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8.9k · Oct 2013
To Be Determined
What is freedom?
Freedom is the ability to choose for yourself.
Freedom is a choice between what is,
and what can be.
Freedom is empowering others to love themselves.

What is your government?
Who are these impostors who speak about the need to breath,
but won’t let us?
Who fights for freedom and equality?
No one.
These men fight against us for the slice of a pie,
lining their pockets as kids in Africa die.
The people shouldn't fear their government,
the government should fear its people.

What is the value of a dollar?
Is it the freedom to eat?
Or the cement wrapped tight around your feet,
water forced between your teeth?
Who is freer?
The Baker Boy?
Scraping by on a dime?
Or old man flush with pedigree?
Drunk with greed and the taste of fine wine?
Freedom is being faced with two equally infallible truths,
and choosing deftly between the two,
which sounds better to you?

Who is freer?
Those who choose to drop f-bombs on stage,
or those who drop bombs of wisdom in its place?
Don’t be discouraged when the one locked down is you,
when the wicked wage war in your home terrain,
when you struggle back and forth,
with the pain of being raised a Jew.

Who decides your fate?
Who decides your fate when your rent is late?
Who decides your fate when you discover your son is gay?
Who decides your fate when the crest falls flat?
Who decides your fate when the tumor is malignant?
Who decides your fate when your sutures fall out?
Who decides your fate when you find you've lost your way?
Who decides your fate when the embers die down?
Who decides your fate when sorrow silently drips across your face?
Who decides your fate when the voices inside your head can’t seem to agree?
your life is yours to create.

What bars our freedom?
And most importantly of all,

Fear is no friend of freedom,
Antithesis to the dream.
Fear is a struggling shadow,
Cast behind us as we gleam.
Darkness exists through the brightness of the sun.
Our predisposition isn't for failure,
But bursting forth grasping for freedom’s sake.
Don’t settle for sickly shadows,
Accept only warm smiles between friends at the end of the day.

Do you hear that?
That’s the sound of freedom,
The march of liberty.
Fear isn't the courage to stand up for a friend,
Fear isn't the strength to share what you believe in,
Fear isn't holding a friends hand when they've lost their sight,
Fear isn't within a friend’s victory finding only delight,
*But freedom is!
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
2.8k · Oct 2013
Apricot Tree
We met here as children,
happy times,
smiles shared between friends,
love at its prime.
Everyday we meet,
crayons held high,
in our small hands,
the three of us,
no time for judgement,
no time for worry,
far too many adventures to be had,
underneath this apricot tree.

The meetings grow infrequent,
we meet here as acquaintances,
we meet here as lovers,
knife for the carving of flesh and bark,
dreams of brighter days,
days obscured by a terrestrial haze,
we love,
we hate,
we grow,
we regress,
under this apricot tree.

Years pass,
the meetings are infrequent,
the successful no longer indulge,
there are only two of us left,
we meet as strangers under summer sky,
cursing God for death,
understanding what love is,
so clear now,
how did we get this far,
underneath this apricot tree?

They meet here as children,
they meet as friends,
in its truest sense,
the days get lighter,
the sun a little brighter,
grazing fresh skin,
sun-kissed lullabies,
the toys are different,
but the game is the same,
underneath this apricot tree.

We meet here as children,
laying underneath our tree,
nostalgia feels our lungs,
the feeling is familiar,
but the landscape is inverted,
we love,
we hate,
we grow,
we regress,
everyday we meet,
crayons held high,
in our small hands,
the three of us,
our children with us,
we meet here as one,
underneath this apricot tree.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
2.7k · Nov 2013
Evermore has man searched for God,
the one who lives forever,
reaching upward towards the sun,
Icarus smitten with metallic rod.

Evermore has man dreamed of eternal life,
mixing potions,
magnum opus,
man or monster under knife.

Evermore has man sought immunity,
medical perfection,
telomeres with regeneration,
society given a longer unity.

Evermore has man longed for the paranormal,
vampires and immortal beasts,
fireside stories fit for fear,
portals to the imagination.

*The bird of Hermes,
is my name,
eating my wings,
to make me tame.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
2.6k · Oct 2013
Gray is the color of complacency,
and rightly so,
it shows the dullness of apathy,
cold and metallic.

White is color of purity,
and rightly so,
its cold warmth,
its softness,
it is better by far than gray,
but shares still its scale.

