To me the world is stagnant,
to you the world is beautiful,
to me butterflies emerge from the thaw,
to you they emerge from Spring.

To me love is unchanging,
to you love is elusive,
to me music is an art-form,
to you music is life.

To me requests are conditional,
to you they are not,
to me guns are necessary,
to you they are antiquated.

To me life is a hardship,
to you life is an experience,
to me you are a tragically beautiful idealist,
and I envy you.

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.

Love,
love in its truest form,
it isn't exciting,
it doesn't make my heart pace,
it doesn't appear on a certain date.

Love is a shared experience,
a harmonic connection,
a sentiment unseen,
a song unsung,
a dream without destination.

Love isn't for the faint of heart,
it isn't a childhood condition,
it doesn't arrive bound in ribbon,
and sometimes,
it is my decision.

Love is a house built slowly,
the architect unknown,
the resident unwitting,
it is imperceptible,
a seed sown in the heart.

Love isn't clean,
it can't be borrowed,
it cannot cure the human condition,
it cannot be stored away,
for the reconciliation of sunlight.

Love is a dull ache in the middle of your chest,
love is laughter,
love accompanies a smile,
love amplifies the presence of fear,
multiplication of loneliness on moonlit nights.

Love is found in the stitches of heart and mind,
love holds your hand as they separate,
clear and decisive cuts across the fabric,
lacking the strength of nonexistent twine.

Love is letting go,
love is found in tears,
love is a brother to courage,
love is held near,
grasping at straws as you let go,
whatever it is that made you whole.

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.

All kinds of people,
what you'll find in life,
some are chasing steeples,
some chasing intellectual might,
and still others aren't chasing anything at all.

And still there is another kind of person,
they don't carry any particular banner,
still it's held high,
enthusiasm unfolding.

They have no need for organized religion,
no need for basic convention,
they simply know what is and what isn't,
no need for retrospection,
always moving forward.

They reject both philosophy and religion,
at least for now,
something is amiss,
no need for crowns,
philosophy,
pedantic,
religion,
self-righteous.

Still they fight,
they struggle forward,
doing what feels right for now,
growing without notice,
philosophy and religion constitute their heartbeat,
the subconscious without doubt.

They blend in today,
and tomorrow will furrow their brow,
funny how it works,
I like to think he's chasing the unseen.

If I were to describe my perfect women,
I'd say she would have to confuse me,
shock me again and again,
jolt from my steady routine.

She'd be sweet as can be,
meek and perceptive,
kind influence rolling as far as the eye can see,
show me what this world is.

She'd be a spicy girl,
sharp wit and silver tongue,
she'd like to dance and twirl,
always aware of the smoking gun.

She'd be sweet and spicy,
my perfect dish,
our meals won't be pricey,
when life swings and we miss.

She embodies the dream,
teaming with love for the kids,
love stitched to the seam,
connection grown with each kiss.

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?

However,
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.

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.

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 change of heart,
scraping at behavior,
a hope of better days,
not always so easy.

Reinvention of idealism,
rebirth of the renaissance,
a truth or a lie,
who's to say?

Love is right,
but not enough,
the world is cold,
and though the lines are connected,
this doesn't make it relevant.

An old man's dream,
fire in the bones,
future no longer two toned,
wrought with silver-screen,
and fed to the hearts of youth,
*like me.

Presto,
with haste,
bring forth the measure,
striking sound to create.

Allegro,
with grace,
flow forth like a river,
beauty in God's eternal round.

Moderato,
with taste,
medium to the greats,
note upon note,
slowly mounting.

Andante,
with slackened pace,
venerable vineyard of sound,
sing forth,
no appeasement for the proud.

Adagio,
with measured blow,
The Hammer on anvil,
ring out your chord,
the tonic repeats below.

Presto*,
cantabile*,
homunculus,
the human voice,
Stradivari sings to us.

Molded and shaped,
firm against the skin,
so much strength,
so subject to change.

Formation of shape,
line,
and form,
never the same,
defying the norm,
hand pressed down,
as I work to create.

Thick and centered,
grooves along the base,
just as life,
art is far from a race.

As with the burgeoning of the oak,
wings spring forth from the dust,
living sediment,
free from my grasp.

Ah Sunflower,
grown weary of life,
whose petals gleam,
under a summer sky.

Whose petals fall,
with winter’s soft embrace.
think not of other flowers,
look life squarely in its face.

Love only the sticky dew,
of spring,
and of summer.
dream not,
of the coming Autumn,
and its colorful rot.

Know that you are loved,
and under a gardener’s watchful eye,
you’ll bloom once more,
gleaming under a summer sky.

