People ask why they march,
is it because they're obstinate?
no, they want to represent veracity,
not cause havoc.
walking valiantly into the melee of police and riot,
not to make you feel contrite,
but to make you think,
to expose the affluent,
and stand up for the unlucky ones.
they're a garrulous bunch,
listening does not harm,
it only allows you to learn.

"I want to say something filled with so much truth that it will rattle your world. I want to say things like "you are more than enough" and "they define you by image, but the soul is a grander thing." I want to say "you will find love if you haven't already and if you have, love is forever." I want to tell you what you want to hear and what is easy to say but honestly, there is a wolf in me that no longer wants to tell you these things. He believes them to a certain point but he has learned to harden up, to remove any fearlessness and clothe himself with so much truth that God is no longer a word and science ceases to exist. The wolf wants to say "God ****** just be you and go get into trouble and be strange and different and loving and consume whatever makes you feel the most in that moment." He wants to say this because he knows it is what most people will do anyways and he also wants to do it himself, we grin at madness delivered to us in simple forms. Chaos so easy to obtain as if we were born with it in our mouths. I will not try to change you because change is inevitable but so too, is remaining the same. I cannot tell you what kind of person to be and I never will all I can hope is that you know and understand how ******* beautiful this earth is, this universe, and that you love whatever is around to love because love is felt in thousands of forms and I have this belief that if we all strive to feel it, no matter which form it is in, we will come to the flaming realization that we all come from the same dust and all other thoughts tossed out way in false bravado are irrelevant."
-Christopher Poindexter

Once I soared on an angel with steel wings,
through a piercing blue sky
over the dark belly of a Gulf,
to a land unknown to me.
Stepping out of the airlock turned my clothes into hot laundry
as the warm culture washed over me and my family.
Me in my ten year old body had never left the states,
it was my turn to be the minority.
Akumal,
a small but sprightly tourist town,
filled with little shops and nooks 'n crannies to explore.
My family and I would stay at a private resort for ten days
that rested upon white sands and crystal waves that constantly
licked and salted the air along with the fishermen’s boats.
Crashing splashing crashing,
always the sound of the blue waves crashing.
The birds sing their foreign songs.
Day,
sweltering and bright,
the wee little town of Akumal stirred with life.
Pesos clicking in pockets of fruit buyers,
the treble of am radio words fly through the air.
Clouds of dirt from the road follow run-down trucks and cars,
kids kick around a melon in the street.
Never had to know Spanish to know what happiness sounded like.
At the resort was a more calming scene.
The wind gust across the warm sand, occasionally knocking down a coconut into the squishy sand.
They always tasted like salt water, but my sister and I kept cracking them open, like there might be a pearl inside one of them.
The outside resort had a bar next to the beach, serving the little ones
Pina Coladas and Banana Smoothies. The bartender was an ecstatic man, always with a wide grin of joy, and a loud machine gun laugh.
Night,
the sun would go to sleep, but the ground below was awake
in the shine of the moon, they would come in hundreds.
Hermit ***** would skitter across wooden floors                                                           ­       and blocked out the sand on the beach.
The people of the resort would gather in a beach-side restaurant called "La Buena Vida" or "Living the Good Life".
With its rope swings and crows’ nests, I’d linger in this pirate ship,
bringing my food up in a bucket and laugh down at the others.
Even the condos we stayed in were not familiar.
They felt like native Mexican homes, with the pastel color walls and creative tiled floor.
Falling in and out of sleep there was the ever present crashing splashing smashing of the waves,
and the lullabies of the night birds.
The sun would stretch its way out of the ocean in vibrant hues
and the hermits scurried back to their holes.

©Dylan Whisman.

I listen to the songs they sing,
about the peace and the love,
about unity and compassion.
I stop,
and I hear nothing.
Why do you think they're always in my ears?
I keep them near to me.
artists are truly born somewhere other than earth,
they pass by on shooting stars
belting out their messages so sincere.
but does it actually hit earth,
or does it just turn to dust in the sky?

A fist used to pound and smack
to smash and wack, to grind the
white flavorless dough from
fields of broken gravel,
crumbled by the passing of time,
flooded by hopeless tears as it
shoves it's seed into stone.

Clenching tightly white-knuckled,
as if to hold desperately to kindness
long left, or never given.
A ****** callused and raw fist,
scared sick and confused, proceeds
to knock the wind from the earth.

