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Jul 2016 · 726
Changing With Age
My mind is erratic,
changing easily with age,
the changes seem subtle,
but that's not quite the case.

I once felt such anger,
such pointless,
misguided hate,
but now that feels distant,
I am far from the same.

The world seems a silly place,
so many of my grievances seem tiring,
I suppose it's not worth it,
wasting my days,
the fight is important,
but who knows who I am when I change?

Resignation feels the empty space in my brain,
tiredly painted with white and grey,
blood coursing through it delaying ruin,
but I can feel it coming,
and somehow that quiets my rage.

I can do a little,
and that's what I'll do,
make misfits feel normal,
if just today,
I knew how they felt and can use that,
that vague sensation of pain and decay,
maybe I'll make something better,
work towards making their lenses less opaque,
though I can't do much,
I'll do it right now,
I'll start today.
A.P. Beckstead (2016)
Jan 2016 · 560
Man rose from the fertile crescent,
forging tools from the earth,
lumber, ore and bone,
and from the ashes rose great walls of stone.
The prisca theologica,
in the hands of the hermit,
a mirror shattered,
shards embedded in the hearts of men,
an open wound with no remedy,
wild animals now wearing clothes,
a guise hiding a loss of innocence.
Man as god,
and god as man,
built edifices to his own greatness,
great pillars to heaven,
massive gates only to admit the few,
whose hearts fester in caustic dogma.
The first rule from a throne,
the last wither nameless and unknown,
fearful of sin borne of station,
handed from father to son,
automatons and lifeless husks,
thirsty for the fountain of life,
stumbling towards the unknown god.

Coins lain on altar,
to a god with no name,
hedging a bet against probability,
the author of the triangle permits,
meat given to idols and then to gluttony,
within great white pillars of earth,
monolithic structures of stone,
in hopes of pax deorum.

nothing more,
The nameless god doesn't dwell in temples made by hand,
his throne founded in heaven,
he dwells in hearts wounded in antiquity,
in the worn hands of the laborer,
in the mind of the naturalist,
in the heart of the mother.

There is more of deity in the eyes of a child,
than in any temple,
and still we build,
heads bowed in reverence to inanimate atomic structure.
A.P. Beckstead (2016)
Nov 2014 · 926
Ruminations On Truth
Truth is as solid as stone,
melting quickly with the application of heat,
falling into whatever mold is left in place,
trickling from container to container,
searching for an empty vessel,
draping over negative space,
and so I drown in well meaning ambition,
or perhaps pervasive confusion,
the vague insinuations of men who claim understanding,
yet do not give freely their true philosophy,
for you must be careful when fighting against monsters,
for fear of becoming abominable as well,
for if you stare into the abyss long enough,
they say it stares into you,
and so I find myself chasing shadows.

Soon calcification sets in,
and I am left staring at a product of liquefaction,
through the process of petrification,
no words escape my lips,
and truth falls on deaf ears,
a lone statue in a forest of fictitious geometry.

The fear is swallowed by the search,
and in finding nothing there is peace,
for the quiet breeds tranquility,
rest is found in solidarity,
in loneliness there is solace,
for if God reveals himself in nature,
his absence is revealed in human behavior.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Nov 2014 · 463
An Illusion
This poem is an admission of guilt.

I often feel the urge to reassure myself,
that I am right,
and in doing so I cut short other's thoughts,
and that is thoughtless of me, despite meditation.

What does it mean to be right?

Does being right translate to superiority,
or perhaps inferiority,
in terms of creativity is there a truth,
the variety that cuts to the bone?

And what is truth?

I think the answer is two roads split,
diverging in increasingly dangerous directions,
for faith is the belief in the reality of absolutes,
and rationality is the flexibility to choose for yourself,
and you can only choose one,
for that is how it has always been.

Why is man so singular and yet so one dimensional?

I find in my own experience that I am wrong,
in all instances,
there are always things that I do not consider,
facets wasted on my youth,
and in hoping for credibility,
I find that silence is the best substitute for intelligence,
and that the belief in the absence of illusions,
is itself an illusion,
for I am at my core,
and very angry.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Oct 2014 · 583
An Anger Long Past Feeling
A cynical representation of a brighter future,
my mind,
racked with dreams of change,
centered on an unchanging stream of fate,
instability found in heart and in mind,
a sickness not easily cured,
without the aid of modern medicine hindrance,
the numbness of spoon fed complacency,
my anger is misused and misplaced,
for I cannot separate people from ideas,
and actions from context,
and with a confused lack of self medication,
I find growth in my synapse,
warmth in my extremities,
and searing anger in my bones.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Aug 2014 · 557
The Divide
There is a song as old as time,
as fragmented as the sands of the sea,
expanding even unto the atomic structure,
breaching the event horizon that is existence.

In this song there is an underlying melody,
strewn with beats of adaptability and visceral beauty,
a haunting requiem,
strung sweetly against the firmament,
shrieking alone in unfathomable darkness,
a howl into the void.
or a stone skipping across membranes,
resonating frequencies playing in tandem,
and yet it is the same,
perhaps another rendition,
but the core remains,
the harmonic convergence,
that simple phrase that all men know,
that resistance against that which is futile,
and against forces unseen and immeasurable in scope,
a piece that illustrates the variability of divinity,
the conception of infinity,
the ethereal nature of human strength,
ringing true in the hearts of many,
and scars left smoldering in the hearts of artists,
a dirge to those of like mind,
a symphony of questions,
to which there are few answers,
throughout the expanse of time and space,
splattered with blood and dark matter,
songs will be sung,
books will be written,
and agents will align,
forever playing along in a round as eternal,
and as elusive as the questions,
yet to be posed.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jul 2014 · 1.0k
Oddly enough,
I find myself in a strange predicament,
my appearance does not seem to reflect my age,
but sadly my habits and limitations do.

I am old in spirit,
grown weary in a modern age,
tired of doing the things that I must,
the things that are expected of me,
and even the things I dislike,
and this,
I fear,
will not serve me.

I am yet impatient and impassioned,
a rebellious heart and a withering mind,
two things that fit quite nicely,
but to no great effect,
and so I dream while awake,
and live while sleeping.

I am passionately obsessed with the mundane,
simple little things,
and often fail to separate moments in time,
and when my mind wanders,
I dream while standing,
and the world goes dim,
a dis-associative calm spreads,
stilling my nails bitten to the quick,
hushing my breath,
and the nervous chatter surrounding,
as if to say,
what a novel world that is.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jun 2014 · 477
Shame (Reprisal)
Forever have I feared the lashing,
the deep cut of criticism,
a stroke from the heart of man,
afraid of his own shadow,
observations cut from the cloth of reflective lack of sight.