Alex’s shirt is so old-school,
that it’s almost new age.
It’s fabric is home to many a fish,
swimming around his shoulders and sleeves.
I like fish in more ways than one,
I like them as dinner,
but never as lunch.
I like them as friends,
but never as lovers.
I feel that fish live a fortunate life,
they don’t feel sad,
or feel pain,
they aren't even aware of their surroundings.
They hang out in schools,
but oddly,
they never learn anything.
Ignorance is bliss,
fish are lucky this way,
and even though fish are uneducated,
I like to think they each have their own stories.
People say fish can’t be happy,
but I've never met a depressed fish,
and there is something to be said about that.

I awake to a world unfamiliar,
my surrounding not the same,
the sand beneath,
crushed up glass,
the color,
eton blue,
the sky beyond me,
a different hue,
the same color,
but time changes all,
mist in the eves of the earth,
as it heaves,
trees rise from the sand,
reaching farther than the eye can see,
the water at the end,
ripples and fades,
colorless and grey,
a reflection of the same above,
a mirror to a parallel world,
pallid,
pensive,
a contemporary of my own.

Intelligent,
willpower beyond recognition,
far beyond our scope,
dreaming gently of great things.

Your intentions were pure,
they always are,
I find it odd,
how easily you fell away.

Your shoulders are burdened,
your countenance taxed,
weight of the world,
so afraid of death.

So much fear,
you've lost your way,
don't be afraid,
your good deeds do not go unpunished,

You are so proud,
and rightly so,
you are among the greats,
and much will be your reward one day.

What you lack is courage,
belief without sight,
truth without proof,
love without reservation,
but as luck would have it,
you already have it,
traits simply waiting for re-inclination.

A cool Summer breeze,
the sun at my back,
wind blowing softly,
cast lazily betwixt leaves,
surrounding my mind,
with the soft touch of peace.

A wish in my heart,
a prayer on my breath,
remembering the times,
from then till my death.

My mind often clouded,
doubt and white lies,
my soul is transparent,
filled with warm sighs.

These trails of wind,
tell my story to me,
from the simplicity of childhood,
until my body succumbs to disease.

Do not worry about the length,
care not for the width,
find strength in the journey,
each second a gift.

I am atom,
I am quark,
I am dust,
I am ash.

Fluttering in the breeze,
mouth of the beast,
from my pyroclasm there is no retreat,
unto all the ends of the earth,
the east,
the west.

I find a home among the dreams of man,
civilization,
ascension and degradation,
here I am.

I slip between the cracks,
the grass mixed betwixt water and ash,
winding through the leaves,
upwards through the trees.

My arms burgeon upwards,
reaching for the sun,
from whence I have come,
drifting in the sky,
and sifting through sand as I lie.

Fruits bursts from my fingers,
I recede and give way,
on my way I go,
oh how sweet is the sound.

I fall and taste nostalgia,
falling through such familiar leaves,
a tasty treat.

Churning and mixing,
dripping and assimilating,
I find that I can move,
what am I now?
Who knows?

Off to the east,
as far as these feet can carry,
water and salt mix together in my teeth,
slithering across my hair.

I spy and unfamiliar creature,
I feel unsure,
unsure?
I like it.

She spies me and smiles,
a smile?
I like it.
And that's the story of how we,
came to be.

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.

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.

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,
temporary.

Time,
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.

Clarity of heart,
strength of spirit,
alacrity of mind,
pureness of intent.

So much love,
I can't comprehend,
the sweetness of her soul,
so much love,
it brings me shame.

Despite poor circumstance,
a bulwark to the storm,
a guardian angel,
she loves everyone.

Celestial bound,
no heaven too high,
she always asks the right questions,
but never asks why.

God first,
family second,
I cannot resent,
I cannot fight it,
the principles she represents.

Charity,
because of her,
that's all there is for me in this life,
hardship,
she can handle it,
surgery wasn't kind,
her body is fragile,
but she doesn't mind.

She held me as a child,
she holds me still as an adult,
love without limit,
I like to think that she'll hold me,
even as I die.

Long ago there lived a man,
a little Frenchman,
he had an idea,
a wonderful contradiction.

If you choose to believe,
decide what you'll get,
make your choice,
your's to agree or contradict.

If you choose disbelief,
and find yourself in the right,
you'll find yourself forever gone,
and if wrong,
everything is lost.

If you choose belief,
and find yourself in the wrong,
you'll find you care not at all,
but if right,
eternal is your delight.

Even if the man upstairs doesn't exist,
I say that he does,
a culmination of ethics and good,
we a member of the godhood.

Free me from this sickness,
rip from me my heart,
leave it beating on the open street.
Living is hard,
dying is easy,
struggling forward down towards the dust.
Life is a game they say,
it seems I'm not good at it,
the keys are backward,
ivory and ebony.
It is not without sunlit ray,
I have with me my family,
hearts beating in syncopation.
I can't quit just yet,
somewhere off in the distance,
lies an unborn child,
waiting for my assistance.

