I spent my boyhood avoiding
      the disgrace of my differences.
Creating alternate empires that
      I ruled with stoic passion.
I gave out negative vibrations, as a boy,
      to control the level of association.
Built walls and lived within them,
       perfectly encased in sarcastic wisdom.
Does not take too long to understand
       that being yourself is not suggested.
Eager advocates educate the boy that his
      differences must be suppressed.
Be the same. Be the same. Be the same.
      Moulded and conformed, unaware
of the boyhood desiring to think for self.
       I spent my boyhood reading books
that opened libraries of imagination.
      Absorbing the solitary creations
of so many magnificent lives. They presented
      me with echoes of alternatives.
I never have understood the slicked back
      membrane of uncentred filters.
Solitary self-confinement made so
       much more tickled sense to me.
I passed out scented cigars of me
       to ear-drums inclined to not listen.
They agreed to, and supported,
       the numbness of not thinking.
Letting the self-declared prophets
       dictate how we must believe.
I spent my boyhood being the boy
      that did not fit the paper model.
Set it on fire. Set it on fire. Let the
       message always be that a man
must indicate his own set of standards.

Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are sleeping
like baby lizards in their caves. Breathless from
a day of pillage. Restful after a time of destruction.

Somewhere, on the other side of the hill, a boy
is playing in the woods. Caressing his manhood,
he becomes a symbol of self appreciation.
Be quiet. Don't disturb the boy in his game.
It is his only means of achieving satisfaction.
A reaction would disturb the molecules from
their expected conclusion.

The boy does not realize how close he is
to potential danger. If he awakens the
dragons, he awakens his death.

Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are dreaming
of future conquests. Illusionary REM's of human
body parts dancing in their heads. Helpless
after a day of mass frustration. Hopeless
after a time of complete desolation.

The boy is finished his game. He smiles
to himself at his clever disguises. Yesterday he
was a soldier in the war of indifference. Today
he is a hero, a legend in his own mind.

He screams in abandoned pleasure. He
yells because he can. Racing through the woods
until he comes upon the entrance to a cave.

Takes a breath, than slowly enters in.
The dragons are no longer sleeping. They are
preening their scales in preparation. Their red
soul-less eyes look at the boy. The boy, with
his brown empty eyes looks at the dragons.

None of them make a move.

Each of them recognize the emptiness of the other.

There's no necessity tor crying,
                    endless tears that
                     drop like mighty rain.
I have already passed the point
                     of existing in harmony
                     with the circle of health.
Better to cross over to the real world.
Leave the wringing of hands
                    to those who need to
                     advertise their melancholy.

Church bells ring, ponderous sounds
                      that champion the living
                       fabric of Holy Mother Church.
The true faith that guides its citizens
                   through the mess of the earth.
I celebrate with prayer.
I welcome the protection
                of God in His ongoing love.

Crying does not   revive the dead,
              or bring solace to the dying.

Endless cups of wishes filled with
                littered drops of gratitude.
Never ending liquids that wet the
                dirt roads of ongoing traffic.

Follow me to my resting place.
Drop a flower on the ground.

If you must, cry.
Do so knowing
            that the tears
                are wasting
                  away and help
                        only the survivors.

The sun shines through the
      empty cross.
Stained glass windows
       making salvation patterns
           for the heart.
Christ shines in ever increasing
        flashes of magnificence.
Hail Mary! Your Son is our God!
   With Holy Trinity in union,
        with souls seeking peace.
The Son of Man, the Son of God
       revealed in ageless liturgy.
Hail Mary! Your Son has ascended.
Rosary glistening in hand,
      as prayers are offered
           in simple voice.
Chanting priest as conduit
        to the transubstantiation .
Hail Mary! The Body of Christ is ours!

Whispers the heart, insisting and so soft,
"Life goes on. Death is not dying."
Faith, that is the message. Let His
will be done, however it works out.

Fears are there. Yes, they can consume.
They can strangle and inhibit the
very will to walk on. Ease them away,
He walks with you, soothing and firm.

We rumble through our eggshells,
rushing through buildings of steel.
Pushing, shoving, important in
our unimportance. Unbalanced.

We eat too much and love far
too little. Strain ours ears to
hear gossip and slander. Be
the image we pretend to be.

These are of such insignificance.
They are bottles of nothing, with
shaded glass. Emblems of issues
that are manufactured. Unfeeling.

The truth is in Him. When we
face trials of aggravations, tears
of lost hope, that is when we
need His care the most. Forgiven.

He has always been. He will
always be. He will glide the
care of the body if you give
Him the word. Yes, He answers.

So to Jesus, I appeal. I put my
trust and my fate. Though
blocked in fear, still I marvel,
that He is there for me. Amen.

Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.

Why should hope?
Why should hope not?
For when hope is gone
All is lost to the nether
Or never and ever
Will it fall quiet
On silent lips
Sewn shut by force
Of forever until it is
Severed like the head
Of a vicious enemy
To be kept and displayed
As a right of passage
This savage behavior
Is common amongst commoners
Content to consent their right
To sovereignty of the infinity
That now and then
When life begins again
Where new hope is found
Along with the sound
Tolling the bell that rings
Freedom isn't free

.

How do we mend wavering pedestals...
When the ground beneath is parched dry.
Stemming off loose foundations that time had weathered wry.

How do we mend broken gazes...
When watchful eyes which were meant to see,
are blinded by the onslaught of half-truths and fallacy.

How do we mend burnt bridges...
When we never look back to trace heavy missteps.
We fail to admit to consciously springing obvious traps.

How do I mend ailing hearts...
When familiar corridors seem warped to a bend.
When my own is struggling and perpetually on the mend.