Beliefs are based on Faith, of which I have very little; except that for which I have in Man.  The Human Spirit.  If there is no Spirit then there can be no Faith. So, Faith lies within the Human Spirit without which there would be no beliefs; without which there would be no Man.

On a long and lonesome railway, West of the Hudson, you can listen to
the wheels a turnin', chompin' at the bit.  Feel the earth a rollin', feel
it command you with its moanin' sayin' ,"You were never meant to leave
that town where life does not begin." She says, "I'll take you to your
place of birth, I'll take you where your dreams make berth, but I'll cut
the wind right out of your sails, for you belong in concrete dirt. I'll
let you roam the forests and mountains, let you drink from the spring
that granted true loves first kiss that blissful mournin'. But don't you
think you can have your lake forever full of what you make, for in the
end you belong here where what you make is fake!" Listen to the call of
the engine, soft but surely creepin', let it wander across your spine
and in your mind seep in. Feel the earth beneath the metal, feel the
toil beneath your feet.  Then feed the endless jealousy of the city that
never sleeps.

Slow as turtles are we whom strive to part, yet relive memories instead of creating new ones.
Slow as turtles are we to advance in the battles with ourselves.
Slow as turtles are we in bidding farewell forever when parting for a moment.
Slow as turtles are we.

A wuthering dew drop in her eye,
Cast from a dark dawn that long since has died.
Hopelessness lost and a hope now regained,
This future of ours now has a new name.

There once was a lady, who in a brown bag kept her baby, and never let
it see the light of day. But once when it rained, when outside both bag
and baby lay; paper dissolved to ash, and pale skin emerged unabashed.
Now, as well as unabashed the paper babe was unashamed, and fought his
way through the rain, in naked hide aflame. "Where fore art thou, thou
hedonist devil!! Where can i find thee and lick thou with shovel!!"
Harsh were his words and I'm sure you'd concur, when i say not harsh
enough,but then again, tis only baby stuff. Though minuscule were his
plans for he had only babies hands, he trudged along feeling all the
more brave for his life he'd now save. Seeing his shovel, he picked it
up, made out of plastic it weighed no more than his sippy' cup. Through
the doggy door he crawled on all four legs, through the door he went
sprawled like tossed eggs. Into the demons bedroom he silently tiptoed
only to find the horns of said beast had gone.

Two men in a room.
Zelman and Abel
Zelman: "What good would she be to you if you had her?"
Abel: "None at all I suppose. Achievement for achievement is all I aim for. You are right I guess."
Zelman: "Right about what? I havent made any assumptions or predictions with that question. I have merely tried to understand better why you mourn so, the love that only inspires when it is absent. Which by the way, only shows that it is not love for her but, love for longing love's sake."
Abel: "Where, might I ask do you keep these insightful words of yours? And why do they come always at the most inappropriate times?"
Zelman walks to the guitar and plucks it one way and then another.
Zelman: "It is not, my dear friend the words that are insightful in themselves but, how you use them all together. With a space here, a comma there, a breath of fresh semi-colon. Not the love of the words but what you make of the love."
Abel:"My heart only pounds when it is void and the sound of my yearning has space to echo within its unkept walls."
Zelman walks to the door, opens it and, while walking out says;
Zelman: "Your heart pounds only when you can hear it, only when you know it is there. Unfit for happiness is the man who does not understand the simple truths of himself.  And unfit for life is the man who runs in circles."

Of all the people that pass me by
Though they are living none are alive.
And the lights that fuel this people's hopes
Have faded from their hearts and souls.
Cascading down the slippery slopes
of mountainous buildings this fading hope
Is leaving them all a noose, a rope
Disguised as something to help them cope.
Made of nylon, silk or cotton
With patterns to help us rise up from the bottom
To the very highest of all top floors
Where they confuse the ceiling with the sky and their confusion with more.
Trapped in cubicles they confuse dark with light
trapped in buildings they begin to fade from sight.
No family, no friends, only co-workers there.
Shared breaths and shared spaces. confusing ambition with care.

Mediocre metaphors pervade my writing. Making it all the more obvious how scared I am. Too scared even to reach deep within for something original.  Too scared to push the limits of existence through literature. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this rudimentary psychoanalysis is just an example of all that I have within. Others. And the love I have for them that forces me to take them inside and make parts of them exude from within me.  Is it their love for me or, mine for them that keeps me alive?

I long for the uninterrupted silence of my dead-end street.  The muted falling of the snow condensing the silence into an overwhelming blanket, covering my shivers.  That comforting silence that only comes from being alone.  Caressing and exciting my senses to heights unreachable in the company of others.  but perhaps I am only romanticizing the experience so as to sooth an almost unfounded and unjustified reason to flee from the chaos that is this city.  Perhaps it is not merely the silence I wish to attain and madness I wish to denounce but rather, a hunger for the safety of childhood I long to satiate having already quenched a thirst to be free and supersede reflections of adulthood.

If ever there was a sweeter face,
Twould put these words to disgrace.
And the life they lead through pen and page,
Through mind, body and soul;
Would fall from heaven all alone cast from heaven's grace.
And though there be sweet dreams all round
And many a different sweet scrawling sound;
This pen scrawls of a Jewel.
A quite unique beautiful lover,
One for whom I'd gladly suffer until love for me shes found.

I lie awake in somber dark.
A sigh escapes this restless heart.
A thought of love from the past
Brings a putrid smell that death holds fast.
I imagine what this love is like,
As ash entombed and out of sight.
I hurt to think of how I lied
To this this love when alive.
And strain to breath for I  do not believe
His love I do justice by being me.

A thought repeated over and over in your mind.  Like the old rope the manic uses time and again every other day to tie a noose with, it becomes tattered and frayed.  When finally you decide to put said noose to use, it breaks and your ideals are shattered.

Looking up at the stars, they become obscured as the fog that is my breath floats to join the endless sky.  A shadow as long as love itself, cast from a giant, tossed from the porch.  The dark creature stares with pit fall eyes.  With his ambiguity he says "You can reach this length and more. As love will wash over you, you shall grow.  With the sky, with the stars, with the universe.  with love you shall grow.