Never will the fist be opened
to caress the face of it's mother,
to halt it's careless helpless tantrum
of being, to quit the flogging and be selfless.
A fist so ****** will only end
in a flailing fury of bewilderment,
into the golden flash of it all.

"Death to his heart!"
shouted the world.
"Death to his mind,
his words and reasoning,
to his imagination,
his love,
his hopes and spirit!"
The Big bad ***** is playing
hard to get again.

Today I bathe with her, the blue maiden,
she greats me the same way, shining brilliantly
With silver armour in her waves and
Blinding sinatra blue eyes.
walking along her sandy cheekbones
******* me in with each step,
spitting crystals in my face.
she licks the hair on my legs with a frozen
Tongue as I stand before her.
as slow stride?
No, jogging.
No, running!
I sprint into her,
and she hugs me with each wave
foaming at the mouth.
I dive in and she grooms my hair,
and I sit cradled like a child in the womb.
I break the surface with sunlight blinding me.
I am reborn once again.

the bow turns a cheek as the stern takes a seat,
his mind slips away as his heart begins to sink.
he is the Capitan of a sinking ship.
all alone in the dark sea,
crew has fled, hope is dead.
he is the Capitan of a sinking ship.
his ship turns a ruptured belly, growling and groaning,
he is not flinched from his lonely cabin.
he is the Capitan of a sinking ship.
the cold rain is warm to his touch,
the frothy brine envelopes his face,
he is the Capitan of a sinking ship.
he last thinks of the storm he couldn't miss.
floating down, to meet his love, in the vague abyss.
he was the Capitan of a sinking ship.

A Cherry Blossom tree blooms in the bleak of winter,
out of place,
irresponsible and
gorgeous.
in the midst of dead winter
nature is drawn to this tree,
or maybe it's nature,
holding on
for dear life in a freezing planet.
but as the snow begins to fall,
the flowers fly away
with the snowflakes
like a butterfly's mating dance.

A summer goddess she might be,
but warmly she waltzes with the snowflakes in
my head.

I lay askew and unfilled,
Grasping for an invisible something that I swore was there,
Scraping an imperceptible sea that scented of meadow,
A silky soft touch of blazing embrace,
A curdling pop in my chest retracts my arms to a pale chest,
My heart lay in waste, wishing to ooze itself from a ribcage that binds it in confusion.
Darkness licks my skin into cold bumps of sorrow,
My left mind screams in defiance as the right side rapes,
"Why do you just sit there and sulk!
The ashes you lay on are old, do not eat them,
Let them scatter into the wind,
May the rain cleanse not drown,
And the lightning strike you a brighter perspective."

I know who I know,
but thy mind not know itself,
a violet in a field of millions knows better.
a burnt oak amongst miles of earth,
thirsty, no fruit to bear.
words cower in fear from lips that wish to speak,
blanketed by the ambiance of uncertainty.
this thick fog is pointless and empty.
to slice through it seems impossible,
Balance and peace,
but only if there's something there.

Thus be my curse or thus be my gift,
Itching and scratching yet never relaxing
through my brain thy sift.
A radar of such
with a thousand blips
searches an infinite falling sky
for clouds of dragons fierce and ghosts
preposterous in vapid moments
between a green eye flashing.

In the center of static mind spins
a lighthouse splattered in graffiti
paint from wicked galaxies,
illuminating ships already docked,
While others scrape the jagged thoughts
pincher piercing, sinking in magnetic soot,
later to be rubber-banded around the maelstrom
In a chasm that ***** the world dry
and vomits the taste that is too bitter.

Oh god the embarrassing flick on
flick off, hey look at the birds,
how they fly formations
like ripples in the pond to feed the
Little ones in a tree.
screeching in glee through mushy
worms of moist earth;
oh their I go again.

I spoke to a girl with questions.
Silky black hair up like a pine tree,
cappuccino skin studying me
perusing thoughts like vinyl sleeves.
Petite and slouched against the wall
I did not catch her name,
cozy aimless no-name.
New star, squinting glances,
eyes rolling around like owls.
My beard was brustling
like a wildfire up my cheeks.
Maple eyes, oaky eyes,
ebony eyes, rosewood eyes,
burning the dead wood within me.

