride the lobotomotive.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Trapped in the butterflies beating wing
Left in an ocean unable to swim
Caged in a living cell,
bored and mundane
Where every day reads the same
And every night I lose my name,
then lose again.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Leave behind the willow tree
And come not where our memories hide
The passage door has been left open
But what to make of what we see inside?
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
The man in blue with his head raised high
Fires his pistol toward the sky.
He does not ask why.
Blurred upon a canvas, and cast out from the town
He does not look down.
To catch a glimpse of irony, before she turns around.
No meaning or conclusion, as fades his hope.
At odds with still delusion, too far gone to cope.
His path once paved with clarity, now stained with black
Each step that pulls him forward, another drags him back.
Only himself left to attack.
Far off course with no remorse, too insane to breathe a sigh
Or even try.
She waits with them in paradise, for when the time draws nigh.
Alone in a desert of the mind, with his sanity so abused.
All those he left afflicted, all those who's pain he used.
All those who left him so amused.
Its perverse. The meaning in this verse.
With nothing left to comprehend, all is left to be dispersed.
He see's now the price that he must pay
For all those grief stricken, who's love he took away.
Before his path concludes, before it leads astray.
Reach his arm toward his temple, and block out the light
With no cause left to struggle, and no reason left to fight
He moves his finger slightly, to find a world of night.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
A sea of stones hosting life of their own,
Put on display to honor the lives that are gone.
Hundreds of stories locked away in the archives,
Overlooked on a weekday afternoon.
A melody of silent ballads, still played by those who are left.
And written in the pages of everlasting text.
The wind still sings for those who are forgotten,
Who still walk among the notes of the song.
Forever, until all is said and done.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
A November wind stirs up the road before us,
we still don't see the leaves falling
We laugh and cry amongst ourselves,
and hear not the silent whispers calling
The twilight dawn caresses our echo_
And carries it away into the misty abyss
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC