His heart is a furnace,
Burning ever, furiously

And in the brightness, there is no language,
To try and describe what it is he sees,
Within his eyes of steel

He laughs at life, and grits his teeth,
To bear the weight upon his chest

A road of Tankas beneath his feet,
To pave his way,
Both in and out of the wilderness

And to speak his sound, is most profound,
But it will never sound out quite the way you think

Because his word are but a memory,
A jarring song, which for some reason,
He never bothers to sing

So you can wait, and you can hope,
That steely glance you might just catch

But hold your breath beside a furnace,
Because all things good, and all things burning,
Will not forever burn nor last

Let the fat cat, from the alley back, in philly ****. And scatter all of the mice and men, who dare and defy the logic that, his impact, is in fact, where it's at.

Be not mistaken
I'm here as a creator
Your words hold no sway
Over my designer's eyes
So keep them in your own lines

Shining bright
On my shoulder blades tonight
Until tomorrow is today
Would you let me stay
Wherever there is such a light

Rain…
Down…
Hear the sound of my voice as it
Pounds…
Out…
In the rain hear the words as they
Are…
Now…
Mere reminders of who we once
Were...
And how…
There is no time left waiting for
Us…
Now…
So as the voices of rain ever fall
Down…
Would you honor me with your
Reply?
Now?

To be bold as love
Is not to fear the alone
As the italic
Does not tend to bend so much
As the mind itself does mold

Watching this old movie again,
And hearing her song now like this,
Reminds me having known is enough,
Because I know that she exists.

I am as calm as water with a corpse underneath. Because something is submerged, but I don't want anyone else to see. What I am struggling with, here within the murky waters I call deep.

He puts on his headphones and walks through the house.
Weaving between the family members, and the memories, darting in and out.
With only the Beatles, and an empty cup, to console himself.
He is happy to be set apart on Christmas Day, standing right beside the remnants of his former self.

All that I want, and think that would be best to be, right now, is out in front of me. Presented here within these words, which I crafted deep from within. And to say that I in some way, am too much for you right now. That is cowardice towards what ere could be. So don't claim to know what a word really means, when you want to craft alongside a wordsmith like me.

Cold meat, processed cheese, making my lunch for another day*
Rolled up sleeves
Empty sheets
No one in my bed to sleep with anyway

And at work I find no reward to adore, and after driving home
I cannot help but work some more
Mostly favors of art because I'm poor

Yet no matter how busy I like to keep
I always manage to find some time
To stray into topics too often, too deep
Like what it would be like to be with her in mind

Though most every night I see my brothers, whisk their brides to be away
*It's with every dawn that I am reminded, that my life will not always be this way

Lightning in the skies
Saturated clouds above
Moisture in your eyes
And should the rain ere reprise
Would you always stay beside?

If the blindingly cold winters of the north, could say just one thing to her in part.
It would be that she, a southern belle, knew not of the warmth of this gentleman's heart.

Fumbling words in the night sky,
Like thunder in the broadest storm.
So you will go down in historic mind,
As not very bright.

Though the stroke of lightning might be me,
You were like thunder above the trees,
Loud, assertive and absolute,
But never available to be seen.

I'm glad such sound was not for me,
And that you passed like a summers night.
Because I have no need for rumbling voice,
Or an ominous noise devoid of light.

The only way to write is to write.
To express yourself and express some more.
And to speak your mind in every form,
Until your tongue is stretched out across the floor.

And as you write, show no signs of remorse,
For the words which you’ve always adored.
Since they only exist to be used by you,
And abused by you as you write henceforth.

With a passion, gusto, pride, and fire,
You must dig for the words which you desire,
To represent your hollow shell.
To speak of the heavens and of the hells,
In which you may or may not have already dwelt.

Would you learn how to speak before you think,
Be it only to share something distinctly known to you,
Within your thoughts?
Would you shape yourself into someone who’s not,
Afraid to question more often than not?

Because to write requires a questioning mind,
Which struggles against the ebb of time,
In the hourglass tipped on its side.
Hence why we see our very lives,
like shifting sands beneath our feet,
And the grains our memories stored inside.

So would you pull a perspective from within yourself,
And pass it around, and hopes it will help.
Because the truth to me most obviously,
Is that the world will spin,
But one day we will all die wordlessly.

And my hope for you is that you will write,
For whatever is left in your own life,
And not for whatever is next in line.

Everytime I write, I write to prove something to myself. To reassure me and my kind that not all of thoughts are meant to stay inside of this head, this house, this old heart of mine.

Which is not to say that my thoughts could not be better expressed in some other way. As a matter of fact in the past they have. Which is why for years they did decline and always prefered to stay inside, to enjoy the corridors of a more well known mind.

And yet every day somehow I pull my thoughts and have them placed here now. Having warned them many years ago, that one day they would have to be more... Sociable, and honest with the world about where they would like to go.

