We are not what we seem to be,
To be,
or not to be,
what a joke.

We are always,
never are we not,
existing forever,
sublimating never,
never to be forgot.

Matter cannot be destroyed,
souls are made of the same stuff,
mind and body,
edges tapered to the triumphant.

We are far more than we seem,
far more than the sum of our parts,
our insignificant parts.

What we are is the culmination of,
what we are,
what we were,
and what we ever will be.

Flag-bearers,
one and all,
a white flag held,
pallid and proud.

Hold high that banner,
straighten your stance,
temper with faith,
and steady your pace.

Remember your promises,
lock and key,
remember your promises,
they remember you.

Hold high that banner,
though the task is difficult,
the going is tough,
and it only gets harder,
trudging through lengths of mud,
that only get longer.

Over tight-rope,
across coal and flame,
under hammer and pen,
remember who you are,
and your burden will be lightened.
as you reach the end.

This poem is an admission of guilt.

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

What does it mean to be right?

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

And what is truth?

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

Why is man so singular and yet so one dimensional?

I find in my own experience that I am wrong,
in all instances,
there are always things that I do not consider,
facets wasted on my youth,
and in hoping for credibility,
I find that silence is the best substitute for intelligence,
and that the belief in the absence of illusions,
is itself an illusion,
for I am at my core,
ignorant,
unwise,
tired,
uncouth,
and very angry.

Forever have I feared the lashing,
the deep cut of criticism,
a stroke from the heart of man,
afraid of his own shadow,
observations cut from the cloth of reflective lack of sight.

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

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

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

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

I will apologize for my actions,
but I will not apologize for who I am,
for I am a friend to agency,
and have no lack of ambition.

I find myself alone in my room,
thinking,
just as I always seem to do,
I thought to myself,
just as you all likely do at one time or another,
why can't people just get along?

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

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

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

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

But then I realized,
perhaps I'm just tired,
people say crazy things when they are not in our right mind.

The language of love,
it isn't French,
the language of love,
it's action.

I walk along the shoreline,
wind blowing through the south-side trees,
around my face streams a familiar scent,
the smell of fresh pine.

This lake is one of many,
the North is a wonderful time,
crime is negligible,
the people are not many.

Whispers come rustling through the leaves,
they tell me stories,
of love and of glory,
they tell of a long lost people.

They are my people is some ways,
we are interconnected,
strung together on the strings,
the same dichotomy.

I wonder if they're watching me now,
are they weeping for their loss,
or are they rejoicing in my freedom,
yes,
this is our kingdom.