Red is the color of rebellion,
and of passion,
and rightly so,
red is deep and powerful,
encompassing rage and defiance alike,
and for this reason I choose red.
2.5k · Dec 2013
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)
2.5k · Jan 2014
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)
2.4k · Nov 2013
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)
2.2k · Nov 2013
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)
2.2k · Nov 2013
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)"
2.0k · Nov 2013
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)
2.0k · Oct 2013
The Kindest Woman I've Met
Tears of joy,
love and intellect both,
beyond comprehension,
without measure,
she already knows what in life to treasure.

perfect characteristics,
roses in the cheeks,
from her unto me.

No matter the trial,
she's resilient,
a gift to the world,
a world undeserving.

Slow to anger,
quick to trust,
never to hate,
always forgiving.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
2.0k · Nov 2013
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)
1.8k · Apr 2014
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)
1.8k · Oct 2013
The shades of grey darken,
I find myself afraid,
may direction find me,
I have lost my way,
shine on me,
light the gravel at my feet,
produce fuel for ignition,
and a reason to believe.

Ropes only bind,
they do not guide,
sounds only deceive,
stealing my perception of time,
any steps forward,
are lost in my pride.

Even your hand I dare not hold,
for fear of sinking,
a shared demise,
for our worlds are far removed,
and signals in the distance,
will only lead me to shallow coves,
I am a shipwreck in the night.

Give me light,
sight to go with illumination,
intuition to go with my eyes,
and a key for this cage I create in my mind.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.8k · Oct 2013
There Is Always Hope
There is always hope,
though we often sway,
caught in the tempest,
the only remedy is to pray.
Forgive our trespasses,
giants of steel,
piercing the earth,
no steward are we.
Ravaged lands,
children lost,
endless confrontation,
deceptive use of the cross.
Forgive us,
we know not what we do,
this has ever been the truth,
we are all hopeless without trust.

in this wasteland there is love,
hope for a better tomorrow,
idealism going above.

There is always hope,
despite the torrent of decay,
the sun peaks over the clouds,
at the end of the day.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.6k · Nov 2013
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)
1.6k · Oct 2013
Slothful Potential
Childhood friend,
comic(al) book hero,
humor in everything you do,
what happened?

Onset of adolescence,
hanging out in the backyard,
ultimate frisbee,
no thought for coming days.

Hours spent,
how content were we,
wasting away time like it grows on trees,
finite is time.

Then came marijuana,
there goes motivation,
don't let the door hit you on the way out,
look at how much fun you're having.

law in and law out,
a little different,
but more of the same.

Still the same kid lies somewhere inside,
suffocating under cloud and flame,
no negative consequences,
yea right,
I'm not so easily convinced.

Warm and healthy humor gone,
only morbid and ****** jokes remain,
silliness slept safe at night,
and in crept the pain of adulthood,
knife in hand.

Time heals all wounds,
looking glass,
maybe you'll stop conforming someday,
au revoir mon ami.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.6k · Jan 2014
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.
1.6k · Jan 2014
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)
1.6k · Nov 2013
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)
1.5k · Oct 2013
Sky Blue Dress
As I laying dreaming one night,
I lay on my porch staring at the sky,
my vision blurred with the onset of sleep,
a smile on my face.

I floated off into the distance,
mind sent downstream,
collective experience open before me,
I find that I have no resistance.

I am not where I was,
I lay in a field of flowers,
stretched beyond sight,
it is here that I want to die.

Hands and knees,
above me I see a girl,
she's wearing a summer dress,
her outline slightly different from the rest.

The sun beats down,
the flowers reach up,
drips of sunshine hit the grass,
the girl's dress melds with the sky.

I don't know who or what she is,
I don't know where she's come from,
why she's here,
but she's all I want.

I reach up towards her hand,
the flowers heed my call,
hand in hand,
I can't evade her draw.

Our hands touch,
the cliché is broken,
her hand is filled not with first loves,
but the warmth of nostalgia flooding back again.

On her palm rests,
fond times out on the lake,
overcoming family deaths,
of what family we have left,
and in the end that's all we've got.

I take her hand in mine,
and in return I give it all back,
songs and stories,
defeats and glories.

We lay back against the sky,
dreams and tears both go by,
wishing for the gift of flight,
basking in a unfamiliar sun's light.

In a flash it's all gone,
I think that perhaps I was wrong,
I'm always singing the same tune,
saying that I love you,
just me and the moon.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.5k · Nov 2013
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)
1.4k · Mar 2014
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)
1.4k · Oct 2013
Bullet to the Brain
You feel so lonely,
the shadows overtake you,
things never feel the same,
if only.

You don't feel accepted,
you've held on fairly well,
to your credit,
but endurance can only go so far.
You're at wit's end,
the end of your rope,
frayed and broken,
but don't let go.

Letting go seems easy,
no more suffering,
no more sighs,
echoing through your soul.
Your body is wracked with sobs,
but you can't give in,
don't pull the pin.

Do NOT give in,
don't let it **** you in,
the tidal wave,
the thunderstorm in your head.
If you pull that trigger,
you might as well do me too,
the pain you'll cause is greater by far,
than the hand you've been dealt.

Don't give in to what is easy,
do not give into the pain,
but don't drown it out either,
life isn't a game.
No matter the hardship,
no matter the trial,
day by day,
morning by morning,
how great will be your reward,
be it a culmination of humanistic ideals,
or a loving father's arms.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.3k · Oct 2013
An Everyday Saint
Although your wife is a catch,
you're no slouch yourself,
an excellent match,
your children are themselves top-shelf.

You don't work for the money,
you work only for your family,
you have yet to receive your fair due,
I can't help but have respect for you.

To your wife you are a rock,
an anchor against the tide,
carrying the world on your shoulders,
an atlas that will never shrug.

To your children you are a guide,
a lamppost on the way of life,
a warm hand until the fear subsides,
I'm quite sure they'll turn out fine.

To me you are a hero,
thank you for the experiences,
that you share with me,
the best uncle that you can be.

You are my godfather,
you do it all,
you are a saint,
a hero to me.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.3k · Dec 2013
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)
1.3k · Nov 2013
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)
1.3k · Oct 2013
Predictable World
always the same,
no differentiation in sight,
forever trapped in this silly game.

Day in,
day out,
definition of lunacy,
I hold a monopoly of sanity.

This city is founded on conformity,
the people, more of the same,
the city, a deformity,
the people, a symphony of the same.

Though I still dream of the mystical,
sifting through grains of sand,
crushed up glass,
always finding myself back at the beginning,
a malcontent in my own way.

Still I take comfort in the sound,
the sound of vibrancy,
of dissonance and playful rebellion,
lost in endless sands,
my name is homophony.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.3k · Oct 2013
I have an aunt,
but she's more like a best friend,
we're more alike than all my friends,
more alike than family even.

We have similar phases,
she helps me through,
she's my godmother,
I love her,
it's true.

She is relaxed,
she puts things in perspective,
her children are god-sent,
her husband a saint.

Her spirit is sweet,
not unlike my mother,
with sacred things she is devout,
but does not overdo.

Her house is a second home,
a refuge from the storm clouds,
that brew in my head,
for that I thank her,
for all that she's said.

I love you AJ,
despite the fact that sometimes life is hard,
I'm glad that you're my aunt,
my eternal friend.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.3k · Oct 2013
Bright Eyed Girl
Eyes wide open,
tilted towards the sky,
twinkle therein,
laughing softly as constellations die.

Star after star,
falling from the sky,
each tethered to a soul,
vanishing as they die.

Beautiful face,
expressive and perceptive,
lively and lovely,
a Mona Lisa in your own time.

Star after star,
falling from the sky,
laying back against blades of grass,
and though the these blades are dull,
they press against you sharply,
a reminder of the fact that everyday children die.

Shaken to the core,
tears well up inside,
letting yourself go,
not a spirit in sight.

Journey just begun,
step by step,
gathering up your sadness in your arms,
that’s what makes you different.

Your beauty is elusive,
tangible and otherwise,
sharp and sweet,
your beauty stems not from what you aren't,
but what you are.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.3k · Nov 2013
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)
1.3k · Jan 2014
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)
1.3k · Nov 2013
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)
1.2k · Dec 2013
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)
The Devil,
King of Hell,
Lord of Deception,
and to me,
a common misconception.

He tempts us when we least expect it,
he tempts us all the time,
subversive puppet strings,
his subterfuge refined.
He is evil,
he is cruel,
participant of time's longest feud.

But wait,
his intention wasn't this at all,
where did he lose his way?
where did he go wrong?
He was prideful,
an unwitting thrall,
Son of Perdition,
hated by the one and the all.
Guile isn't an easy game,
he must have intellect beyond our scope,
why can't he see what's in front of him?
He himself is his own undoing.
He gives us agency,
is that such a bad thing?
He's either,
or most frightening of all,
knows the truth,
the necessity he represents.
this whole game is a ruse,
a tool,
a pawn ready for use.
A necessary evil,
corrupting some,
perfecting others,
a tragic story to tell.
He struggles in vain,
we struggle the same,
struck from the Good Lord's veins,
made to improve.