I look through the telescope
once more into the wide abyss,
i see two things,
a sun,
a black hole inside it,
ever present,
keeping me warm
with gentle sunburn.
I also see a star,
white and shining
through the black mass.
though miles away
tis a sun,
to me,
tis a star next
to a blazing sun.

Have they changed their color?
Has the odious gray fog seeped and sweat across his eyes silently concealing resentment for you?
Has his eyebrows quirked and scorned at your words, has his mouth flexed against the fiery brush?
Have pupils swelled catastrophically into black holes denying the mind of order, rampant with chaos?
Have the monsoons of desire crushed your sanity,
Has she tainted your memories with splintered, broken glass?
Has your conscious been deflated, slashed by the deceiving hands of a love so massive it crumbled the earth below you!?
Have the waters of that sorrow drenched your clothes and sloshed the mud of years of mental clenching, under your bare toes?
If this be true, how come you stand ignorant on the roofs of your drowning houses crying for the birds to sing to you, only to have the vultures screeching down apon you,
"Why did you scare them all away" ?
                             -----------
Do you understand now?
You may reside in this land of debris and trash and broken things, but tis your home you will wallow in.
To live in places of this kind, where the sun doesn't shine and the birds don't sing, is on your own doing,
your own catastrophe, your own problem.
Your own problem.

I can guide you, but only you can rebuild you.
This is my last stop,
I'm done riding your manic train of thought.

I cannot give to those who chase after storms,
for the eye of the storm is,
and always will be
a placid façade surrounded in death.

©Dylan Christopher Whisman

a melody of the song floats threw your mind
and whispers honey in your ears,
warmth ascends through your heart,
skin ***** with the sound of music.

the canvas crimson leaves drift in the autumn wind,
passing two souls in a park, a boy is gazes at
a girl holding an orange balloon, though time is still, you catch yourself whispering, "hold her hand."

the scene is a slamming door that echoes mistakes,
a mom bends down to pick up the their broken glass,
a child with her doll weeps silently in her room, you cry
with her on your couch as the screen turns black.

precious words scribbled on a page, or beautiful little words typed on a screen. you read the page, mind agape.
you begin prepared, but you end the last word in awe.
speechless you think, what am I feeling? what's going on?

Duende.

Inside these quick April showers
lurks a silent melancholy,
a short buzzing of dysphoria.
The human is much like the earth,
for it is these short spells of sadness
that prime the soul for the sunshine
of happiness.

To you, you and we, I write this elegy.
Though none shall see from blinding screens,
flashing colors and unfulfilled dreams,
I stand perishing with the few and the many,
peeking at the dark storm brewing,
while the rest sleep soundly in the rain.

In crowded crowds on sanctioned sidewalks,
we the masses sleepwalk with strings under our shirts;
Amnesic of our history,
speeches and words now smeared and silent
and all of that and who was great before us forgotten between pages;
Absent of the present,
blindsided by the amaurosis of propaganda,
selfishly trapped in selfies, we are left with no knowledge of the self;
Unaware of the future,
so chemically fixed, so wrapped in wool,
so unknowing of our enemies, even the Fathers
have rolled over in their graves.

We've been born and built into a machine vast and complex,
an ever progressing apparatus of countless lies
and watching eyes; and we are nothing more but the cogs,
spinning, ignorant of the system we so helplessly preserve,
afraid to stop our beast in its tracks.

We've all sang "My Country Tis of Thee",
but your country tis no more yours, twas never yours or mine.
It is of a gross abomination of a civilization's country
who currently and physically rapes this world of its soul, it's life force,
while we dream in our spinning slumber.

To those awakened and vigilant, I praise thee.
To those still unforgiving and unforgettable, I cheer to we,
the few, who see both the invisible hand,
and the dagger gripped in its vice.
For when election becomes subversion,
when free choice becomes intimidation,
when controversy becomes secrecy,
and information becomes entertainment,
we remain patient and pungent, a steady corrosion
cog by cog, bolt by bolt,
we wave the smelling salts of truth over the
dormant minds of our sleeping society.

I lament for you, for we,
the masses with out glasses
who let their fears plug their ears;
may your silent stupor be quick and numb,
for if ignorance is our bliss,
may our existence be a arduous rebellion.

