we wander
we plodder
we hope to impress

we wade
or sit still
though i digress

is the sword in its sheathe
or the blade in the breast?
is this the worst yet?
or is it the best?

do questions come?
and do answers go?
is this little world
all we will ever know?

the premise of all of it
the basis for none
or is all of humanity
a bullet with no gun

the beliefs you ***** in your mind meet each other's corners and become walls, halls and buildings. like in city streets. what's left are small passages where dust and debris collect and gather as if for communion. acid rain from above pays homage to the world, each drop in a puddle; another donation to the collection plate.

the ebb and flow of happenings leave their watermark.. high and low, their stain and filth. the polluted contents stagnate, laid upon stucko or brick.  and you'd have to really lean your head back to get perspective on all of this ****. your monuments tower, derelict but something you call your own.

so very important because they are now your home. and home is not where the heart is in this city of sin. you're disgusting, you are filth, your dignity: you bend.
you're ashamed of all that would make this right, but you laugh at the light. all it's ever done for you is lay rays upon your despicableness. it wasn't always like this but now you relish the dark, it's harder to tell if that's sweat or tears.

laying in wait, while all your demons comfortably spin their wheels and weave their tapestries while you sleep and after your slumber you look upon the travesty that is done for you. the clouds move in, in your mouth a weird taste, and with the last spit in your jaw you mutter "**** this ******* place"

we lie awake
we lie when wake
we lie and wait
and then abate

Philosophy is simply the analysis of nature using poetic terminology.

static is not palatable to the ears, music is. without movement there is no music, music is movement. music is life, life is movement. life is characterized by movement, movement is animation. animation characterizes life, it is it's animus. identifying and comparing with a conceived notion is similar to arriving at a dead end. so it is with perception, when perception stops it is the sign in the road to reveal we have met an end. ideas and beliefs are a means to an end, and are static perceptions. the animus that is life, if one can read in between the lines will find that a belief is not life or anything characteristic of it. a belief is an immobilized vehicle, one simply would be better off walking. that is why holding onto immovable perceptions and non-changing ideas is a pit in the stomach, bitter to taste. deep down, we know better.

Often we find ourselves perplexed by an emotion. Being unaware of why, can't do much other than compound this negative situation. There are three steps one should take:

Examination
Acknowledgement
Acceptance

Through this process a much more accurate feeling is developed, one with clarity that can provide an insight followed by a compelling sense of direction, or action. See, this is the tricky part. The first three steps and the result are an entirely internal process, which alone in itself bears no fruit. They are the undoings of the latches on the door, now one must take the first step out of it.

Folks these days are either evolutionists or creationist while I kick back self-proclaimed suicidal ideationist.
       I've got bigger fish to fry than some issue with a racist, if politics were even crazier I'd be a proud pro auto-felatio-ist.
      But I don't like politics it tends to get people bitter and my ex-girlfriend ****** glitter.
     I'm damaged and you know I'm a ******* sinner. Still sitting at the table screaming where the **** is dinner?

Picking at every scab on the scalp,
under each fingernail a thin gluey layer of blood.

pick, pick.

Just like in the old days: 16 years old. 17. 18. 19 years old. 20, 21, 22, 23 and 24 and 25 and then it stopped. A few months pass and I haven't even run my fingers through my hair, maybe it was just the weather drying my scalp, or a harsh shampoo.

So much of my life is simply out of my awareness. Not in any deep philosophical sense, but rather an inane one. Can't seem to pay attention to reality, nonetheless grasp it. I thought I was a dreamer, at one point in my life. Now I see it as daydreaming, the sort of daydreaming symptomatic of melancholia. Relationships become hazy, I'm either abusing someone, or myself it seems. I feel lost in the hubbub, maybe similar to running through an exciting room; ceiling speckled with hanging multi-colored streamers that touch the floor. The intentions seem clear enough, get to the exit. I never do, though. It's more of a mindless plodder, or sometimes a frantic pacing back and forth. It's a bit overwhelming, this is a big room and it's easy to feel very small in it. The lights are bright and distracting, I cant help but feel vulnerable. Somehow I have to protect myself and blot all this out.
and just like that I become ignorant.

Friendships and well-being between acquaintances becomes jaded, confusing, misguided always missing the target.  It's all so narcissistic and self-centered: this whole scenario that could easily dote itself as a complex that esteems oneself as something that which it is not, but under all of that simply lies the fear. Fear paints the walls of this room black and the streamers are blood-red, the lights aren't so bright anymore, they're dim, and not as bright as a candle burning at wick's end. If you're lucky Someone comes along and sets up a street light in the center, and you see the way out.

But what's on the other side of that door? Is it a greater hell than this one? Are there bigger flames and more insults? Or is it peace and calm, is it Okay-ness? Surely there are more people out there, which is a horrid thing to imagine. There's surely so much out there that could harm me, and my pride. If they hurt my pride they'll all see that scared little boy, the weak one, the feeble one with the weak mind that insidiously disguises itself with pride and pretense.  The one that wasn't popular, the one that jokes were made against. The lazy, the stupid, foolish one. The one that tries to hide his deformed image with vanity and "pride."

Go ahead friend, take your light, close the door on your way out. I'll sit here with my legs crossed, it may be dark and scary in here, but at least I've kicked everyone else out.. now it's just me.

and I do believe that candle has just burned out completely.
I can't even see my hand in front of my face.

*pick, pick.

We hold on to the forms we perceive with the eye... I'm sorry, I'm not trying to echo Buddhism, I continue:

We try to grab running water until our knuckles turn white, and we'll do this for 100 years and never realize the innate stupidity, still King Arthur searched for the holy grail of eternal life.
You ache and moan, twist and turn and even on the mornings that your wishes are granted your mind diverts and seeks to cling to something other.  Something that you don't have, that something which injects a serum that will surely fill that aching cavity. Though that emptiness is a recess in the mind that avoids confrontation and betrays all the treasures in the world, even had they been given to you. And even if you acquired everything, you would hold your stomach as a child in hunger at those who seemed even happier than you though they clearly had less.