There is no refuge in the dark,
darkness is stark against the light,
without the one,
there can be no other.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.2k · Nov 2013
I Will Not Bow
Though many seek to destroy,
tear asunder the ties that bind,
to take from me my serenity,
I will not bow.

Though many may seek to defame,
to separate mother from child,
to expose brutal and violent philosophy,
I will not bow.

Though the tides converge,
crashing waves with overwhelming force,
I cannot hope to overcome,
I will not bow.

Though the forces of fate conspire,
alone am I against the world,
my views are singular and often discouraged,
I will not bow.

Though man will try to change my mind,
to make me see through their eyes,
to see things as they are,
not what they are to me,
I will not bow.

Though contention rages in my world,
though doubt clouds my mind,
caught in the tempters snare,
a creation wrought of man,
I will not bow.

Though tempests will swarm,
maniacal laughter sold as new,
and time will change all things,
I will not bow.

Though the things I love will one day die.
though my generation will fade into obscurity,
a loss of collective value and shared experience,
my progeny will carry the flame,
they will not bow.

Though my body will succumb to the world,
my soul will not,
*I will not bow.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.2k · Dec 2013
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)
1.2k · Dec 2013
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)
1.2k · Jan 2014
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)
1.2k · Dec 2013
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)
1.1k · Apr 2014
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)
1.1k · Oct 2013
Stumbling Over My Words
You confuse me perpetually,
your personality is extreme,
your views the same,
but I may discover you eventually.

You are dramatic,
your prose over-wrought,
but still I see through,
the meaning you've hidden from view.

You are cheerful,
you give compliments undue,
but I see something else deep inside you,
I am suspicious of this happiness that you exude.

Your smile seems forced,
your personality a facade,
forged from childhood condition,
not exactly an original rendition.

Your words seem hollow,
rather than hallowed,
I'm wrong I know,
our differences are borrowed.

Your advice is often right,
seeing not what the others see,
a intuition beyond sight,
but it seems contrived to me.

You are human,
and so am I,
your intentions are pure,
mine are lost on the sky.

But still I have love for you,
unsure of the tinkering of your heart,
as beautiful as your art.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.1k · Oct 2013
Listens and Understands
There's a girl I know,
I don't know her well,
I haven't known her for long,
but she's someone I'd miss,
if I found she were gone.

Her eyes are quite pretty,
her smile infectious,
her views on the world,
are pure and relentless.

She knows not of the future,
but that doesn't bother her,
she smiles anyway,
though life is often unsure.

Her style is different,
her heroes are loving,
endearing and god-fearing,
to adversity indifferent.

She isn't quite perfect,
but knows what she knows,
she loves other people,
and cares not for first-world woes.

She listens well,
and understands,
she returns worthy feedback,
and gives few demands.

Her intentions are pure,
she knows where she stands,
her spirit is lovely,
as if cast with God's hand.

There's a girl I know,
I don't know her well,
I haven't known her for long,
but she's someone I'd miss,
if I found she were gone,

She's one the better people I've met,
her persona serene,
her presence is impactful,
though she doesn't realize it yet.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.1k · Oct 2013
I Miss You Grandpa
Man of honor,
the standard of valor,
strong in both spirit and stature,
holding tight to your breast,
the God of love.

no anger in the face,
just hope for brighter days.

Solemn patriarch,
guiding his sheep,
spirit stark with might,
our success is yours to keep.

Wracked with affliction,
body ravaged by the unnatural,
smile fades away,
struggling against the current,
the supernatural.

In the end you found your answer,
faith exceeding human fear,
I have no doubt in my mind,
where you ended up,
for you I stem my tears,
I miss you grandpa.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
1.0k · Feb 2014
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)
1.0k · Oct 2013
Selling Out
Sell out,
give up your soul,
seed in place of satire,
nurture your money tree,
spread the disease.

Patron of the arts,
never an artist,
always an adult,
blue-blooded realist,
always aware.

platinum soul ringing out,
bills stacked to the roof,
really dear man,
what is truth?

You sold yourself,
of that there is no doubt,
fools curse your fortune,
but who can blame you for a system,
that we created in the first place?
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
982 · Feb 2014
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)
981 · Oct 2013
Creamies and Recliners
Master of kindness,
lover of fate,
baker and nurse,
warmth and intuition within her replete.

Warm baked bread,
jam on my toast,
hugs of a seasoned mother,
arms of a saint.


Her sensibilities are timeless,
she's full to brim with honey,
creamies and recliners,
the foundation of my childhood,
remembered into the eternities.
A.P. Beckstead (2013)
980 · Jan 2014
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)
970 · Jul 2014
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)
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