Because if you only keep your thoughts to yourself, how can those around you be expected to help? As you press and press for something else, and somehow try and prove to yourself, that you can flip your own mind inside out and share about all that you create anew.  

It is the head within the house of my heart which knows these sentiments to be true.

Sometimes I seek the solitude of a quiet room, just to hear my mind speak aloud. To question all that I've built in this world, and whether or not I am allowed, to act on it.

Should you ever find me doing this, don't judge me for it, and don't question it.

Because believe me if I knew why my mind requires this. I wouldn't have to close the door, or lock myself externally in.

I guess sometimes what is inside, is not always willing to coincide, with what the heart tries to keep alive. And this is why sometimes I hide.

In order to unlock the locked away inside.

Curl up in my bed
Do not wait for me to sleep
Dim the lights slightly
And when I return to you
Wrap your sleepy arms round me

Slowly following
Never will he let me be
For eternity

Hear the howling cold of winter
And know that warmth is in my heart
Waiting for you throughout December
With outstretched hands and spirit renewed
Know that every year I will wait for you

Would you turn your head ever so slightly?
Just for a moment so that I could see
Your face hidden beneath your hairs embrace

Because if ever there were a chance to be
I would sit beside you for eternity
And watch the autumn leaves turn back to green

And at dusk if you were to fall asleep
I would shoulder your head with my own cheek
And hold you there until the sunrise peaked

But only if you'd turn your cheek
Just this once so that I could see
The place where my lips wish to be

How they desire to meet with your unseen beauty

Build me like the city streets
Strap my bones to solemn steel
And give me an expression without inability

Prop me up like the towering buildings
And bend my back to the labors of industry
So that I might just understand
What it means to hear the steel heart beat

Let these words go out from here and heal
Let these voices reach and touch the meek
Let the rhythm within my soul preserve
And the minds amongst us finally meet

So that we could savor a moments peace
So that we could pad the snow laden ground
And meet where the steel heart slowly beats

For we are the blood within which seeps
As we rise to the surface quietly
Teeming with life and full of desire
To actively ponder and passionately seek

To understand the truth within
For we are a vessel most unique
To reach the travelers of time
And to mold such minds as they do sleep

For anytime such blood cells meet
The steel heart surely can be heard
In unison with every beat

Be it underneath these city streets
Let such an expression be heard by more than me

Hear my heartbeat now
With ears pressed to humble chest
Ever calling out

It's the familiar way those fingers play the same old song I sent you away to.
Because when I heard it for the first time I knew, that it was both appropriate and true.
Still to this day, its hard to say, that we stood and swayed a certain way.
But every time I hear this play, I'm transported back, and taken away.
To a time when we were surrounded by a firey way.
To a night so long and full of sorrow, that I was sure we wouldn't see the light of day.
And through the ashe and endless smoke, my wispers knew not what to say.
Except that I was sorry to go, but we always knew it would end this way.
How the fire and brimstone was not our dream, but a reality which burned away.

The emperor, the conqueror
Commanding every confidence
Cold, calm and under control
A version in the past tense

A shadow lock atop a cliff
Staring into the abyss
Humanity is underneath
The very point of his fingertip

And yet he waits for what might be
And casts his eye on every scene  
Having seen the way the world did bend
Beneath the bow tyranny

His hands hold out and underneath  
The sovereignty which is at hand
But always will he watch the streets
For the enemy of every man

I’m afraid of walking down this road.
Terrified that one day I will not be able to go back and smell the flowers.
That all of the beautiful scenes of my youth will have passed.
And that I somehow did not designate enough time,
To hold them close, to see them clear, and somehow make them truly last.
I’m fearful of roads, because of that.
And I fear how quickly underneath my feet they seem to pass.
Created by these human hands, designated by men, and traveled by kings.
The fear of walking down such roads too quickly,
Is most definitely a haunting thing.

Desperately
Wishing only to feel I will seek
For the sake of being able to keep
My feelings alive and at peace
Like an undisturbed meadow I sleep

In the presence of shimmering lights
That have risen from flowers to be
Tiny torches which light up the night so that my eyes could see

Be it only the shadowing trees
Or the neighboring meadows at ease
My eyelids will wither and seep
To the base of my hollowing cheeks

In my ears are the rustling leaves
Singing softly of lingering peace
So like the last autumn breeze
Would you blow through my life
Bring me peace

Wake me up to the sound of the trees
Hear the hum of your heart as it beats
In a pattern known only to me
In my mind you were always with me

Standing by hoping that we could be
In the moonlight in which we could see
The bright stars in the sky and the fires of the far galaxies

Dry your eyes on the willows which weep
Hear my voice in the summery breeze
For it’s here you will find every remnant of me
Every word which I wrote on the leaves

And perhaps in due time you will see
Tiny torches afire like me
How they fade and ignite every night
Though my light never burned aimlessly

I keep telling myself what I know to be true.
That I will not be here forever and ever.
And that one day I will be all which I endeavor to do.