I do not keep a diary,
no journal for my thoughts,
instead I speak to you,
through lyric,
line upon line,
poetry,
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.

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,
wandering,
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.

The world is a bleak,
devoid of pity,
desolate peaks,
and broken cities.

The landscape is torn,
refineries come to collect,
but hidden from the storm,
hides secret places that need remain hid.

The skyline is littered with ravaged beauty,
towering structures of glass and steel,
and betwixt titans lay many an oasis,
a bulwark of barbs,
a poignant seal.

Titan towers are trivial in comparison,
colossal peaks and monolithic expanses,
war torn deserts,
Eastern jungles echoing with the cries of forgotten children.

It is not nature that will destroy man,
man will destroy man,
and nature will reclaim its own,
this Earth we mistakenly call our home,
this life is but temporary.

I lay smiling,
staring up through the leaves,
underneath our favorite tree,
that old weeping willow.
It's a world of its own,
leaves envelope me,
the death of entropy,
if only for a short time.
I sit and I remember,
of days spent,
days unkempt and full of spirit,
I sit and I remember.
That day I was off singing with friends,
walking down dark, warm streets,
no padding to accompany my feet,
enjoying all that is sweet.
The sunlight tears through the leaves,
I can't help it,
you're staring back at me,
through this willow.

Your blue eyes pierce me.

I sit and I smile,
I sit and I cry,
I sit alone,
I am not lonely,
this place is our home.

Sometimes I feel restless,
especially when I am alone,
it is the object of my stress,
there are no longer any feelings of home.

Sometimes at night,
I hear scratching at my door,
when I investigate all is right,
not a thing out of place.

Sometimes I feel claustrophobic,
the walls close in around me,
I shake this feeling off,
but cannot escape the seeping of dread.

I think I am paranoid,
slowly losing my grip,
my mind,
at wit's end.

There came a knocking at my cellar door,
impossible,
what for?

Thunder crashes,
vibrations ring through my hall,
lightning flashes overhead,
I shudder at its pall.

The storm rages on,
shattering glass and vase alike,
splintering doorways with its might,
no more can I pleasantly scoff.

The knocking comes again from below,
I fear I must investigate,
sadly I am no hero,
but still I must go,
despite enervation.

*The poor man never arrived at his station last night,
friends reported stories of his paranoia,
they sincerely hope he is alright,
nothing amiss at his residence,
but no man to be found.

If I can't find my place in this world,
I won't mind if my wings unfurl,
Tempest tossed,
Countless pages lost.
If I don't find myself fairly judged by the gavel,
I don't mind if my mind unravels.
Trapped like a bird in a cage,
waiting for release,
I'll sleep softly.

Wise beyond your years,
soul so ancient,
strong in spirit,
holding tight the change of the years.

Your advice is always loving,
always relevant,
but that's just your style,
just the way that you paint.

Brush strokes of wisdom,
swirls of honesty,
texture with experience,
touched with glaze for preservation,
divine inspiration.

Always patient,
profound,
always accepting,
mind free from the world,
persona clear,
and never afraid of the human tear.

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.

Carry me when I feel small,
give me light when I am dark,
lift me up when I fall,
always treat me the same.

Teach me in my ignorance,
break me down,
reconstitute my prideful nature,
always treat me the same.

Struggle against my restlessness,
listen to my rare flecks of wisdom,
direct me in times of moral crisis,
always treat me the same.

Bless me when I am sick,
hold my arm when I am lost,
love me when my soul tears,
always treat me the same,
and I'll do the same for you.

My favorite recipe,
mix laughter with wit,
laughter without awareness,
mix them together and great is what you get.

Glances shared,
laughter ensues,
no one is any wiser,
the childish becomes elegant.

What is humor,
the quality of being amusing or comic,
esp. as expressed in literature or speech,
wrong,
it's a contradiction between comrades.

Laughter shouldn't require effort,
a glance,
a wink,
a smile,
send you back,
nostalgia,
a reference to another day,
brighter or darker alike.

A friend taught me this lesson,
we met as children,
and still chuckle as men,
and so my hat off to him.

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.

Sunlight streaming,
piercing closed shades,
a painful reminder of a new day.

Weakness in the bones,
stricken by metal and stone,
mind beaten down,
by howling winds.

A true story told,
father and son,
a story so old,
God only knows.

Soon the cold creeps in,
ice water in the veins,
reminded again,
of the avaricious and bold,
false actions of men.

Just then,
a young girl walks in,
face so young,
her soul so old,
warm glints of sunshine,
shown kindly on shimmer locks.

A fresh dish of water,
a spring in her step,
as though heaven set her pace,
chasing winter from an old man's face.

