The child is at the park.
The child is happy.
"What am I," he asks to the back of his mind.
"What is that flower," he asks aloud.
For it was in a vibrant patch that lay a speck of total green.
A lone stem for which its color does not show,
"until it has the chance to fully grow."
The parent had finished her thought.
The child only picked up one word.
The adult is at the park.
The adult is curious.
"I understand," she says to herself.
"I agree," she continues.
"We are truly lucky to have ever experienced anything at all."
The garden is colorless, a small patch of snow lingers,
It can be difficult when you feel an end in sight.
"We should not take what we shared for granted.
We should be happy.
I should always love.
Sometimes things you see, can be the hardest to find."
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 4:30 AM UTC
Survivors of the first pattern that feared death
Born a slave to the chain of events binding every breath
This story was written, but the last chapter is torn
All efforts to piece together a story to fit in, but a mirror is all that's ever formed
As your breathe fogs the final pages
Words form like thoughts on shower glass
Take the time to teach those that take time for granted, and maybe then it won't be seen as a snake in the grass
-
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
I find the further you run from darkness
The more you forget what light is
No effort, no drive in the slightest
Not convinced I'm more than a casted mast for my shadow
Set sails for the other end of this fish bowl
Can you end a true existential crisis
When you think you may only exist in the family memory VCR tape
The more encapsulated I feel the less inclined I am to escape
I feel free to be trapped in this cosmic frame rate
Click, fast forward, turn this bowl into a mote
I'd sooner call myself depressed than test the true universal remote
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 3:56 AM UTC
The slower the beat of the soul,
The faster it's vessel goes
When reality's the only dream
Where you don't want to get out bed for
Everyone eventually must also slow
And scrap for change to pay the toll
When the road splits at the seam Thank those yellow lines of metaphor
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 1:27 AM UTC
While in slower beating of the soul,
The quicker it's vessel seems to go
You begin to scrap for change to face the toll
The toll where eventually everyone must also slow
What should you do when the road splits at the seam?
When there appears to be the one dream without the will to get out of bed for?
You thank the thoughts that drew those yellow lines of metaphor.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
I walk this passage of three certainties
There is no turning back.
The fog's blanket is eternal.
Only the next step can be seen.
Not all doors unlock with a set of keys
One foot stalks the other.
Only to reach a sign of fate.
Dead End never seemed so serene.
Change replaces fog as it lifts with ease
The road forks left and right.
The next step grows but which one ends.
Seems two roads I must choose between.
Not all that is certain appears in threes
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC
The wind greets every blade of grass it passes in song of life's movement, sounds of soft words whisper in my ear, the frame of the butterflies jump before my eyes along the path and fill the white clouds with rain as tears trace the lyrics in translation. My imagination.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
The man throws burning coal in his cracked glass house he's trapped in.
It would be foolish to ask anyone how the man got got there, even he does not know what happened. When asked he would respond, "Frankly, worrying about it just seems old fashioned"
But here he lays, eyes wide under the moon again. You'd assume this sky goddess is his best friend, since his insomnia lets the sunrise mark his day's end.
He scratches into his big window to the world
*Am I insane when I'm still awake and my dreams fade in
And I start to think I created the universe I was made in?
I want to step out of this books frame and read all of the chapters
But I'm starting to think I'm going break long before this glass shatters*
-
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
If only perfect birds could sing, trees would be silent
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
the domicile of three generations
not all those labeled grand reside within the walls
the walls so effortlessly visualized within the mind
and within the inner palpation of the body
but a part will forever remain stained
even in new-found renovations
you can be away for a day
or maybe many weeks
but just a new paper on the walls
as you flashback to once dragging fingertips down the lining
of the hallway in which the dimensions are imprinted
a void is created in absence of the tactile sensations
so here I stand on this porch
the edge of my personal universe
an extension of myself built in brick, wood and my own bones
at first woe overtakes and what can be a form of fear
the future disappearance of a home held so dear
comfort resides in my own realizations
when the memories last in my mind
i know to say
home is here
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC