As a writer,
Pictures inspire the emotion:
The journal acting as the canvas,
And the pen being the brush,

And as a writer to an artist,
Black and white had never shown more beautifully.

Though as a writer dating an artist,
To view meaning within the basic lines of the world
Compares not to the placing of meaning atop the ones given.

For as a writer dating an artist,
A blank page envelopes more than unfinished work,
As any unfinished work soon becomes accepted beauty.

And as a writer dating an artist,
Seeing emotion in color no longer feels foreign,
Evolving old metaphors into nothing shy of the neanderthals.

Thus as a writer dating an artist,
I've begun to learn the way of the trade,
In fear for when my words run dry.

As an artist,
Words inspire the feelings,
The canvas acting as the journal,
And the brush being the pen.

And as an artist to a writer,
Silence had never been etched more enticing.

As the writer dating an artist-
I have become the artist in love with a writer.

What are we doing?
We don’t get to have control.
A simple flutter, and our life’s work is gone.

The dominoes have begun and stand too close together.
We are last in line on the edge of a cliff.
Immovable in a world that will leave us behind.

Faith, trust, and pixie dust
That’s what helps you fly.
Why do we believe such childish lies?

Who do we think we are?
We don’t get to create the rules.
A small spark, and our lives become ashes.

Right corner pocket and its over for everyone.
We watch the ball that’s rolling and headed to the end.
Wishing to be but only a passerby.

Faith, trust, and pixie dust
That’s what helps you fly.
Why in the hell do we even try?

The other day I restocked on peppermint Altoids,
when I always buy the spearmint.
And I'm not sure why,
but thinking about tequila makes me smile.

I've been feeling a lot more lately,
In quantity over quality.
And I haven't been able to place it,
but with the passing days the music's become acoustic.

Between the coffee and the beers,
Father John Misty preaches away my fears.
And although I've disagreed with today,
I know tomorrow w̶e̶'̶l̶l̶ I'll be okay.

Right. I said.

But how does it feel?* She begged once more.

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶p̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶e̶a̶,̶
W̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶g̶a̶n̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶c̶o̶o̶l̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶r̶e̶m̶e̶m̶b̶r̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶e̶m̶o̶r̶y̶,̶
T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶l̶a̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶r̶o̶w̶d̶ ̶u̶n̶k̶n̶o̶w̶n̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶r̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶
W̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶a̶r̶m̶,̶ ̶q̶u̶i̶e̶t̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶c̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶o̶m̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶h̶o̶b̶b̶y̶,̶
T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶l̶o̶s̶e̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶i̶t̶y̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶.̶

L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶s̶c̶a̶r̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶
T̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶e̶x̶a̶c̶t̶ ̶p̶o̶i̶n̶t̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶a̶l̶i̶v̶e̶.̶

Those were the thoughts of feelings that could compare,
But I kept them to myself because in summary, or simplicity rather, it truly is;

*Right.

What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.

I remember my moms cups of coffee as a child.
A hazelnut aroma rising out of her travel mug --
a gift she got as an underpaid teacher who had to get her boost on-the-go
--filling the car like steam from a hot shower fills a bathroom.
I remember that smell ironically always headed to school.

I remember the first time I was offered a sip of coffee.
Not nearly as sweet as it smelled.
Bitter liquid that terminated taste buds like water extinguishes flame as it billowed across the tongue and  down the hatch.
I remember that taste vowing never to have to again.

I remember when my sister started working at a "coffee shop".
The one that competes with itself across street-ways,
and still has lines filled with downward looking drones despite being in Paris.
I wouldn't even eat the pastries she brought home
knowing the aroma entwined around them long enough for osmosis.

And sitting now, in the office of my retail store at 23,
Staring into my travel mug,
which looks like an above ground pool version of the black lagoon,
These are the memories that come to mind
as caffeine blocks adenosine from their receptors in my brain.

It's hard to tell the difference in what is actually poetic
and what is simply me viewing something as a poet.
With that in mind- I've been thinking about scars lately,
and I've realized there's a metaphor to be found in there.

Appearing when injured in ways our body can't heal.
Despite any effort, the wound is never the same.
The new design etched in the skin as a memory,
With any physical pain now masked with an emotional connection.

The thing about scars is that they do go away- eventually-
And by the time you are healed, the area is 100% new.
No longer marked by anything more than fresh cells,
A creation or rebirth formed through one painful moment.

Some change our appearance, while others only affect our actions.
Some change what makes us laugh, and others change what we fear.
Some bring tears even after their gone, others hardly force a second thought.
Regardless in the end there is nothing left but what we remember.

We endure pain to a degree of being marked,
But that doesn't mean we won't heal.
It just takes a lot of time and understanding-
that we'll never be the same- but we'll be new.

Buddha: 'Nothing is forever, except change'-
Scars: There's a poem to found there.

I’m a shell of a man,
In this shell of a world,
Surrounded by nothingness.

And it is this shelled life we live in,
In such a vast shelled void,
That makes us feel so empty.

But our shells are not the one which lives inside,
The five senses know not of who that shell can hide.

For some of us fill the shell to the brim with alcohol,
Til they drown the one within.

While others mutilate the shell in fiery destruction,
Finding not what is lacking beneath.

Some starve the shell down to a much thinner lining,
Suffocating the air for the internal.

Some shells are altered in design and decoration,
Rendering what feels as difference.

While the others that have kept original and the same,
Slowly grow in independence.

When we fall -crack- and our true selves leak out,
Some run and hide the broken; faking in disguise til repair.

When we can’t escape judgement for the innate shell and/or the cracks we bear,
Some leave the shells found hanging in closets or simply lying warm gun in hand.

Forgetting our gift of common sense we lack as a whole,
We define each other with what only our five senses show.

For I've found I’m a man in a shell,
In this awful illusion of a shell,
Surrounded by ignorance.

And it is this shelled world we create,
In this vast shelled void,
That makes us feel so empty.

Where do we draw the line
Between the difference of wanting something,
And when it's time you need that something?

I'm not unhappy,
Yet the latter is slowly fading.
And as I feel this through I remember,
There's a reason it's called a pursuit.

I don't know if I'm ready
But I know that I want you.
I know that I'm ready,
For that.

I was on my way just seeking a purpose,
When I saw a young boy ‘bout the age of three.
With short brown hair and eyes that seemed to glow,
He was playing innocent with only love to show.

I'm no longer able to see that brown-hair boy of three,
But in the reflection of my mind I see a three-year-old me.
With no problems, and no worries; just my head in the clouds,
I ran around happy because i knew i was free.

Look at me now, all those years gone to waste,
With these problems, and these worries, clouds darkened with haste.
The three-year-old me is inside me somewhere,
But he is lost and confused and i do not know where.

I've made a new friend and she’s never gonna leave,
As listen to her sing, I am off flying free.
Cause when I listen to music, I can again see,
Oh, It frees my three-year-old me…

Here I stand.

A sheet of ice cracked with age beneath my feet.
Temperature plays no affect
For I've always been here.

I scream out in hopes of being heard,
But imagine the echoes of distance
Dissect any understanding by the time it reaches a willing ear.

I've been shuffling along for as long as I know
Only to freeze when I hear another crack form.
And I’m stuck again.

Only able to decipher the feelings of fear, frustration, and panic.
Equate time into the equation-
The emotions only grow.

Why doesn't anyone help me?
Where is she?

I have hands worth reaching for
And legs that can climb.
So saving me would come at half the cost that it may seem.

Frustration becomes my crown of thorns
As I cry out to feel more but in conclusion: I’m too numb.
Fresh trails of blood begin to show me where I've been and how I tend circle back to the beginning.

The Crown only digs in deeper,
Where is she?

Off in the distance I see etches in the ice.
Scribbles or scratches that feel familiar.
The closer I get reveals the messages or poetry in the ground,
Words I haven’t seen in over a year but know so well.

They are mine and they are not.
Some written long before me by figures only one could admire.
Regardless of the author,
With each word read after another contributes a feeling I can feel.

I graze the carvings with my fingertips as memories rush back inside me.
Emotions I can see expressed in something no echo can interrupt.
Words thousands of years old and words only a year old,
Yet the meaning has always stayed the same- Solidarity.

Why hasn't anyone come looking for me?
Where am I?

Tearing away the crown I scream,
The pain and realization overwhelming my vision with tears of indescribable emotion.
And vigorously my hands begin.

Scratching away at the ice I write.
Pieces of ice, nails, skin, and blood surround where I’m now.
Falling to my knees crushing the crown,
I’m too focused to notice the frustration subside.

Words growing on top of others,
Encompassing my position with far little structure.
I’m too transfixed on finishing.
Any pain is masked by the feelings I can finally describe.

I can see the words of anger to my left,
Metaphors of sadness in front of me,
Loneliness flows from my finger tips as I’m painting the emptiness to my right,
And love- 180 degrees behind me- I feel her in the letters that I write.

As each emotion surges through me to words in the ice,
A smile that has formed within me refuses to fade.
Clarity of the frustration I held onto has enlightened me,
I can never stop writing if I want to feel.

There she is.
Here I am.

I know why she isn't here,
And in the haste of my writing I see words that aren't mine accompanied by a pen-
"…Go all the way".
What’s written before is covered by my own mess, but I feel the meaning and walk away.

No longer fearing the cracks that form,
I know where I’m going.
Hands throbbing, I must never stop writing.
Pen in hand, I can never stop moving.

Here I come.

People in life want to have peace and freedom,
But no one in life can make things full of glee.
There are people in life with eyes of coal,
All sad and depressed, all just lost in a pit.
In these deep dark moments, all down in the dumps,
You make brand new friends with every lost soul.

When you’re down in the dumps you got to be smart,
Even though you make friends, things still fall apart.
I never fall in; I just seem to jump,
I play cards, listen to songs, and think about life’s flaws,
Write music, play songs, sleep, eat, and sleep.
And everyone believes that I’m the King of the Dumps.

I’ve been here so long that there’s no longer a way out,
I write so many songs that I’m beginning to lose count.
People I know talk to me about there good news and bad,
I’m a good listener but got no one to talk to,
When it comes to my problems I’m stuck in a slump.
Even though I didn’t ask to be, I’m the King of the Dumps

I've tried therapy once;
Weekly: Mondays, 3 PM.
But like interruptions end thoughts,
Broken glass ended sessions.

So call for help cause I've done it again,
Killed the advice as soon as he chimed in.
Conversations left to brewing inside I just ask
“If I can’t help myself, what other ******* ***** can?”

Blood stained fists are what sealed these lips,
Closing my eyes on the broken bathroom mirror.

I listen to the sounds the leaves make as they fall to the ground,
Look at the way the water moves as the breeze blows,
Smell the crisp air as the sun beams,
And I wonder if they notice all the same things about me.

I write.
Well wrote my own story at hand.
I’m not finished with what I’ve hardly started,
Just placing the pen to rest in my pocket.

Fold up the floor, Tear down the tents,
Throw out my key, Stick out my thumb,
It’s time to put this show on the road.

I’m gone. Content.
Life in slideshow form shown through my dash.

I’m done. Unchanged.
With troubles nothing but rumble and dust.

Crack me open, Read what you may,
Wait for the break, A mid-sentence halt.
”Gone fishing, be back later.”

A toss of the pen, the key to this code,
A rise and a fall, no idea how to go.
Will it be caught, wrote down in new ink,
Or will it be waiting, for my absence to sink.

It's never appealed to me,
The smell of cigarettes.
Whether it was my upbringing or the Asthma,
I couldn't say.

2-3 days later and it's peaked.
Headache √
Anxiety √
Nausea √

Here I am.
All the symptoms are there.
What these lips have touched.
What these lungs have tasted.

They crave for more.

All that's happened up to this point
it has not been easy.
It has come with equal discomfort
as comfortable as I truly I am.

And although its not very sturdy,
this is the table in which it lays.
It's not easy but I am happy,
And I know it'll get easier in time.

-Time-
Such an Underestimated element.
Setting People into place,
And placing no gaps in any life.

-The Fun-
It comes in waves, and as it pulls away,
You only wish you could ride with it.
Giving emotions that are expressed and held.

-The Mockingbird-
It landed on a window sill of mine,
Brought hope as I opened the glass to let it rest.
Leaving an open exit if it plans to fly away.

The time gets the better,
Bringing fun things to come.
But it seems only to dissipate,
When the mockingbird tries to rest again…

The fear comes in me,
The worry stays,
”What if I come home to an open window,
Empty sill?”

- Now I guess I know.

I am not afraid of the dark.
Nor do I fear the thoughts in my head.

But the bugs.
Aye.
The ******* critters in my brain.

My fear, I’m afraid, is they power they have mustered-
Controlling such thoughts; destroying slumbers when days-light dims.

Like solar paneled viruses that attack at the core of emotion,
Ripping through the Limbic system.
Erasing Memory; Re-circuiting Anxiety.

Taking the wiring from retinal output and re-coding each message.
Hacking the server until ants become Godzilla
And “hello’s” read as “goodbye”.

Twitching fingers and feet that scratch at the skin.
It’s these ******* leeches in my skull that **** my nerves dry
Til I’m hot- **** no, cold.

And the extermination comes:
Sunrise.Coffee.Interaction.

It’s like they live to die by the hour of midnight,
Only to do their time through rummage and destruction.
Hatching eggs in my nails, Chewed away by discomfort.
Growing to new forms by lights out.

Rehearse.
React.
Repeat.

It’s these bugs that I fear;

Fearing the darkness.
Fearing the thoughts inside.

It’s these bugs that I even doubt this ****** piece of work.

Yet these bugs are what created what you now have read,
The over exaggeration now etched on paper.
And it is the small bit of me still left alive at night behind them,
Refusing to see this truth when the extermination has come.

It’s no plead for help; No cry for sympathy.

I am me as you are me-
So please take me as I come.

O’ gracious mind, that stores the monster within,
The ill of soul feels that in life one can’t win,
O’ beaten heart, that does not tell praise from sin,
The lord would not have placed ‘insane’ in such men.

Thy inner head does burn with this gift inside of me,
The mental suffocation does help me feel so high,
They call me crazy?! Oh they know not what sets me free,
Its belief we grow to live, sadly we grow to die.

The sounds become outstanding, bringing leaks unto these ears.
The ink becomes overwhelming, hovering off the page.
The people become too much, making life a last resort.
And fire in my skull burns bright! I can’t stand this anymore!

Silence,
The lack of fight.
Peace,
The dim of light:

For I love all insanity that comes my way,
Because it makes life worth living each and everyday…

[noun: /ärmˌrest/]
The repelling force between two magnets.

The silent awakening, the morning texts,
A dreaded Monday, yet the feel of “okay”,
The early crank of the car, and we were on our way,
It was the start of a good day.

How did the laughter turn into sheer fear?
When did the joy vanish under pain?
Debris, Flashing lights, A choking smell,
All I remembered was the start of a good day.

Then the replay hit me like an airbag to the face,
The gutless fear engulfed me as the tears ran down my face.

A light;
That made all the difference.
For I followed til I heard the MICHAEL!
Then I saw the face of blinding lights coming on my way.

And that was it.
The hit had come
unrealized til the deflation showed me what was done,
A noise came from me
Blood curdling yell for no apparent reason,
A quick scan and everyone was safe,
And that was it.

For now the dream is an endless replay of the mind,
Labelled and forever remembered as “the start of a good day”.

Ask of me my troubles,
I wouldn't know where to start.
Ask to share my joy,
And I’d get lost in layers of darkness,
Simply searching for a worthy glimpse.

The thing about new lives are —
finding where the old ones end.

Why are the beginning of life stories skipped over?
An authors job is not to choose where to begin.
Why do we feel the need to fill life with action or tragedy?
An authors ending isn't created but rather written through.
Why do we force a story if it doesn't fit the mood?
The fact of the matter is, an author can only choose “when” to write.

The thing about old lives are —
deciding when the new ones begin.

Ask of me my high spirits,
I wouldn't know where not to look.
Ask to share my pain,
And I’d be blinded by the depth of light,
Simply searching for a sliver still fresh.

It was a Monday afternoon.
I decided,
after months of putting off,
to finally give blood.

Red Cross had only been
emailing me for months now.
They were in bad need for blood,
desperate need for mine: O-

The man who took my information
was  furrowed, leathery, and tired.
The opportunity time provided was conversation,
and the benefit of meeting Jesus.

Now the woman who took my blood,
was not only the unanimously decided tired,
but also sad.
The eyes gave it away.

The entire time I gave blood I listened,
and somehow made sure I didn't open up.
She sat there quietly counting the minutes,
While I denied her a chance to meet Jesus.

I treated her well.
I'm genuinely kind
as I know anyone can tell.
But is that enough?

And I'm questioning now with her memory in mind,
"What if that was Jesus?"
"What if He gave me the chance to better His day?"
And that's where I know I'm wrong-

For I know she was Jesus.

They say home is where the heart is,
Well I gave my heart to you.
Thus there is nothing more true in saying:
"Home is wherever I’m with You".

And it may take hours, days, or years,
But “I’ll never care how long it takes,
-as long as you come home to me”.

Removing the mask you bear,
The one painted in sadness and doubt.
Removing this cover we find another.

This middle layer (the second lie)
is the mask of fake smiles most people wear.
No one can really smile that long,
So we must lift once more and cinch our eyes.

Beneath this second film cover we find the human you are.
The person you have only let a total of two people see.
I, being one of the few, have only been graced on the rarest occasions.

Most people only wear one mask,to hide the pain.
But you, you wear two: for hiding the pain then hiding the fake joy.
Its clever, believable, unique, and a mistake.

For only you would need two extra layers to hide how extraordinary you really are.

Have you ever fallen in snow?
What of being pushed
And not of anyone but those you trust and know.
Is it only a dream…

Music is what makes me,
People are what confuse me.
I can live loving friends,
Yet still need someone to confide in.

Have you ever questioned the common heart?
What not of love but the silhouette of like
That mixed emotions do hide in such mental rampart.
Is it only how it seems…

If people could see I reside in me,
A life yet to know and I'm fine being free.
A dream as it seems though what does it mean,
For a story untold held stitched at the seams.

Because of me you have been knocked to the dirt.
And where am I?
Well the self guilt has placed me beneath you;
covered in the **** and mud that still seems to hold you up.

Every tear and every cry of pain from that lovely face,
Is just another twisting stab to the heart with a dull blade.
Every comment and every reminder to what I speak,
Is more soil beneath your feet, dirt that grips my throat as I try to breathe.

I am already down; so please, please don’t send me further.
Each word: a new blow, new bruise upon the mind as I sink deep,
So place a noose around my neck to keep from loosing me.
I can’t slip through the fingers like the mud between your fists.

I’d rather give my last breathe to your saving grasp,
Than to the handfuls of dirt shoved behind each thought.
Either way I’m suffocating in time for one last word;
Sorry…

This is an SOS
This is to keep from blowing my brains out
This is to save another's life
This is for tomorrow
This is what it has always been

Breathe in.
Reflect. Relive.
Let go.

Dive into the unconscious,
Unlatch the hidden secrets,
Climb the weak walls laid built,
Fight to see the other side.

Break through the shattered glass,
Crawl careless across the shards,
Tear the stitched seams,
Depressed emotions, together hide.

Tense up.
Choke. Remember.
Drown in it all.

Fears that rip through even our best dreams,
Helpless, Alone; The stories peak,
Brick by brick the memories fall,
A life caught up in all our screams.

Cause we can live it fully blind,
Or at quick glance fully see,
It’s the Broken Past that makes us,
The pieces our puzzled future needs to breathe.

Breathe out.
Vent. Relax.
Move on.

Have you ever been a walking contradiction?
Or a sitting one rather?*
For walking implies movement and
I don't feel I'm going much anywhere these days.

I told a friend Id see a therapist
For one reason-
That "I've grown to become lonely,
Yet I'm more comfortable being on my own".

Complacency - the silent killer

Wake up.
Be a good person.
Go to bed.
-and that just isn't enough anymore.

I know what that means,
I'm just afraid to admit it.

I can feel the pounding on my heart get heavy

What feels like pain to my unconscious is merely the act of resuscitation.

For I’m choking on a pit I've swallowed in trying to replace the one in my stomach.
I’m dying and I don’t even know it.

Lying under a leaking roof,
Just counting the drops til it caves.
Been walking on a rotten bridge,
Counting the steps to the fall.

Just a ticking bomb of worry,
As my hopes just waste away.
The longer time holds on,
The more I want to let go of it all.

Q: How can one lose home -
but live in a house?

A: She tells me after class when she’s almost home.
Yet later it gets... and I find she’s still not here.

*Moral: To be homeless but live in a house,
Is to live in a house without her.

My bare feet walk this path alone.
Leaving the story it caused behind.
The pain falls away little by little through the hole in my pocket,
like bread crumbs to a troubled past.

I’ve left my shoes at home, broken in and worn out.
Try them on if you’d like,
walk around, get the feel of things.
But don’t try to fix them,
cleaning would only cover the scuffs entailing my journeys.

Next to my shoes is a box,
a place I have collected my thoughts.
Don’t break the lock, for I wear the key.
My thoughts are gone and just for me.
I’ve engraved the top, that who sees will know.
'Stay Gold'.

If you look beneath you’ll find a book.
The pages of irrelevant meaning.
Its wrapped in parchment, as if to ship.
The address line left blank.
If opened the ink runs red for I’ve pressed my heart;
To store it, save it, make it last.

Lastly lays a covered cage,
bird seed scattered on around the base.
The bird inside defines this walk, beginning to the end.
Dead or alive depends on time, the strength of my own species.
A blackbird, or a dove. Me or you, which is my freedom?

My bare feet wall this path alone.
Following the story it left behind.
Pacing the dropped regrets from my pocket back to start.
Counting my steps all the way to you.

My lizard died today.
With sunken eyes,
He's relaxed.

Now I conceptualize:
His perception,
If one-

Of me.

This was going to be a message to the masses,
This was supposed to be for those who needed it.
But the voice in my head reminds me the eyes will never find these words,
It screams out they wouldn't care even if they did.

I wish to trade the hallow people,
Give my shoes for theirs.
But when I see the feet are bare,
I use words to cut off mine.

The nerves surface,
the ideas pour out,
and I am fascinated by you,
as though I am not one of you.

So I write in order to reach out,
I write in order to connect.
These words are created to express,
Screaming ironies I do not see myself.

This was going to be a message to the masses,
Except now it's a message to me.
My lines are crossed now that I've moved on,
And so I pretend that this end sets me free

Remember the day when you told me you loved me?
Do you?
-I do-
The icy shiver as the cuffs bound my ankles.
It hadn't been that long and yet, I liked it.
I remember within all that fear,
Deep down (like waaaayyyy down): relief.
Love.
A word and emotion;
But to what does it hold value?
Because in this economy it doesn't feel like much.
Do you remember when I told you I loved you?
Truly?
That was my favorite day,
Right before your birthday.
It wasn't a gift to you though, no.
It was a burst of meaning and feeling I had mustered up over weeks passing til it exploded into ****** up confusion in your parents bed that night.
You overlooked the imperfection with a smile.
Too giddy to care;
Perhaps even your ears heard it perfectly as I meant it.
P̶e̶r̶h̶a̶p̶s̶.
Then that word, love, slowly faded away remember?
The daily panic of as though you were slipping in my hand,
And the over-compensated measures that would push you away.
So. far. away.
Commitment- Check.
Love- Check.
And a future? We were so ready to skip ahead to the settling down it sickened us.
Remember that?
-I do-
And yet its gone and I can’t remember why?
I can’t place were it fell out,
I've retraced my steps but someone cleaned the mess before I could investigate.
And so its gone, as I’m left stumbling through this fog trying to rebuild a scattered puzzle.
Piece - by - piece.
It is as though our kite strings snapped and now I’m holding them both as the separate winds tear me in two.
I’m breaking.
And so now I’m just here,
Alone.
Watching replays of us in my room until I realize whats missing:

*I've lost all my teeth and yet now your smile seems twice as big.

Close one eye.


                                                          ­                        L


                               What do you see?


O


                                        Now switch.


                                                       ­                 O


             Close both;
             And- open.


                                         K


Each perspective, giving light to new way.
Each angle showing its very own and personal meaning.
Every piece forming the large view of it all.

We can do this now with our thoughts,
Some might call it-
"Taking a walk in their pair of shoes".

I prefer “art”.

Simply put, you start with nothing.
From there we add stories;
Be it experience, imagination, fictional, or realistic.

The best part is each story has meaning
Ranging from deep to no meaning at all.
And from there we see coincidence, similarities, and difference.

Regardless of any one story-
Its relation (or major lack there of) to another,
Makes a picture.

Like forming the Mona Lisa from pieces of toast,
Or 9/11 from individual pictures of victims,
Every minor part has a purpose,
And every purpose give larger meaning.


      Close one eye:


W


View the items you can see without peripherals.


                                                  ­                                   I


                                    Now both:

                          T


                           Seeing not with eyes but all else that is handed to you.


                                                          ­           H


                                                             ­                                     And open:


                                                         ­                                I


Yet do not immediately place it all together.


                           N


We are not all lucky enough to be born blind, def, or dumb.
But we all have the capability to see words from letters, weeks from days, buildings from bricks.

Just because a brick is left over or a painting of a shoe sits next to a photo of an ore,
Does not give reason that it is a mistake, or unimportant
Without it, Such words would never exist.

Get It?

From beginning to end,
There are no gray areas.
In between it all lays truth,
Yet truth can often lie in between the fiction.

So where does this lead us;
Into a twisted reality? Or troubled dream?
A nightmare on earth that hides in hate and love?

No.
Rather a lack of understanding,
A clear view of the concept,
But a mere distance away from grasping it.

Everything and Nothing is abstract.
Shear works of art written in the documents,
Signed by the blood and tears.

The uphill battle,
Children pushed away.

The poker face,
Emotions thrown aside.

Lawyers. Stress.
Time stretched like a rubber band beyond elasticity.

It never snaps,
Your heart will stop thinking it might,
But it doesn't.

The hurt is distributed through my fathers stress.
The tears through my mother’s eyes.
All is lost, everything is gained.

With faces of youth in every scene,
The dream of peace passes mind.

The brother,
Staying quiet and still.
His eyes floating in the mixed level of emotions.

The sisters,
One with the scars at the heart of it all.
And the other too young to know what’s going on.

And me.

Too numb to notice,
Too careless to feel the pain.

Till it builds.

The knives of emotions come through the pores.
The ink falls from the fingertips onto the page.

There are no gray areas.
All of it is abstract.
Yet once again, all of it is nothing.

At the heart of it all.

My bed smells of you.

The aroma of today’s faint memories;
Your face,
Those lips.

Lying here now dozing in and out of reality,
the dreams become more real than the memories seem to be.

I’m reaching for you in my thoughts-
Inhaling your remains til the day you share this empty place in my bed for good.

At what point does declaring your fear make it any less of what it is?
Because I know what I'm afraid of
And for the night it's still here.

Patience;
Like the answer within a lucky eight ball,
the word submerges to the surface.
Upon meditating the previously proposed question.

Is it foolish to be afraid when you know all will be well?
Or more foolish to fall under such a notion?

We forget how powerful fear can be,
how quickly it becomes the thief of will.

Dear Love,
I was lost but now Im found,
But Im still blind and can not see,
Without you I would lose my way,
I need you to get through my day.

With every kiss I give and take,
I only hope your love for me isn’t fake,
Cause when Im with you my locked heart is yours,
And you have the key that opens the doors.

You build me up so don’t put me down,
Those deep dark blue eyes pick me up off the ground,
I can’t wait to sleep cause ill dream of you tonight,
And then think of you tomorrow til that day turns to night.

But as the sun rises I only hope,
That the breath you share with me doesn’t burn like a rope,
You’re asking me if our love will grow,
That’s for us to find out and only god to know.

Sincerely,
The one who cares.

You can have an opinion long enough
you lose grip of the fact that's all it is.
The same principle can be applied to beliefs and morals,
And that realization can be terrifying.

My ex had an abortion while we were together,
to a child come to find never existed at all.
Yet that experience still weighs one me,
and it is scary that I'll never know:

Whether the guilt I felt is one I hide within a changed opinion,
or if my opinion is changed in order to find a justification?

From fingers to mouth
To fingers on toes.
I'm removing dead cells
With teeth made of bones.