The cleansing of skin,
a mother’s soft embrace,
wounds re-wrapped and retold,
winces replaced,
a twinkling in its place.

It is okay to sigh,
to dream and reminiscence,
but don’t lose your sight,
God loves you child,
this is not your punishment.

I'm building a house,
with my own two hands.

The kitchen is empty,
the walls sigh,
their breath is restful,
the oven serenades.

I can taste the sweetness in the air,
it rings softly as trees billow,
willows casting shadows,
their tears hang in the air.

A bulwark,
shelter from the storm,
I am alone,
but I do not feel lonely,
I am home.

I have made a home,
with my own two hands.

The street is empty,
rain has washed clean the road,
the trees provide a canopy,
the streetlamps a goal.

We walk arms interlocked,
no need for time,
no time for measurements,
no measurement for age,
for the night is young.

So many charming phrases to say,
they lay on the tip of my tongue,
and with the beauty of the night,
I am easily outdone.

The ambiance begins a song,
the breeze the melody,
life simply sings along,
casting ripples across the stream.

The sights around us are calming,
she's the only thing I can see,
I can't believe it myself,
how does she have time for me?

The moonlight strikes forth,
hammer on anvil,
forging love from old embers,
stories untold.

Whether we'll be together or not,
I cannot say,
but right now it doesn't matter to me,
that's the kind of love you don't often see.

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.

Superstition,
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.

The people are strange,
the culture is odd,
the people are diverse,
the culture is a facade.

Life isn't a museum,
a display for the holy,
life is an infirmary,
for the beaten down,
the lonely.

I find that I love them anyway,
their humor is wholesome,
their personas loving,
this is a necessary evil.

Who you are is a series of gestures,
successful or otherwise,
who you are is a collection of mementos,
who you are is loved,
the only thing worth being.

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.

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.

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.

I will look back the on past,
reminiscence for awhile,
on things that cannot exist,
feeling the splints and casts I had as a child.

I'll prepare for the future,
for a loving wife and a child,
to which I am lovingly indentured,
for all of my life,
doing so with a smile.

I'll clear my mind,
and think of the present,
I'll dream good dreams,
and care not of my sutures,
this is all I can do,
moving forward to the future.

Life is no destination,
life is line,
stretching back and forth,
spun together with time.

Eternal is our pathway,
this trial only a point,
our own little struggle,
the pain in our joints.

This path is ours alone to walk,
each step getting lighter,
towards whatever end,
to which we might meet,
for humans are frail creatures,
and our spirits are meek.

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.

In honor of Lewis Carroll
and the way in which he has filled
my life with wonder.*

In a wonderland they lie,
dreaming as the days go by,
they live,
they laugh,
and truthfully,
they do love.

Ponder and pray,
and I’m sure you’ll find,
no better way,
to pass the time.

They sit and they smile,
and dream good dreams,
of love and of life,
lacking a thing called strife.

They dream of dreams that glitter as they gleam,
swirl and twirl,
as they travel downstream.

They list away and stare at the clouds,
Smiling so brightly,
The sun himself would be proud.
no tears,
no pain,
and from love,
there can be no lies,
it’s as if the world,
and its skies,
were nothing but a game.

Some may find it a trial,
but give it some time,
and I’m sure that you’ll find,
there is no such thing as guile.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
its glittering flakes,
its snow covered lakes.
I once dreamed of cold winter nights,
thick folds of a quilt,
stitched with care.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
this has now changed,
now I know of the sunflower,
I had known of it,
but never its name.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
but no more,
I now thirst for Spring,
where the chill cannot find me.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
now I love only spring,
no need for the burden of cloth.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
I hope one day the sunflower may know of impending warmth,
so thus I pray,
she may bloom without fear of Winter.

Flickering flame,
languishing light,
beating upon wooden frame,
a forgotten story,
lost from sight.

One day they were here,
the next they were gone,
they were extinguished out of fear,
no longer can they sing,
they've forgotten the song.

In a way they were innocent,
in a way they were wrong,
their ideals were incandescent,
their trials afterward,
long.

And still,
when they are found in other places,
they are held against their will,
but then again,
is this not true in all cases?

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.

My perspective is broken,
I have no opinion,
no political theory,
nothing upon which to stand.
I find myself lost,
not enough information to inform the rest,
the ignorant masses,
the proletariat.
I myself am ignorant,
and ignorance isn't bliss,
I don't know for certain if God exists,
but truthfully that's my greatest wish.
I've locked myself away,
afraid of taking a side,
afraid of playing the fool,
but I'm working my way out.
But, perhaps that's it,
that's the truth of all things,
life is a work in progress,
the truth itself is bottomless.
The vault reaches infinitely in both directions,
seek the future and the present,
not the past,
faith without works will not outlast.