I used to start stories
For no one.

There was just the voice
And then another voice
And then the scene
Around their

Conversation.

I used to see
The sea
And never question
My sight, definitions or
Senses.

They were mine and **** all
Who said otherwise.

The blasphemy of creativity
Is the manipulation
Of inspiration fueled by the intention

Of another's sight or recognition.

A tree is indifferent to man's awe,
Yet they feel it.

A rock is heavy, it is cold,
In a person's hand
Of no will other than nature's.

A butterflies wings beauty
Stands unquestioned
Solely because they do not ask
To be recognized.

Something happened to me along the way.
I can't say what it was or is but,
It did.

Acceptance, weighed down by
Expectations
Is nothing but loose dirt
Over a still breathing body.

Yes, we are farmers,
Cattleman of controversy
Humor and drama but,
A capitalists time is not
An artist's time.

There are no quarters here.

There is only majesty.

There is only God or lack thereof.

There is only Us.

A sentence

Is the greatest art

Of all.

I can see
Why Ginsberg

Wanted to sing
Like Dylan.

Poetry,
When spoken,
Without a
Hit
Of Music or theatre or
Whatever medium
It takes to swallow

The swallow

Is the is

Of

Jack offery; forgetting mercy.

Pain,
Will always be the path struck
By those
That takes pleasure in it,

Utterly indifferent

About either, or.

It's a spare night
Where Time
Takes the back seat on the ideals

Of

Fat aftermath and big mouths
That I can't seem to get
Enough of are ping-ponging
My ideals which I was only given
In a sentimental, pseudo Christinan
Nature.

Mother, you were I
Before me,
And will always be
Better for it.

I'm lackluster too, branded
And dragging
My bare bone self burning for an idea
That I was the I

I could eventually fall in love with for good,
If never.

Oh' the love
Of loves
Of known tragedies
That follows our every footstep
Knowing full-well life,
Is nothing

But the echo of them;

The aim
Being
To turn them off
So

To turn on, once again,

As we were when children.

-

Night has the day
By a long haul.

These lungs need to breathe
Danger, because a
Stale outlasting diamond mine
Balancing acts of love
Becomes

Sad mournful eyes
Indebted with the holes of the forgotten
Man, cornered
By their own misgivings,
Keeping them from the one they should know best -

Their other.

Imagine a curb,
Rounded and sun beaten.
There's the taste of the tongue
Of Friday.

Everyone's out.

Inhale, exhale (yeah, I'm alive; alive)

And then you cross the street only to be

Mixed in it like a potato in a stew; an

In addition to the addition

To,

Everything.

Ego steps in,
Tries
To try to define,
A knee ****
Reaction for a futile
Preservation.

Fading, cast in smoke, and then,
You are there,
In disbelief of yourself stealing
The ideals of who
You imagined

And the mirror
Of which,

It presents.

There see, I see, you see,
An absolute that, if meditated upon
(forget time)

Will be, will be

You,

A breath,

Of fresh air in a sky,

Aflame.

We give impressions of life; gusts of wind through leaves who listen but cannot hear.

A person lives within moments, brushstrokes, garnered blotches of importance defined by whom.

Deconstruct your greatest meaning and tell me how you got there and why holding onto it defines you.

Of meaning and unmeaning (also important for objectively feeling time and its difference is important) is what people live by.

People only remember what cereal they were eating the day X happened.

More will be more; less will always be more than you'd die for.

A number

Is nothing

But a shoe

Without a foot,

Without a name;

Without.