Luna,
I see you though my window,
I feel your fingers graze through my hair,
aye how sonorous your presence is.
the hair on my arms thicken,
then my chest and legs.
hands melt and freeze into black hooves,
gently my face stretches outward,
atop my head aches with the growing of antlers,
they are small and young,
still fuzzy with youth.
In this moment I am the Elk,
ears switching
as hot breath swirls around
the room flooded in moonlight.
my call punctures the emptiness,
guttural and majestic.
I am the Elk of your black night.

Beneath these wondering eyes
there is a storm that rages,
and in the eye of
the storm there is a small island;
there, a small cabin sits with its light on.
The candle flickers like a whip as it
illuminates an old bookshelf filled with
tattered dusty textbooks and novels,
loose papers with words scribbled
knick knacks wooded and rusted,
all damp and strewn about.
It's here I am stricken, trying to make
sense of wrinkled papers
filled with ideas of an almost human nature.
As the eye blinks once more,
and the winds begin to howl
I step out into the sand,
books held against my chest,
screaming scribbled thoughts into
the swirling sky.

Show me something that isn't false,
something that isn't tucked away,
for years,
for years, can't you?

a conversation real as flesh,
a smile with no code to crack.
friendship not cast in a play,
not an actor filling
a human role.

a love not scared of killing
hopes of mornings smothered
heavenly in harmonious being,
plastered with life worth living.
a love not afraid of fatal words.

May death be spurious,
standing bare without a scythe?
Might conscious be counterfeit,
scanned copies of life seen through ones before
they sought that of life?

Life is but a masquerade.
Every guest a facade of chosen character,
oblivious and eager to soak in the
fictitious nature of hope around them,
while the owners of the great party
check them off the list.

Birds sing through a February shower,
and we be spectators of that grand choir.
For flowers now bloom
in the winter gloom.
Tears dripping from the green earth's eye .

Oak trees toss and sway their hair,
conducting a symphony of grey sound.
It's the music I like to hear,
when the good earth gives it's cheer,
Birds sing through a February shower.

Staring into the crimson trance
with faces of friends distant and far,
revealing presence within our moments peaceful.

Rugged body to watch the earth's teeth
crumble glowing in gold to ashen clay valleys.
Crackling sparks of rhythms carry the soul to gardens high above.

To a force that gives and takes,
smile most gratefully glowing,
a kaleidoscope world warming the face
of the one who pokes the universe.

A scholar to change the human view
to make sense of twas, thou and than.
either shouting in the street through a mask
or preaching through the screen to those still ignorant.

Maybe a congressman to strike at the heart,
to burst from within scattered in gore and gold.
or just one more journalist,
one more stab at the sour core.

the flag bearer will fall time and time again
Brown,
Snowden,
Hammond.

they are not martyrs, they are victors,
the idea will never die with you
carry your flag through the hail of arrogance and evil,
through the fog of the ignorance and hate,
till you pearce the blackened heart,
and the last thing they'll see is your rosy cheeks.

If you were to come along
and see the beauty
through my gentle eyes,
without having to rip the skin
from my flesh to search inside.

From an old Spanish galleon
sleeping under covers of sand and shells,
I would dive to steal us
the finest wine,
for you my love.

then i would slice up the moon
to add them to our crackers.
and if we kissed in the darkness
with no question on our lips,
i'd love you even more.

many go with the flow,
easy and sloth.
fewer swim against it,
with fists that pierce the swelling tide.
but real free thinkers
step out of the current
to bend the river towards
a field worth growing,
for everyone.

Long ago,
before the first chin hair,
before the first pimple,
before all the stress.
Sitting in artificial sand,
I thought about the future,
reaching a glimpse
of brightness into a fantastic future.
For Christ sake I wanted to be a trash truck driver.
I sat and dreamt about the life beyond my years.
Now that sand pit is a stone curb
were I pan the gutter for specks of
humanity.

I shouldn't have to think in my
years of youth and wonder:
Wether I should leave this world to die,
Or perish with it all.

Hook of emotion,
line suspended thoughtfully,
sinker feels the thought.

Deep and dark dirt,
worms of mother earth feed on
another young soul, soft,
smelling the lilacs.
They taste thy taste of love,
a fire now buried in sand, once
to light a thousand torches.
They taste thy taste of sorrow,
that vile bog of sadness that rips at
the curtains of sanity.
They taste thy taste of deceit,
of rotten completion in her roots,
a sour taste in the soil of Denmark
worms doth hastily spit out this flower.

Heed not the mask they wear
nor the color of skin and hair,
to hide and scare is the tactic of shadows.
The invisible hands that cling
to all the words that shout and sing,
like a virus to a cell it feeds.
Though in virtue it appeals
far intentions conceal;
see through eyes that are taken.
Fierce souls once tried in vain,
now shackled, the mind of Cain,
they shall see no other.
It is quite a site to see
the stricken children, bourgeoisie,
the loop, it pulls ever tighter.
The leash of will
soon the noose that kills,
the birds in the trees all scatter.
But to hang in the gallows
is all very shallow,
for the just retain no hospitality.

Her eyes are dark and mysterious as endless space,
Her hair is  as sweet and soft bed of flowers.
Her angelic softness is beyond belief, imperfect to perfection.
Her embrace, that rejuvenating warmth that illumination from her being.
she clings to my mind like a cute parasite,
burrowing into the cracks of my dreams
my thoughts are swallowed away by her magnificence
and I can't help but feed that desire.
Her presence cradles my soul with brut force.

i pray that one day my soul will evolve and move on,
but every time I inch away, she bursts from my heart like butterfly and flutters around my conscious, unwilling to be caught.

i am but a shy lion,
afraid to roar at the setting sun as it slips away,
day after day.

sleep has become a boring chore,
another thing I would rather not do.
I'd rather have the moonlight rap me in his dainty arms,
then feel the cold lack of presence.
but that too is long a distance,
far, out of sight in plain view.
we may claim to be a strong,
but the arms of another melt soul into stillness,
the stillness of a lake perfect for skipping stones.
my heart craves a partner for the dance of the bed,
***, no.
for love, a much slower dance.
for the soft touch of our noses,
the shallow breath on our flesh,
our eyes,
will devour us whole,
and that's quite alright.
for when your skin is so soft and you slip through my arms and melt into my chest,
I will be so happy.
I will finally sleep,
knowing I will see you in the morning.

the storm has settled.

finaly I wake,
sway sway,
on board a small sailboat, big enough for three.
white seeps through cracks in wood,
creek creek,
my bare feet,
salt clings to my face,
my damp body,
creek creek,
walks across a floor cluttered.
the water whispers against the hull,
I rest in a gentle cradle,
sway sway.

I open the hatch,
no wind,
moonlight on the sound of the sea,
sway sway,
the air is cool.

I look around,
no land,
moonlight on the sound of green endless water,
sway sway,
the moon peers down at me.

the sea reflects the sky,
sway sway,
a quiet energy swirls around, and around,
a chilling nothing is the sound,
destination not yet birthed.
sway sway,
I lay apon the floor,
staring at a wide sea sky,
tiny breezes lick the foam,
sprinkle the stars,
I wonder not my location,
or why and how.

I'm going to be here awhile.

the world is a painting,
naked, hung out for everyone to see.
don't be the ones who arrogantly
spatter mud as they run by
busy in their own heads,
stop and bleed your colors
through bare hands and soft fingers,
give say in humanity.
admire the painting, remove the mud,
dare to change the world.
But tis a crooked painting,
no adjustment will deny the world it's imperfection.

What do the stars whisper to each other?
little cosmic thoughts,
what does Luna think,
is she annoyed,
interested,
concerned,
what secrets do they all hold?

or am I just a silly man wondering
if stars actually have mouths
or thoughts to speak.

a new year,
another year of spontaneity,
of death and life,
of **** ups and downs,
of happy gatherings out in the night,
or in the fire lit room,
or on the curb,
or in the rubble of a bombed city block.
once you purge the truth it's hard to look away,
in an age of information at the fingertips of humanity,
it's insulting not to know anything,
is that why everyone's so angry?
greedy?
hopefully the new year is a another year for
mankind,
and not just man.
for humankind,
and not just humans.

i woke up screaming...
red eyes watery clear,
sheets damp with chills of fear,
darkness tip toed around my bed,
confusion swept 'n smothered my head,
yet a warm flower bloomed in me chest,
and the caress of her hand cleansed me of thy mess,
lips of velvet kissed me so near,
sweet whisper climbed my face and licked my ear,
"you are so loved, shut your mouth silly head,
"embrace me my love, and come back to bed."

Let each pluck,
tug on the strings of your heart.
let the moon soak you in its moonlight,
let it wash away your worries.
allow your voice to resonate in your chest,
vibrate in your soul.
breath in the cold night air,
Let it carry you to a higher place.

The text is buzzing
my eyes new and fuzzy,
in my hands the last breath
of ten thousand winners.
The inkwell is half empty
candles flickering gently,
the moon rests her head
and pours a lavishing smile.
The pages glowing fiercely
yet my intent sincerely,
through snowy fingers she snickers
I've stolen her eye shadow once more.
By dawn we are full of intrigue
for we choose to bear this fatigue;
my dear we haven't slept in weeks.

He is always there for her, yet she cries a sad call.

For he rises her emotions but always lets them fall.

Most days he's with her, skinny and tall,

But sometimes he'll skip being there at all.

Then he collects himself to put on his best,

He lets himself shine and sticks out his chest.

She lights up a bit brighter, sadness gone from her soul,

But he will always fade away, to watch her slip out of control.

This world she is pubescent,
she is insecure,
she is wild a beautiful
she is wonderful
and she knows it.
yet many of mankind choose to be a zit
on their mothers face,
and so few a twinkle in her eye.

Muse of yonder laid me rapt,
faded in her nape 'twas the golden sun.
"Pull back the drapes and weave your path,
may thy wisdom reach you now and then."
Wet with sound, cosmic hum, we mapped
the rosy hills blooming from the storm.
With honeydew eyes I awoke and laughed,
dawn shineth through a window open.
                                      
                                    - Dylan Whisman

silky moonlight glowing against the
***** window,
the dandy long leg tree
oh so familiar
and leaveless swaying
to the rhythm of the rain.
sharing the sky, orange candle
glimmers of cities far away,
coyote piercing the winter air
with howls of sorrow,
The hare must have gotten away.

oh midnight how you kindle me
with your somber twilight,
bursting melancholy inspiration,
oh darkness you.
arousing the artist in lonely me,
you mysterious temptress you,
how your lovely murky mist
covers your opaque skin,
oh blackness you,
an icy caress with your
pitch dark breath
won't suffice me tonight.
i wish to ravage you,
oh nebulous you.
under blankets of shadow
we will be electric,
we shall make a dawn
the world will be jealous of.

a chime ticks in a window
my head grows a pulse
thump thump thump thump
silence.
static violins whisper
buzzing electricity annoying
i fear this is the final night,
ride my dreams into deaths carriage
what is going on up there?
a little man shedding paper and smoking a cigar
in my head.
I need air, I can't swallow.
the truth?
the lie?
yeah there stuck.

Lyrics, Lyrics, Lyrics send me to the either,
weightless shifting there i'll be sitting here to meet ya,
inhale your sweet sensation oh lying here to greet ya,
come whisper colors in my eyes, lemme find what's underneath ya.

May it be love or may it be spite
on this deep n' purple flight,
you gotta shake some sense in me
rock me through the night.
Let us be on clouds of smoke
ain't this life just but a joke?
We can go on and on and on and on
Lemme find what's underneath ya.

Shout embrace I can feel my face
My my I have changed,
Electric veins jet full of grace
My my I have changed.
Sprint through me and hit the gong yeah?

Yes, my you we have only just begun
to know that we are all and all is one,
let's not leave we have just begun
to find out what's underneath ya.

i've heard some say that passion burns without a word,
i try to think my passion is etched into the words I write.
but there is something wrong, all the things in this life of mine, have been sparks,
and in a blizzard of doubt, I fail to ignite my soul.

my childhood seemed like a warm flicker in the past,
my great friends,
i watched them grow up with me
in a flash of light.
i watched some flicker on and off,
some even snuffed out by our own beliefs.

love has had me, and love has left me,
we all know the heat of that fire.

even with all these flashing lights,
none of the embers seem to light the damp wood stacked neatly in my soul.

but in this blizzard of doubt, I strive to ****** the flame to ignite my soul,
so I might feed my warmth to those who need the comfort of a friendly light.

Religion this,
Politics that,
ISIS,
Death,
Emigrants,
Law.

Why can't I just sip my coffee
in my little shop,
without the world being picked apart around me.

I want to work my soul into madness,
i want the chance to study the scrolls
in those big brick castles with
all the nerds throughout the world,
to spend hours into the night
scanning philosophy and history,
pondering for answers.

even if I have to sleep on my textbooks,
on curbs,
in alleyways,
with filthy faced friends dimly lit
over a trash fueled fire,
I will still ponder for answers.