A singular repetitive rhythm,
Pacing itself through peaks and valleys.

Moving constantly and patiently.
Not changing itself but naturally our senses develop it into song.

We perceive additional beats from the echoes,
Add harmonies from the worlds other lives that surround it.

Making valleys horribly deep dark places
from the fullness of the sound.
Peaks so light and airy
because nothing is there to answer you but the distance.

So why is our perception not inverse?

When we are surrounded by the echoes of ourselves
The world is coming down around us.
When we peak and nothing is there to answer,
There is freedom.

Is our nature to be so afraid of ourselves
That we simply do not comprehend what is inside?

No matter the beat continues
The pacing flows into each day
The world enjoys what it is because it will be honest.

The world knows no perception

white walls,
solid empty,
begging to be a canvas.
silent,
ominous,
echoing and reverberating
with the slowly dropping pins of my mind.

lights out,
i call and everything shifts to overdrive.
my pulse is through the roof,
the beating has moved to my ears
as if to drown out the silence.

i'm wondering when the panic stops.

i'm searching for any thing
that bears resemblance to that which is dreamt.
dreams so often confused,
misconstrued,
bent at will to provide us with the most pleasing ideas.
time will only pass,
its up to me,
to us,
to usher them
and

it

is

still

so



EMPTY

This is a clear line of action and being for me.
As is natural in our society it is open for interpretation.
Open to our own cruel
and malicious terms to justify our wants
and desires behind the veil of this idea
because we have done the respectful thing
we disregard other peoples states.
State of mind,
their presence upon our estates,
or do we feel justified out of our own short sighted goals.
These visions
that will makes us lose
that which surrounds us for the ideals we crave.

"Et tu Brute"

10 to 5am.
Quiet time my time,
the world is asleep an my minds racing.
Sun will soon be rising in my eyes. 

Ghosts are every where like shadows at the edge of my vision.

I can't stay still here everything calls to me.

Every sound,
image and thought
breaking down pieces of myself.

They are all here
all my ghosts, skeletons, tresspasses
all like fallen soldiers waiting for a final word,
a tender moment to bid a true goodbye.

I don't want them to go
do I?

I won't handle the solitude,
the vacuum of my own existence.

Smile,
nod,
shake,
move,
jump,
scream,
fall to pieces,
find a template and run.

Run for life,
for sanity,
for health,
pleasure pain commitment.

None match,
none convey,
my why,
the truth that it is
and will be irrelevent.

my parading is for naught.

But this is for me not them,

no concepts just existence

Watching
observing
like social outcasts
typical and yet atypical
according to demographics.
Craving ideas concepts facts
that will/do separate us from the herd.

Lost notions of sense
seeking portrayals, refurbishing old ideals
Warping every ounce of self
simply to emulate
some long forgotten concept
which no one will ever truly understand.

The brunt of a joke yes,
The stoic face that removes you from a content moment always.

We see
We accept
Most never understanding
Reading lines casting lies
doing our selves the only justice
Of keeping "them" content

I am not social with you all
I was never to be
I can accept that
I would even claim to understand

I care for,
for some small sake
Yet
"who's?"
is the only question to astound me.
Not the for who or the good golly whys
That are blathered from the lips
of every would be philoso-phile.
More so the
"who is?"
Because in reality so many of us are not

NOT
Stopping to smell the flowers
(for the truth of its meaning)
Breathing
Feeling
Seeing
Listening
Coaching
Questioning
Learning
(or ever truly)
Knowing.
Not even i.
i won't even fathom what it is to be.
Simply out of
Respect,
Awe,
Wonder.

Do we touch sanctity
or does it only grace us with their presence?
If so does
he/she/they/it
have a name?
Could our gift remain solely
in our ability for recognition?

i Question myself in efforts
To obtain procure peruse
not in doubt.
Doubt is a by product of fear.
I shall not fear
Will you
Do they
As hard as we make it

It will forever be ourselves.