I **** at writing poetry, but I do it anyway
Because life is an absurd struggle in
An impersonal universe, thus rendering
All efforts ultimately meaningless,
If that's the case, why shouldn't
I write bad poetry? If we are to, as
Camus says "imagine Sisyphus happy"
Then I'll keep rolling this metaphorical
Boulder of frustrated creativity up the
Mountain of artistic expression, in the
Misplaced hope that just maybe,
One of these times, instead of rolling
Back down and adding one more instance,
To that large pile of abject failures that
I've accumulated throughout my life,
It will stay at the top, rendering me
Successful, and making one of these
Jumbled word salad tangents into
Something that's actually worth reading.

...probably not gonna happen, though.

I planted a garden,
Like the ones I used
To run over in my youth,
I figured at this age
That i liked plants.
It took some time
To put it out there,
The fact that I like plants.
I wondered why it
Took me so long to
Realize such a giving
Hobby.
And the garden
I ran across with no
Thought was my Mother's.
How she was toiling
And watching so small,
Her smile stilled in my thoughts.
Her hands full of maternal
Earth, and a hug that
I seem to remember in
Slow motion.
I'm older now,
Enough to know she planted
Those seeds so many years ago.

Life holds in it's hands
The perceptions eye,
The path that goes on
And the souls that stay;

Life breathes from the womb
Of on the sleepwalking people,
Life is a birth of clarity
In a world of crystalline doubt;

Life breaks and molds the light
We use in the momentary existence,
Wielding great joy and furious
Strife at the throat of the silence;

Life is the Word spoken to the other
As naked thoughts unknown,
Hooked by love,
Dissolved in ignorance;

The living bound to the dust
As quickly to beauty as the moment,
All are sacred
If only for a little while.

These words...
They traverse the fine line between earth and sky.
They dwell not, surface-deep in the dirt.
They be haloed not, as the chorus of heaven.

They're just murmurs that swim intangible.
Like reticulated wisps of smoke.
Incapable of materialising...
Or take definite forms on their own.

They only await to be carefully selected,
rearranged and harnessed into a jar...
Before being sealed infinite with a title.

Be quiet and still...
For you will hear them.
Milling and floating in the silence
that exists between your heartbeats.

Listen close...
For they are fragments of you
and the universe.
They're thoughts and feelings that come awake
as you slumber.

Awaiting to be selected...
Awaiting to be rearranged...
Awaiting to be harnessed...

By you,
the conduit with a pen.

So many people are living lives that they're not in love with, && I've just never quite understood that.

How much exactly
did it cost to sell your soul?
At what point did you decide,
"this is now my life until I'm old"

The truth is we're all invincible,
until the day we're not
We've got to live our lives to the fullest,
for it's only one that we've got

To go about our days,
meandering in the mundane
Is surefire the best way,
to drive ourselves insane

We're meant to be free thinkers;
artists, writers, && musicians
Making the world a better place
should be our only aim && mission

Be kind to one another
We're all in this together
It's funny how the things that divide us
Are also the same ones that tether

Us to this forsaken planet
Feeling like we're broken
When at any given moment
Kind words can be spoken

Falling from our lips
&& lifting others' hearts
We all have the capacity to make a difference
It's just a matter of choosing to start