Man speaks from behind a thin veneer of authority,
a broken vessel,
water spilling from the spaces between his teeth,
lies pressed tight against cheek,
silver tongue writhing against insecurities,
ignorance and misguided intentions.

Like a crown of thorns,
the oppression of shame,
of mistakes,
and obscenities from out of the mouth of babes,
a magnet to muddied words,
wrought of sovereignty,
guided by prints and yardsticks,
lines drawn with precision,
written with a pencil shaped sweetly,
with razor blades,
points at each end.

a note from the reed of Christianity,
righteous indignation,
against riotous insinuations,
he is a good Christian,
well intentioned,
but lacking in charity,
though child of God still,
be it in name or idea,
abstraction or guiding hand,
and he would have others feel shame,
for misery so loves his company,
despite never wishing to feel the same,
seething with fear at his own visage,
afraid of his reflection.

I have no objections to his words,
no bulwark against the sting,
the sharp ring of truth,
half or full,
in my stomach up to the guard,
I have nothing to say on moral relativity,
I have only this to say to your inquiry:

I will apologize for my actions,
but I will not apologize for who I am,
for I am a friend to agency,
and have no lack of ambition.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Apr 2014 · 1.6k
The Optimistic Skeptic
I am as I am,
my thoughts are nebulous and coherent,
I am the reluctant believer,
I am the optimistic skeptic,
I prepare for the worst,
and pray for the best,
I am a product of my environment,
but I also hope that I am more.

I scoff at those who say that they know,
be it the singularity that is deity,
or the absence of divinity,
his finite and plural nature,
or the limitations of the father,
as such I am a heretic,
and so I blaspheme,
relishing the jealousy of knowledge.

As I stare into the eyes of the unknown,
a canvas casting light on the firmament,
I realize that the futility of thought is artifice,
the cords wrapped tight around my sleeves,
exist only in what I live,
and what I choose to accept.

I accept.

And with this thought in mind,
I reject the null,
for I cannot accept the reality that I am given,
for a world without end has no meaning if not for progress,
if gain is finite and the continuity infinite,
there is no point,
the blade of Christianity is dull,
and so too the endless strains of antagonists,
horribly over-educated and overwrought.

I reject.

What separates God from man?

Maybe it is the ability to arrange matter,
it might simply be an issue of innate power,
but it might also be the sustainability of material,
the ability to see,
for we may as well be blind,
or perhaps it is simply a matter of punctuation.

I accept, but so too do I reject,
and gladly will I play the fool,
if it will place the odds in my favor.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Apr 2014 · 493
University Lights
I find myself alone on a Friday night,
one part choice and two parts frailty,
an inexplicable inability to cope with personalities,
a story as old as the concept of the dreamer,
unfortunate kids who can't do anything but grasp at stars,
and shrink away from shadows,
played on the white-wash walls of our youth,
I know what I must do to change things,
I have the tools,
and yet here I am.

I sit alone drinking hot chocolate,
the kind my mother made for me as a child,
sipping nostalgia,
and thinking of things,
which in some sense are (not necessarily) necessary,
and staring out into lampposts along the parkway,
their light reflecting in my eyes,
and all at once I can be whatever I want,
and achieve whatever my heart desires,
I am thrown back into the restful sleep of the past.

At times like these I can see everything that I need to,
I can see the path ahead of me,
the trail behind,
and the stars stitched to the lights below,
or perhaps it is the opposite,
and thus vertigo sets in the mind of the dreamer,
and tomorrow I will forget it all,
I will no longer believe in love,
or the optimism I have lost,
the forgiveness I freely gave,
and the power to see past what is placed before me.

I am alone,
I am here,
I exist,
(at least I think I do)
I am lonely and I am also at peace,
at peace in the darkness of my choosing,
preferring flecks of hope,
over the blaring noise around me.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Apr 2014 · 656
A Lack of Pigment
The most striking of flowers bloom far out of sight,
blooming softly and with fractal beauty,
they contain the sweetest of nectar,
and the most insidious of poisons,
barbs flush against scaled leaves,
dripping with toxicity.

It is not the pigment that makes a flower beautiful,
but its shape and form,
its tragic and fearsome nature,
it is a lack of color that paints this flower,
guardian of fallen men,
splattered with life,
sanguine as the night.

Forever lonesome,
invisible in the darkness,
seeds aloft on eastern winds,
blooming without reproach,
and from decay it glitters,
and lets out a scream in its solitude.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Apr 2014 · 1.2k
My thoughts persist with the onset of sleep,
a swirling mist,
an ashen awareness of the futility of my hopes,
the dull ache of faltering inertia,
hidden between silver folds of liquid ego,
and in my dreams,
circumstance is as I wish it to be,
I am therefore I think,
painting my heart on my sleeve,
using abstractions familiar only to me,
fractal entities subsisting on synecdoche,
the mundane shattered in streets of my own memory,
the monotony brushed aside if only for awhile,
it is in this avenue that I thrive,
silver lined and gilded ideals,
a place where guile and truth intermix,
and it is reason and aesthetic rhythms that guide,
set in motion by the desires of my heart and mind,
in the calm embrace of the nether I am proud,
devoid of fear or avarice,
and all at once I am awake,
I am alone,
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Mar 2014 · 432
Musings Late at Night
I find myself alone in my room,
just as I always seem to do,
I thought to myself,
just as you all likely do at one time or another,
why can't people just get along?

I realized that the problem may be one of timing,
at some point in our life we're stupid idealists,
and as we age we stratify ourselves,
what if we were to understand just a little less?

What if everyone had the same youthful epiphany at the same time?

What if it isn't a matter of greed,
but a lack of synchronization?

What if we internalized the lessons of our youth,
shared our toys and kept our hands to ourselves,
what if we somehow decided that it is better to be kind,
than it is to be right?

But then I realized,
perhaps I'm just tired,
people say crazy things when they are not in our right mind.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Mar 2014 · 1.4k
America the ________?
What is an American?

Is it decided by the timber of our voice,
the strength in our limbs,
the blood in our veins,
or the color of our skin?

Tell me,
for I do not understand,
unfold your thesis,
inundate my mind with statistics,
be it quantum blood measures,
origin or sociological constructs of the creature in question.

Tell me,
what it is to be an American?
This umbrella term,
I just do not understand,
is it to be a thief?
A country founded on stolen land,
and stolen labor,
sage bushed bills,
backed by gilded structures and systems of debate and seizure,
is being an American drowning in leisure?

What does this term mean?
I find myself confused,
it is difficult to quantify the qualitative,
and breath life into lifeless chiseled forms,
found in squares and plazas throughout,
a country split by hard wired ferocity,
quicksand laden dividing lines,
the vocal deciding what it is to be,
and what it isn't.

Careful lad,
there is such a thing as too much,
too much individuality,
so put up your hair,
put away the paint,
put away that sign,
sheath your weapon,
old boy,
this isn't your fight,
and besides,
what can you do with a toy?

I don't know what America is,
land of the free,
where is that?
I see only industry,
a dying morality,
drowned in ethics,
a protestant-core built on overt inequality.

What does it mean to be an American?
I can't tell you what it means to you,
only what it means to me,
and so I say dust off the document upon which this term was built,
and realize that the past is not what you should use,
just as anything else of import,
use judgement,
the ability to choose,
uphold the  freedom that suffocates in the back of your mind,
to the flame inside your chest,
to the weakness in your legs,
down against the sole of your shoes.

America is a country founded on rebellion,
a little man,
underdog all grown up,
and now he's the one throwing punches,
a story paralleled by Davidic tales,
and though he may not be perfect,
and is often reviled,
I love him still,
his rough edges,
for we are still part of the experiment,
the American dream.

Though the gates may be weighed down,
the hinges rusted,
a country of sojourners,
soon a country of minorities,
cultural pluralism,
though flawed,
I like it better this way,
a techni-colored mirage of what once was,
and if we must meet our end,
so be it,
guide me home,
for is it not true that all roads eventually wind home?
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Mar 2014 · 528
Whomever you meet,
you will no doubt be in conflict,
that is the nature of the beast,
you and I,
cut by chromatic dividing lines,
split by life decisions,
perspective of the past, present and future,
separation of church and state of mind,
women as companions,
women as *******,
charity as obligation,
charity as privilege,
meaning it means it something,
or not at all,
who's to say?
A dichotomy of idealistic sentimentality,
different cogs in the same broken machine,
we are all twisted gears in a mal-adapted tree,
that bears no fruit,
and whether the strong rule,
or if the weak share the shattered remains,
means little to me,
we are all equally hopeless,
fractal personalities,
torn by social stratification,
at the core we are broken,
and I love it.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Feb 2014 · 951
An Incurable Disease
There is something so tragic about being human,
we strive for the stars,
reaching upward,
but all we do is fail,
we are born imperfect with imperfect temperament,
and made imperfect through our own design,
there is something inherently wrong within us,
a mistake that alleles cannot shape,
a mistake that our parents,
despite their most urgent wishes,
cannot break,
a mistake so large that none are exempt,
and often we curse God,
blaming someone we've never known,
for the misfortune that festers in our hearts,
and when it comes down to it,
I don't think that,
even if he does exist,
that it is entirely his fault,
for although he mixed foolish,
and immature spirits in the same vat,
the disease is intrinsic,
and God did not make our spirits,
though perhaps through nimble hands,
he made us whole,
bodies tempered for pain and loss,
but we are the root of the evil,
there is no Devil at the source,
though influence us he might,
and so our stories are tragic,
we do what we can,
and then we die,
and maybe that's not the end of the story,
but if someone tells you they're not afraid of death,
they're lying,
few if any know what waits at the end,
the end of the path we as humans create,
but we have no choice,
there is no price that can shake the sorrow from our shoulders,
no payment large enough to replace our experience,
no substitute for the change we feel,
the love we feel,
the pain we feel,
and the loss inherent in life,
so I say live and let live,
but keep in mind the influence you have,
for good or for bad,
and keep your chin up,
set your jaw,
and cast your eyes towards the sky,
and the heavens above.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
I have a confession to make,
since I was a child,
I've been predisposed to anxiety,
fear and apprehension,
all barriers of the same kind,
sometimes I push through,
and sometimes I wallow,
letting it sink in late at night,
sitting on my roof waiting for sun to rise,
hand gripping my chest,
the place where I've been told my heart is.

It for this reason that I've always gravitated to the idea of courage,
not a lack thereof,
but the ability to surmount fear in favor of greener pastures,
but in truth we're all the same,
we share the same night sky,
the same sun,
born with a beating heart,
and with that heart comes fear,
fear of failure,
inadequacy stabs deeply the hearts of the young,
and as we age it lessens but it doesn't ever go away,
and sometimes there is a rarer form of fear,
the fear of success,
this fear is most often unnoticed,
but festers unseen as we go about our day to day,
for what would we do with wealth,
who are we to be loved,
and who are we to influence others?

Personally I am far more afraid of being successful,
for with abundance,
comes responsibility,
and ultimately,
more to lose,
but I think that if I live my life in fear of loss,
that I will find myself hapless and cornered,
cut off at all sides by my own insecurities,
parts separated by the mounting tension,
a culmination of what if's,
apprehension and loneliness,
similar by design,
two components of fear,
a common string we tie inside,
letting it show in our eyes.

I think fear is an interesting thing,
if not for fear,
mankind would have died off long ago,
fear is what gets us off our knees,
it starts us on the path,
but what is missing?
I have started walking countless times only to trip,
falling over my own feet,
inhibitions distilled in me as a child,
for the road is long and the solitude is overwhelming,
and somewhere in my heart I know that courage is what I'm missing,
I am afraid,
I am afraid of serving a God I do not know,
I am afraid of turning away a God that weeps for my sake,
I am afraid of meeting new people,
I am afraid of spending my life with one person,
I am afraid of change,
I am afraid of stagnation,
I am afraid of you,
I am afraid of myself,
I am afraid of fear,
and I am afraid of courage,
but courage is what keeps you going,
for it easier to give up and sit down,
for fear of stumbling,
or perhaps the fear of finding what lies ahead,
what will we find at the end of the road?

I choose to stand up and try again,
and I think that you'll agree,
it is better to have loved and lost,
than never to have loved at all,
and it is better to die on your feet,
than to live on your knees.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Feb 2014 · 1.0k
Stand Tall
The non-overlapping magisterium,
a law stating that science and religion cannot intermix,
separate chords strung from the same cloth,
vines splitting at the intersection of faith and reason,
barbs flush against the skin of the common,
man thinks he learned,
but is far from wise.

To narrow your mind so steeply,
is to hold back all that you are,
to be cut off at the knee,
giving into a disposition for failure,
for often has both religion and science failed,
wars fought in the name of God and race,
non-existent color lines we paint on the inside of our sleeves.

Science does not represent evil,
and religion does not represent good,
they merely represent two sides of the same coin,
one the corporeal and the other the ethereal.

Aggression is as human as the need to breathe,
and kindness is a forced characteristic,
but do not cast aside the flame,
for love and fury are intertwined,
but do not confuse these with wrath and lust,
the difference is in motivation,
so if you seek truth,
stare both in the eye,
the material and transcendent,
God and Mammon,
the lord and the beast,
the father,
a representation of the good in the human heart,
hold close these virtues,
but do not suffocate them,
and if the father is good,
then the beast is the black sheep,
representing that darkness inherent in the heart of man,
this personification of evil,
a scapegoat,
although we are caught in the tempter's snare,
he is not the source,
and if he is your reflection,
love him first and cast him off second.

And if someone protests your belief in the abstract,
I say love them,
but I also say stand up,
and do what you feel is right,
and walk your own way,
not the path chosen for you.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Feb 2014 · 555
Bigots, One and All
To be human in a place filled with humanity is to be in constant conflict,
to be human is to be right and wrong,
almost always at the same time,
our ideals are collectively a lie,
to believe in one view is a fallacy,
for truth may lie in the collective,
or perhaps it is simply beyond our reach,
the left is self-righteous,
calling all others bigots,
the right is antiquated,
calling all others fools,
the middle is unsure,
knowing that both sides have merit,
but paying no heed to which pieces are true,
the rest of us don't have a clue,
we are not educated enough to care,
we know nothing and so we do not cast lots,
and truthfully this where the majority of the populous should stay,
and even those who have cast their hands into the mix should retreat,
for to truly know something is difficult,
and far beyond the meager grasp of man's tiny brain.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jan 2014 · 900
For Whom I Write
The poet is not a writer,
though she uses words,
the difference lies in the sentiment,
when he writes a book,
he writes it in order to educate and entertain,
when she writes poetry,
there is a fleck of the unseen,
there is a dream-like quality to the poem,
chaotic rhythm trying to make sense of the madness,
a maddening landscape as surreal and cerebral as Eloheim,
and still the poet persists,
but it is for this reason that understanding breaks down,
and while the poem is often misunderstood,
still she writes for others,
fighting desperately for a cure,
a cancer that all things dendritic cannot touch,
a wound that runs unabated through culture and the human imagination alike,
she writes poetry for future generations,
for her children to read,
leaving the fire lit aflame in the hearts of the next generation,
but each generation fewer and fewer take up the charge,
fighting the good fight is obsolete,
and so it is for the few to tacitly and tactically,
with a tactile touch,
fix the accumulation of those who came before.

I am not a poet,
I do not write for the greater good,
I write for myself,
for the well-being of the being in my head,
for the scrapping in the derelict corners of my mind,
grey matter splattered on false sentiments,
lies and truths mingled betwixt cortex and stem,
a tree burgeoning upward,
and so I do not write for you,
but for myself,
for I am no poet,
lost in rasping of my own words,
in tranquility I fester,
for I owe you nothing,
and from beneath that pretense,
I hang.

I would say that the death of the poet,
is the death of language,
though art fell victim long ago,
and so I find solace in its falling leaves.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jan 2014 · 932
The Truth Is
The truth is that my mind and heart do not connect,
instead they collide like trains on the same track,
my mind tells me of statistics,
it tells me how I should act,
and I often I lie to make myself more interesting,
my mind creates false stories and false memories in hopes of gain,
my mind tells stories to make others feel special,
but it's okay,
I can keep my story straight,
and oddly enough,
my heart also tells stories,
but they are not fabrications,
but tales of adventure and sacrifice,
my heart loves stories of triumph and will,
of man exceeding the human condition,
restraints placed by a God we cannot know,
for that is part of the game,
what fun would it be if the game were fair?
He taught us and prepared us for this life,
and finally he stripped us of what we were,
our memories,
and he set us free,
free to fail,
free to succeed,
and I love him still.

I am often uncertain,
though I may put on a brave face,
I'm sure other people often feel this way,
for to be unhappy is frowned upon,
I am often doubtful of what I believe,
for what can you really know?
People tend to steer from things that make them uncomfortable,
I am the opposite,
I gravitate towards the darker shades of mankind,
for I feel that these things are powerful,
they are human and I want to know more,
though they are not pleasant,
there is something to be said about standing up for something.

I am often inept when dealing with other people,
so instead I lie and placate my brothers and sisters,
for a pleasant smile means more than the truth,
a drop of sunshine somehow drowns out the rest,
and so I smile and I lie,
but what is so wrong with that?
It is better to kind than to be right,
and no form of kindness can ever be wasted,
a quote means nothing,
but we give it value beyond belief,
quotes and scripture,
I love them both for the power they wield,
both to heal and to destroy.

In the end I am the sum of my parts,
truthfully I am simply a child,
I am small and immobile,
I cannot change the world,
but still the rotation continues,
and I think I'm okay with that,
the greatest change occurs with failure and with success,
I do both of those things,
am I not special?
I fail,
I succeed,
failure is something that I do often,
but I don't like to let it show,
and so I smile,
grinning from ear to ear.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jan 2014 · 1.5k
The 108th Parallel
Here I stand on the 108th parallel,
the bridge between sanity and belief,
a train station situated between the hectic and the inane,
around me stands a group of strangers.

Some of us are good looking,
some are intelligent,
some are both,
all are worthwhile.

Some are talented,
some are prodigies,
some will change the world,
all will succeed and all will fail.

Some are believers,
some are confused,
some will blaze trails,
others looking to them for direction,
all will eventually find their way.

Some will teach from the pulpit,
some from the altar,
and still others from the streets,
all will make a difference in his eyes.

Some of us will live happier ever after,
some will fight depression,
others will struggle with anxiety,
and in truth,
all are loved.

And so here I stand,
on the 108th parallel,
surrounded by friends,
in a place that we may one day forget,
but in the end,
when all is said and done,
the remnants will remain,
although the stitches holding us together are often unseen.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jan 2014 · 1.6k
The Most Dangerous Man
The most dangerous man in world,
is someone who can think for them-self,
to think freely is to sharpen your blade,
and strike at authority with a razor, barbed with logic,
and even further the danger rises when man is set free,
those who are cunning,
with clarity of mind, are not to be trifled with,
those aware of their super-ego,
those who are willing to die for their beliefs,
they are strong,
they are fierce,
fearsome agents of agency's agenda,
criticism split with momentum,
and even if the free thinker is not invested,
he will surely inspire others.
A.P. Beckstead (2014) - In honor of H.L. Mencken.
Jan 2014 · 921
(anti)Social (in)Justice
The bible teaches that we are sheep,
simple extensions meant to be herded,
but somehow I feel this is not true,
man's native disposition is not gentle,
it is raw, it is powerful, and it is cruel,
we are social creatures,
we huddle together for warmth just as sheep,
but we are not sheep,
we are wolves,
cunning and calculating,
why else do we **** and maim our own,
but for own entertainment,
our own gain?

we are also extremely adaptive,
and so I say,
if you are sheep be sheep,
but if you are wolves be wolves,
re-purpose your fangs,
structure the pack and do not hide,
fight back against indignation,
guard your brothers and sisters,
keep watch through the night,
and when the time comes I say strike,
tear out the throat of inequality,
and let the lifeblood of the sickly fruit flow,
and pour it into the streets.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jan 2014 · 979
Thought and Form
An idea is given shape through will,
and if this is true,
then what is the human will?
Is it a product of imagination,
a chemical reaction,
an electric impulse,
or perhaps something more?
There is something out there,
beyond the horizons of shape and form,
there are things that we cannot touch,
things we cannot taste,
things that we can sense,
but can never quantify,
we are more aware of this when we are young,
there is mystery round about us,
and as we age,
we forget that there are things we do not understand,
things we cannot smell,
things we cannot see,
too acute for the eye.
Thoughts can shape the future,
for what is the future but a collective motive,
an understanding born of sentiment observation,
I feel in my bones that thoughts are powerful,
they create and destroy,
and often unconscious thoughts are the most influential,
dreams unspoken are just as real.

When looking around at the observed,
I cannot help but cry,
the observed world is a cruel place,
the observed cruelty,
the observed frailty,
the observed is not whole,
and so I ask,
how can this be?
How can it be that such a world exists without reprieve,
how can entropy have such hold?
And so I think to myself,
there must be something more,
life cannot simply exist to die.

This is why I believe in abstractions,
notions far beyond cracked understanding,
because sometimes flecks of truth fall through.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jan 2014 · 1.5k
How Can We Know?
I often find that the people I know are polarized,
they range from,
positive to negative,
you have your optimists,
your idealists,
your cynics,
your nihilists,
and oddly enough,
everyone else.

Optimists believe in Hamilton's Principle,
but they tailor it to our own fabric,
they believe that for some unknown reason,
the current situation is the optimal one,
everything will be alright,
que sera sera,
carpe diem.

Idealists believe in truth,
they understand what is ideal,
and what is not,
they attempt to apply such principles to the observed world,
and more often than not,
they fail,
but that's alright,
they tried their best.

Cynics view the world as it is,
they observe and make rational judgement,
realism at its finest,
a time tested trait,
pragmatism has served them well.

Nihilists believe that life is without intrinsic meaning,
there is nothing that cannot be observed,
a craft of existentialist theory,
they assert that morality is a figment of mankind's imagination,
and for all we know,
they could be right.

And finally we have the remainder,
those of us we have no idea what we believe,
no path traced in the sand,
no trail blazed in the years prior,
and sometimes I think that perhaps this group is right,
there are limits to human understanding,
and so I ask,
how can we know,
how can we know?
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jan 2014 · 1.2k
From the time we are born,
we are flawed,
both through nurture and through nature are we damaged,
but there is something so beautiful,
so fatalistic about that,
and since we are inclined to failure,
the only way we can travel is forward.
Sometimes we move only a few steps at a time,
and more often than not,
we measure improvement by leaps and bounds,
both are progress,
both are important.

We like to think we are rational,
but statistically speaking,
we trust in our instinct more often than not,
even if it is beyond its depth,
we are not rational creatures,
striving for excess is not logical,
for time is money,
and survival is logical,
but we want more,
gathering approval is not efficient,
in many respects animals are much more optimal.

The thing that sets us apart,
the most important thing to note,
is love,
love is not logical,
love is not efficient,
but we value it anyway,
and so in the end,
we are not what we think we are,
we are not animals,
we are illogical,
we are inefficient,
and we are healing,
healing from the day we are born,
born with a frail disposition,
we are human,
and we are slowly mending.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Jan 2014 · 2.4k
There is a dilemma that develops,
a problem that hits every day without fail,
it happens when I think too often,
for thought is the death of faith,
and faith is the bane of logic.

How can I reconcile my heart and mind?

If this,
then what?
If this is that,
and this is that,
then what is the origin?
If you're me,
then who am I?
What is the point,
if the point is the point,
then does it matter?

I believe that truth is relative.

Absolutism is absolute because of shared meaning,
and this meaning is only absolute because we perceive it to be this way,
and therefore there is no such thing as absolutism,
irony is not irony if we expect the opposite of what is expected.

The world may be absurd,
it may have no meaning,
but that is merely a matter of perspective.
Why do humans give?
Why do we help one another?
Do we do it to make ourselves feel better about life?
So what?
If it all has no meaning anyway,
why not give, take and accept?
Why not twist logic and play along?

Why do we search for happiness?
We search for it for the simple fact that it feels good,
and if happiness is our end goal,
then why not deceive ourselves?
and distract,
for truth told with malice is still a lie,
and so trod the path to happiness,
for it is paved with self delusion,
lie and choose to believe in something abstract,
for perhaps in the end,
if you tell enough lies,
you create your own truth,
and truthfully I'd rather be play the part of a fool,
than right and hopelessly miserable.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Dec 2013 · 1.2k
Silver Lining
Dear night sky,
I love to watch you,
some people don't like winter,
but I love winter nights,
when salted shapes fill the air,
and stormy summer nights,
when the negative space fills,
some rhythm to the madness,
for it is on the blackest of nights,
that I can see the brightest lights,
silver linings splattered across the sky,
for I'd rather have a tempest,
(there is unity in chaos)
than the dullness of peace,
and the burden of calm.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Dec 2013 · 2.0k
Things Unsaid
There are things better left unsaid.*

I would disagree,
it is through friction that change is born,
I say,
say it,
say it all,
bring all things to bear,
torn open before the world,
talk about homosexuality,
talk about ******,
talk about *******,
talk about ****,
talk about genocide,
talk about torture,
talk about principality,
talk about moral degradation,
talk about racism,
talk about suicide,
talk about obesity,
talk about puppet governments,
talk about corruption,
talk about self esteem,
talk about organized religion,
tell it to a world unwilling to listen,
a world that cannot handle it,
telling the truth will get you killed in this world,
I'm not talking about America,
despite popular belief,
there is a world beyond the wall,
secrecy is necessary in this twisted world,
the man of action's only tool,
and sadly enough,
the only thing with the power to change the world,
is the gun,
so open wide citizen,
and bite the bullet.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Dec 2013 · 1.2k
Collective Apathy
Though my brothers starve,
I cannot do a thing,
despite any sacrifice,
no matter my achievement,
in spite of my feelings,
the world continues on,
dysfunctional as always,
always and forever,
the world will never fill with light,
nor will it ever be fully engulfed in darkness,
the only pathway to change is in numbers,
the kind of numbers that cannot be amassed,
a digit so unreasonable I can't help but sigh,
the world would change with the tides,
if not for the human heart,
a fickle mechanism,
it feels superficially for most part,
and ***** greedily at life,
rarely experiencing self-actualization,
if not for the human heart,
morality would decompose,
and rearrange in its purest form.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Dec 2013 · 966
Love is Peace
Love is the lifeblood of the home,
the root of passion,
love is the foundation of achievement,
the reason for sacrifice,
love is a collective experience,
a soldier's dying breath,
a painter's final stroke,
the thread in a doctors steady hand,
it is ever present.

Love begins early,
and ends late,
love infects us as children,
festers in our hearts as we age,
and blooms as we die,
our family at our side.

Love motivates all,
evades few,
starts wars,
and ends them just as quickly,
love is strength,
love is wisdom,
love is power,
love is the righteous intention,
that brings about peace.

Love is Alpha and Omega,
the beginning and the end,
the first and the last,
love powers the human apparatus,
love is the fabric of the spirit,
upon which we write our fate.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Dec 2013 · 1.4k
Warrior Spirit
Here we are,
at the edge of the world,
the tides of an ancient sea crashing down,
the reddening tides wash away,
the fragile smiles of mankind,
blazing from the torrent,
man has turned his face,
defending his better side.
He does not fight,
he simply waits,
accepting the fate that is to come,
suffocation beneath the waves,
for what can he do?
He sees no other option,
for man is no visionary,
man is a creature of comfort,
wit has been replaced by social complacency,
social dependency,
social degradation,
social fixation,
the fighting spirit is lost to antiquity.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Dec 2013 · 1.2k
E 6x12
We don't fight against man,
but his nature,
not blood nor bone,
but against principalities,
against power,
against corruption,
against the bottom of the glass,
against human nature.

civilized man?


A world of tolerance,
malice in disguise,
the pen is mightier than the sword?

Not a chance.

It is the blade that kills,
the razor that releases the flood,
for history is not written by the objective.
Words may trigger the safety,
but neither written nor spoken word,
will deflect the bullet,
ricochet will always claim its prize.
It is not great men that bring about change,
but men willing to change,
gun in hand,
sights lost in the moral periphery.
Liquidate modern ethics,
burn the fibers of morality,
enlist their disease.

Dear oppressors,
here's a secret,
the weak can **** too,
and the day will come when man does not rule,
but man is ruled,
and on that day,
**fight back.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Dec 2013 · 1.2k
Two Halves, One Whole
Man is no marionette,
though he binds himself in string,
it seems this web is made of metal,
for it is difficult to cut,
his scissors lack an edge,
and his sharpening stone is so neat,
not a nick,
no particle out of place.
He cannot cast stones,
for granite is precious,
and his walls are made of glass,
man would be formidable if he were not a coward,
if only he knew which stones to throw,
selective regression perhaps?
At the least he might cut his cords,
with broken glass scattered at his feet.

Progress is not without sacrifice,
just as muscles tear with growth,
so I say do it,
steal the wild branch from the dove,
graft it to the tree,
for man is one half god,
and one half beast.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 1.3k
Left or Right?
Left or right?

Which shall I choose?
As I stand here alone,
I see two avenues,
unfolding infinitely in two very different directions.

One door leads left,
and the other right.

The left leads towards the unknown,
a striking and cold mountain range,
stark against the sky,
regal in its beauty,
the biting chill,
sharp against my skin,
a redwood jutting from the stone,
in the cold I grow aware.

The right leads an open meadow,
a familiar hum brushing against the grain,
sunflowers as far as the eye can see,
the smell draws my eyes towards a solitary object,
a single tree,
scared bark,
with my name scribbled against its skin,
I can feel a certain warmth in the breeze.

Both choices are beautiful,
both serene,
from the orange of summer skies,
a rainbow strewn against canvas,
to the white of winter as the wind sings,
swept between mountain crag.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 1.6k
Flickers of Nostaliga
I have a fear,
it's not that I'm afraid of the future,
I'm afraid of a realization,
one I had last week.

What if...
What if it's downhill from here?

My childhood was amazing,
my parents were excellent,
but the real issue was my friends.
The fun we had was real,
it's just not the same,
academic discussion,
scientific deduction,
dissection of stories and ideals,
what's it all mean?
My favorite memories are not of discussion,
but action,
actions I keep written on a piece of paper,
strapped tightly to my chest,
a eulogy of youth,
time spent as kids.
Through the haze of years I see,
low rate movies,
bonfires burning just a little too bright,
Wendy's runs in the dead of night,
skinny dipping out on the lake,
firecrackers bursting over head,
roman candles,
no small talk,
real talk,
near death experience,
you were there right?!
Mario Kart,
video games,
disgusting food combination,
skating behind the moped,
sledding behind the SUV,
basketball on black tar,
mustard spilled all over the car,
splints and broken wrists,
word games,
collective humor,
stupid and indecipherable,
socks with sandals,
up all night talking in the basement,
not a care in the world,
no ambition,
dumb little kids,
messing around doing dumb things,
throwing common convention in the fire-pit,
flickering flames,
nostalgia on release,
gone our separate ways.

I had realization last week,
those guys weren't my friends,
they were my brothers.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 2.2k
Just No

That's easy,
just change your perspective,
pop a few pills and you'll do just fine.


Why can't kids handle stress these days?
It's not such a big deal,
just man up,
take your meds and chill out kid.


I don't understand,
just stop being gay,
its a choice.


Just blow up the whole country,
it's just that easy,
the government is just too weak.


Just don't get *****,
its easily avoidable,
just stop wearing short skirts and smiling like that.

Drug abuse?

Just stop taking them,
my uncle quit smoking last week,
its not as hard as people make it out to be.

Child trafficking?

Just get those Navy Seals in there,
the whole thing will be over in a jiff,
its not so difficult,
people just don't think.

Third-world decay?*

What does that even mean?
Just let em go,
they're not doing anything anyway.


Just No.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 759
Two Outlets
I do not keep a diary,
no journal for my thoughts,
instead I speak to you,
through lyric,
line upon line,
and though the quality is questionable,
it's one of two outlets,
the only two I've got.

One is my poems,
the other is a girl,
our relationship is absurd,
I do not lie to you,
my inferiority obvious.
You sit and comply,
listening to my most sickening cries,
the feral thing inside me,
the natural man,
an enemy to God.

You listen and you do not strike me down,
you allow this ******* to stand,
taking my hand in yours,
and for that you have my love.
A.P Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 1.4k
In this world,
there are numerous denominations,
split by human hand,
divided by persecution,
as blood spills to the sand.

and by these actions everyday,
we commit patricide.
We feud for who knows what,
killing in the name of our God,
be it Elohim,
or the dollar.
Humans are far worse than animals,
people are cruel,
we **** with hidden agenda,
we cannibalize our beliefs,
there is no such thing as civility.
I have a dream?
What did that man see,
but the barrel of a gun?

Humans are created equal,
this is espoused by many,
and practiced by none,
even I allow the stitches of the American fabric to show.

I am no poet,
I am the greatest of hypocrites,
and in my futility,
I scream.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 2.4k
Disregard Me
Despite any valid points I may have,
disregard me,
no matter the connection that begins,
pay me no mind.

I am a Mormon,
and by that decree,
I am handicapped.
I have lost all credibility,
through all the searing rage in my veins,
the cold creeping of hate,
the warmth of love,
the doubt in my faith,
I am inert.

If I were important,
things would be different,
the world would listen if I were another breed,
but I am white,
I am uninteresting,
I have nothing to say.
Many treat Mormons with contempt,
they're not Christians you say?
I am told this country is free,
that's not something that I can accept,
who are you to tell me what I believe?
You may not agree with the existence of God,
but tell me,
must we experience a holocaust for you to respect my beliefs?

Racism is as American as apple pie,
as American as a Colt .45,
cocked and held to the head of equality,
this country is built on a lie,
freedom for every white man.
Post-racial America,
what a joke,
it's no wonder you confuse Muslims and Sikhs.

There's nothing wrong with being Islamic,
they are not a people founded on hate.

With modern advancement,
a new light to my eyes,
suspicions confirmed,
race isn't based on genetics,
it's based on social delusion,
truths twisted by pigment,
and the crooked nature of human design.

Sickening men steal children,
born naked,
smiling just as all children do,
they steal the light in their eyes,
their one chance at a normal life,
their futures,
and still the globe turns a blind eye to instinctual cries,
children that never become adults,
from the sickness that spreads,
the fear in their eyes,
and still,
we hide,
placing a thin veil over sight.
The world criticizes intervention,
you say it's not your problem?
For God's sake,
(a phrase often misused)
fight for your brother,
despite the color of his skin.
No matter how many children the individual saves,
it is not enough,
the smaller part cannot save the whole,
and by turning away,
you fan the flames,
blood stains on the hands of the majority,
kindling the depth of sorrow that exists today,
we are the root of the disease,
the twisted smile that grinds the skin,
tears the flesh from the unprivileged.
I believe that even if I never answer to God,
this life is a test,
and in our cowardice,
we will all will drown.

But, remember,
disregard me,
pay me no heed,
I'm just a Mormon,
no latter-day saint.
I cannot make sense of it in my mind,
and so I'll label and dissect,
leaving the remainder to ignorance,
an entire country,
hands tied,
no longer listening for our father's decree.

Here we are once more,
back to the beginning,
not a thing has changed,
continue on your way,
treading lazily upon unspoken trails,
politically correct warpaths,
a migration of misguided souls,
carefree and careless,
not losing a wink of sleep.

Look me in the eyes and tell me what I do,
and do not believe,
tell me,
that I don't understand,
tell me your truth,
my skin is made of porcelain,
and that's the only thing that matters to you,
my actions are futile,
my words fall on deaf ears.

You may curse God for your misfortune,
but if you ask me,
we're the ones who created this,
we are our own mistake,
we the people,
have sealed our own fate.

I'm Adam Patrick Beckstead,
and guess what?
I'm a Mormon,
no latter-day saint.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 1.3k
What's the Point?
No matter what I write,
not a thing will change,
no reason to this world,
no magic in the way I see it.

I believe in peaceful rebellion,
but it that enough?

No one will likely listen to my words,
they will listen only to action,
but what can I do?

Violence seems to be the key,
wars waged in the name of virtue,
change founded on a mountain of corpses,
America's truth.

And though I struggle,
nothing I do or say will be heard,
my opinion is worth little.

Is this the world in which I want to raise children?

A fragile peace,
fought with secrets,
with fear.

A savage place,
segregated by race,
and aggregated equality.

A world without change,
laws forged through bloodstains,
sanguine writ,
the only truth I see.

And so,
I retreat,
this world estranged from me,
a hermit hiding,
in what ought to be.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 788
A Temporary State
Your smile confuses me in more way than one,
your smile is warm and yet disconnected,
despondent and infectious all at once,
a contradiction well hidden,
from the view of many,
yet cracks show,

the cure,
mending it all
your facade is strong,
convincing even family,
but eventually all wells run dry,
and on that day I'll see your true smile.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 804
The sands of time,
far more numerous than the sea,
outweigh the odds,
cast back the fleeting,
see things as they are,
the truth of all things.

If time is a cage,
then truth is the key,
and if what you need is change,
then release the safety,
and break the bulwark,
the safety you've always known.

The grass is always greener,
things are always better from the outside looking in,
always better from far away,
good things do not come to those that wait,
they are snatched by those willing to reach.

In time all will come to know the sting of sadness,
the ache of regret swelling in their veins,
but know this,
time heals all wounds,
and death is not the refuge you seek,
fear is for the weak and stupid,
the reaper comes to collect,
not to free.

Don't fight the flow of time,
accept its crushing embrace,
forge from the fires someone you respect,
a persona worthy of your love,
and cease murmuring of what you hang on your cross.

Never take it sitting down,
fight fire with fire,
strike down conspiring fates,
be your own person,
never heeding popular demand.

You are who you choose to be,
tendencies may exist,
but raise your fist instead,
there is you and there is your shadow,
choose the better of the two.

Slice it down the center,
tear apart all conventions that misrepresent,
seek only truth,
don't change for anyone,
change only for your own sake,
fight for what you believe,
that's the only advice I can give you.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 1.2k
Walking Corpses
They live among us.

Who am I?

We see them every day,
we cannot know.

Why me?

Working day to day,
the dead walking,
leaving invisible trails of blood in their wake.

I deserved it.

Dreams filled with running,
monsters hiding in plain sight,
burnt out shells,
devoid of human light.

Why do I even care?

Nights spent alone,
sleep cannot take it away,
no safety found in their homes,
smoldering ash,
where human beings used to be.

Maybe if I...

All avenues cut off,
seething pain turned to numbness,
the burden of the day,
phantom wounds cut to the quick,
by the time we're aware,
it's far too late.

Why am I so unworthy?

This story is as old as time itself,
speak the word,
tell this story to the forty-four percent who are still children,
they're young,
they'll get over it,
tell it to the eighty percent under thirty,
it builds character,
tell it to the walking dead born every two minutes,
it's not my problem.

When did God stop caring?

The law,
all encompassing,
all knowing,
all powerful,
what a joke,
imperfect science.

When did home become a prison?

Tell this story to the law,
tell it to the judge,
tell it to the predator,
tell it to the sixty percent that go unreported,
tell it to the ninety-seven percent that will never see the bars that bind,
tell it to the two-thirds who knew their reaper,
tell it to the thirty-eight percent who stared into the face of familiarity,
the abysmal side of human nature.

*Tell this story to the one-fifth of women in this country,
who fall prey to twisted shadows,
the hearts of man,
tell them that they are worthy
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 2.1k
To Hell and Back Again
People come and go,
women especially,
but if you're lucky someday you'll met her,
the girl that rips your life in two,
into the time before you met her,
and the time after.

I always thought that I was immune,
impervious to that sickness known as love,
a childhood condition,
a fictitious construction,
but things don't always go your way.

We speak of love in varying degrees,
hushed tones or from the rooftop,
we often speak of fate and destiny,
but if I've learned anything from life,
it's that love in this context is common.

A common love,
a common interest,
fear of dying alone,
anything done out of fear isn't worth my breath,
and real love isn't born out of mutual admiration,
it isn't a byproduct of infatuation,
born of the imaginings of the human mind.

Love is often one sided,
often unexpected,
and always messy,
it takes work and conviction,
more stamina than I can muster,
more depth of field than a single lens.

Love is working until the day you die,
love is raising children,
holding their hand as they take their first steps,
love is enduring until the end,
the end that will come,
holding her as her body succumbs to disease,
choking back tears as you taste the fear in her eyes,
and following her down the rabbit hole,
the light at the end of the tunnel,
death only a beginning.

Love is an aching pain in the pit of your chest,
love is a struggle,
fighting claw and tooth for some peace of mind,
love is dramatic,
love is stupid,
love is overwrought,
love is an unspoken oath,
love is a trust hard earned,
not easily broken,
a chain tied around your throat,
reminding you to keep your composure,
and keep her close.

Love exists not for you,
it exists for her,
a bond built between two,
and the children that will someday come,
unborn promises,
aloft on gilded wing,
sail set ablaze by the human heart.

I love you girl,
the way you smile,
reflection of the sun in your eye,
the way you cry at every curve in the path,
the way you fall in and out of love at the drop of a feather,
the way you bear self inflicted scars,
the way you can't make sense of the thunderclouds in your head,
your fear of turbulent weather,
the way your body language betrays you,
a thin veneer of sunshine,
I love that you aren't perfect,
I love that we met as children,
understanding in our adolescence,
and looking forward as adults.

**** it!

I love you girl,
I love you as my best friend,
the shell of my shyness torn asunder,
I love you as a sister,
ever present,
I love you as a symbol of brighter days,
filling me with nostalgia,
I love you as a lover,
a beauty best appreciated under setting sun,
I love you as an idealistic fool,
weeping for the futility of it all,
I love you as a fellow dreamer,
believing that one day,
and perhaps given a bit of luck,
I'll love you as a wife,
forever my partner in crime.

The soul of an angel,
and the heart of a saint,
recipient of my fear,
and hope for the future.

Hell is a place I will not go,
if only for a friend,
the friend I've found in you.

"Destiny is the bridge you build,
to the one you love.
A.P. Beckstead (2013) - The quote is from "My Sassy Girl (2006)"
Nov 2013 · 1.5k
Brighter Days
I am young,
though I wish I were younger,
I would rewind time if I could,
back to a period where my temperament was stronger,
back to a time when my greatest concern was a Popsicle,
dripping on my hand as I lick it.

Youth is resilient,
we are born into ignorance,
where we might or might not remain,
given to bliss and innocence,
a greater inclination for love.

I long for a time filled with freedom,
freedom found within playground fences,
found within crosswalks and spineless volumes,
crayon on wall not pen on paper,
that's where real art is made.

I long for a time filled with big brothers and big sisters,
learning one step at a time,
no quantitative measures of success in life,
a time with unrealistic expectations,
not expectations unfulfilled.

I long for the time when I worshiped the ground my brother walked on,
infallible parents and clergymen,
where forgiveness goes without saying,
forgetting trespasses just as quickly as they come,
things change as we are carried away.

It's true that I still love,
but things are different now,
it'll never be the same,
my love is transfigured by dividing lines,
not open to the general populous,
dependent on what they do or say.

I wish that I could go back.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 2.0k
Wayward Soul
What is the dream,
the diary I keep with notes etched to the seam?
What is the goal,
the endpoint at which I determine my role?
The world only skims off the top it seems,
loving only the cream of the crop.

Lost am I,
having strayed from the path,
a world split down the middle,
cut and dry,
and if so,
where can I live,
who can abide my wayward soul?
A soul assembled from the ashes of Descartes and Kant,
a contradiction in continuity,
can I or can't I,
change the hand that I've got?

Listen to the song,
the siren's polyphony,
the refrain rate familiar,
the color tone wrong,
discern for yourself,
what is the bane of the crown?
Stifle your fear and strike at the root,
with shovel in hand bury your sin,
always striving for truth,
rend the tree at both ends.

I am a pariah,
***** in purpose and soul,
the wayfarer's failure,
refusing to pay the pathfinder's toll,
and although my map is imperfect,
all roads lead to Rome.

gladly I'll claim the whole lot,
each title a badge,
a step towards my goal,
this society is sick and refuses to see,
each individual is a person,
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 1.5k
Telltale Allegory
In a world far removed from our own,
there lies a young girl,
days spent in a small house,
days spent in solitude.
A small house on a hill,
countryside as far as the eye can see,
warm weather,
alone and safe isn't exactly a perfect forever.
To stay forever in that little country cottage,
a dream come true,
grass so green,
and sky so blue.
One day she stood up and walked out,
never having left the warmth of the field,
she was lost,
she was sick of complacency,
whatever the cost.
She just kept walking,
losing sight of the familiar,
gaining vision as walked,
a new skyline.
Walking farther and farther.
the atmosphere changed,
warmth shed away into cold,
snow began to fall as she walked,
beneath her summer dress her skin began to bleed.
Snow on snowflakes,
frostbitten extremities,
and still she walks on,
thinking of how things ought to be.
When the young girl met wits end,
physical form begun to warp,
she came walking around the end of the bend,
a structure in sight.
Through enclosed walls,
to the open gate,
eyes agape,
a busy stream of people on their way.
A sight unfamiliar,
a song and a hum,
the journey worthwhile,
the solitude a sojourn.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
Nov 2013 · 775
Find Solace in the Sorrow
Find solace in the sorrow,
relief in the sadness you feel,
safety in the broken pieces,
scatter the shards of your tomorrow.

Go where perfection can't find you,
take pride in the futility of your dreams,
try anyway and fight till you die.

Wolf bearing fangs,
fight for what you want,
cornered by fate and reality,
sharpen your plan.

Love the world,
cracks and all,
your humanity will be your salvation,
man, woman and child.

To live is to lose,
it's sad,
but sadly the truth,
look and see,
the world is kind,
not to you,
not to me.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
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