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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Predictable,
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Grandiose,
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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Controversy,
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,
kaleidoscope,
maybe you'll stop conforming someday,
au revoir mon ami.

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.

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.

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,
you,
as beautiful as your art.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Tears of joy,
love and intellect both,
beyond comprehension,
without measure,
she already knows what in life to treasure.

Pollyanna,
naivety,
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But,
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,
discretion,
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.

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.

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.

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?
You,
your life is yours to create.

What bars our freedom?
Oppression,
Persecution,
Indecision,
Doubt,
Hatred,
Cont­ention,
Jealousy,
Addiction,
Pride,
And most importantly of all,
(Silence)
Fear.

Yes!
Fear is no friend of freedom,
Antithesis to the dream.
Fear is a struggling shadow,
Cast behind us as we gleam.
Contrast,
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!

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,
soul-mates,
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,
no,
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,
admiration,
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."

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.

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.

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.

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.