after too many moons
he slows down time
looks outside in anger
refuses to let anyone in
the bed unmade because
it will only be him for
the rest of his life

after too many moons
there is no return home
home a long lost throne
giving memory colour
sharply against this
endless white of
endless walls

after too many moons
he will be forgotten
by so many who once
were just like him

after too many moons
any tear is welcome
to create a new ocean

i am a tree
i am an observer
i do not speak
i listen and listen
and wait patiently
for something to witness
as i stand still silently

i see
war and
**** and
****** and
suicide and
all brutalities,
caused by
human nature

but i see
love and
joy and
character and
movement and
all endless possibilities,
caused by
human nature

i do not have a voice
i cannot move
i can only grow
higher and higher
closer to the sun,
i can only change
the colours of my leaves
to aware others
of new seasons

i provide oxygen
for all these infinite beings
and i do not know
how many years i will
be rooted here
as an insignificant
on-looker

When
that stillness comes
and centers -
        all the chaotic parts
flying in the air
slowly, in circles
         come to a gradual halt
and tranquility
washes over
like a sweet, low tide-
this is the time
to release all ego
and bid goodbye
               to pride
Emotions come
           emotions go
it's all a part of
       the same cosmic flow
When I close my eyes
I can feel my mind
I am ensconced within
an aura divine
in the tiniest of whispers
like an echo of ghosts
above my third eye
my heart seems
                  to float              
I am connected
to the stars
they speak my name
and inside that heart,
             a golden flame
burning in passion yet
also in faith
in the ability to get through
the darkness in strength
In moments like these
I reach out to the earth
                     growing my roots
in grounding rebirth
I can hear them forming
in soft crackles
     my fingers sprouting
tender green shoots
In my moments like these
my mind is released  
to purity of air
I am wrapped in my own glow
Away from self-judgement's
                                       harsh glare
       and the scepter of peace
inside my body
so lovingly reigns
as coolness of water
slakes through
my veins
My ventricles fill
with the breaths
                          of life
releasing up to winds
stress and strife
I bless each one
with a barely-uttered phrase:
May there always be
times of spiritual ease
with the silent magic
         of moments like these

Writers are humble beings.
We are not arrogant,
Mighty,
Or triumphant.
We are merely the artisans of words
That will forever exist.
We mold what we already know
Into a black and white painting of what we don't know.
To better understand
Ourselves,
Our world,
And worlds beyond us.
Between keyboard taps,
Pencils that scratch,
And minds that rage on.

We rarely ever write about
Ourselves.
If we do, it is only our perception of ourselves.
We do not brag,
Only tell,
Perspectives,
Views,
Arguments.
We use characters to view the world sometimes.
The morbid words come together nicely.
They say something loud and wonderful,
Yet too often the words are mistaken for
Personal
Feelings.
When that is not the case at all.

We live through our writing
Our imaginations.
That is how we thrive.
Little notebooks are scattered
On bookshelves and desks
Around the house.
Reminders scribbled on lined,
Unlined,
Stationary paper.
Random words,
Quotes,
Brilliant ideas.
Ideas that will be
Unused,
Forgotten,
Misplaced.

But the important part is not
That we are writers.
The important part is
That we have readers
And we owe it  to those
Readers
To put forth the beautifully
blunt,
Excruciating
Truth.

someone asked me today what it's like to be a writer and i can tell you this,
my mind exploded into galaxies and i wondered if they could see the twinkling stars in my eyes.
first, i looked into their eyes and saw a black hole, complete and total darkness. so i answered simple to start out with
"it is often quite hard. but for me, it's a way of life."
they didn't quite get it i could see, and asked another question
"oh, is it hard because you get writer's block sometimes?"
i almost let the meteors fly out of my mouth so they would be hit and crushed with the raw fact that being a writer is much, much more complicated than that.
"well yes, that can happen. and when it does it is a crippling feeling. but, it is much more complicated than that. you see, us writers, we not only feel things, but we absorb things. we let things take us over, and once this happens, our hands start to produce words onto paper that come deep within our soul, heart, and mind."
they looked puzzled, but when i looked into their eyes i could see a faint star that was starting to shine. i smiled at this.
"like... what kinds of things?" they asked,
"oh my, it can be something as complicated as love, life, the universe, darkness, pain. but on the other hand, it can be something as simple as leaves on the trees, the ocean, an apple that you just ate for lunch. and sometimes, it is putting those two things together to create something wonderful." i said as the comets were shooting through my fingertips.
i looked again into their eyes, and i began to see a cluster of stars, and that's when i knew i had them.

I did not turn out to
Be who most expected me to,
But before I burn out this I confess to you.

I hold on to what is out of reach,
I sing lyrics that others wouldn't sing.
I dwell on my faults,
I procrastinate importance.

I laugh at stupidity, even at myself.
I rarely grin in pictures,
I'm comfortable in the dark.

I've talked while dreaming.
If I can help anyone with anything
I do my best to.
I can't forget what I don't want to remember.

I write to show you the me you've never been exposed to,
I write, because i know no other way.

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

(Originally written 12/8/10
Revised 9/23/14)