You see, little old me never applied to me.
Because I am young and I am tall.

The world which I've yet to know stretches out before me.
And yet all I want to do is find the inner peace which sets me free.
The kind of peace which allows me to travel and return again without wanting to flee.

I have found such peace to a certain degree, but it's not enough.
My appetite is unsatisfied by this snack of life, and I doubt myself.
That I could possibly organize and properly depict the entirety of this thing called self.

Who am I kidding?

I'm just a man who keeps telling himself.
And that is the trick, to making the words in my stomach stick.
Like wild rice, are my thoughts to me.
But to find their way into the dish of life, will this not satisfy the appetite in me?

No. Because no hollow words from this hungry man will appease, the hunger for perfection in me.

Is it ironic that I returned Mr Frost only when the snow first began to fall?

Yes I would say, that's hilarious. And an obvious irony she would call.

Like a sunset fading in the west, much like her favorite day of all. 

It appears to me on such a day. What a beautiful irony for all.

How humerous is it that she loves Frost, even though it must destroy the Fall.

As a pedestrian I walk towards winter, across the bricks which they call mall.

With a chuckle and a quiet tone, my words pretend to be appalled.

And all I can do is shake my head, at this beautiful irony for all.

It is raining, you must be crying.
I left you on the dark side of a broken highway.
Just outside of the intersection of time and change.
You did proclaim that you were afraid that I wouldn't stay.
That I wouldn't live to see the light of the following day.

And I didn't.
You were right.

I got in my car and drove away.
But not because I wanted to.
But because I didn't feel at home enough to stay.
How could I possibly find our way, when you were without a map everyday?
Once alive and bright like the dashboard light.
I faded away, into the dark of this good night.

Yet you never saw the sadness which I kept when I did drive away.

We are not entitled to exciting things.

Neither sunrise, nor sunset waits for any human hand.
It simply is, and you must be there to capture it, if you want, and you can.

Lest you complain, that you have been given a lesser chance than another man.

To live your life without the sleep you need, and sacrifice your hands and feet.
In pursuit of something far short of eternity.
I call that a distraction.

On your game again, you cannot help but play again.
Obsession mixed with practice, is but a single means of expressing passion.
Which may or may not be, for you, a form of extraction.

Pulling yourself from the reality of a dissatisfactory life.
Softening the blow to take, and heading down the wrong direction.
Time and time again, for goodness sake….

This life, this journey, will always be full of such mistakes.

But to let your doubts drive you away,
To let your fear of the unknown, leech the very passion of your life away,
By means of distraction.

That my friends, is a failure of action.
A surrender to the reaction of taking a check, and spending your small fraction.  
When every day, you’d grow in spirit, if you'd only renegade with your your passion.

Staggering home after half a day, while trying simply to escape, the prior day's’ inability and inaction.

But I digress. Remember this.

We are not entitled to live exciting lives of interaction.

We must first create and encourage, not inhibit,
The excitement within others,
Which motivates them towards their own action.

This my friends, is the very nature of passion.

Some days I miss her,
But I’d never tell her this.

Because you know what it is that I really do miss?
I miss only my thoughts about what it is that she is.
And the curve of her waist, the distort of her hips.

And at the end of the day the only thought left is this...
I can tolerate this,
Because I don’t really want what she really is.

On days like this, I wish she were here. I wish she was already asleep in my bed.

I wish that my sheets smelled more like her hair, and less like the mess that I left there instead.

How I wish, and I wish, like the stars she'd appear, every night, before my eyes, burning crystalline clear.

How I wish and I wish for our future my dear, for a setting in which we would ever draw near.

Yet alone every night only my voice I hear. As I question myself, have I've become what I feared?

Until dusk meets the dawn, wisper words in my ear. Say I miss you my darling, say I miss you my dear.

They don't believe me when I say,
My foresight stretches a long way.
Down the winding road of time,
Into the valley of decline,
I see my age, in the faces of those who have traveled this way.

I see my future in their shoes,
I see the certain way their memories fade like the morning dew.
And yet I have arrive at the early hour,
Before the dew has time to flee.
Before the earth has time to turn,
The dawn itself calls out to me.

For it's here I see what it simply means to simply be,
A present in the presence of the bitter sweet.
The better notion of pursuing passions which never seemed to be,
A suitable means of living without ease.

And yet such fear of fear itself is what I need,
To motivates a man such as me.
To presuppose and catch a glimpse beyond the horizon,
Into the distance where I decree,
That the next life will be a more suitable life for me.

It doesn't matter how sweet I am, or how kind I feel that I have to be. All that really matters to me is you, and how based on me you will perceive,

The other men, the other shoes, the many soles slowly passing by. The kind of guys which you might keep, and even ultimately try.

But I hope you see what is truly weak, after sharing such strong arms as these. I hold you now, but not in hand. I hold you still in great esteem.

If only you would esteem yourself, you'd walk on surer, more stable feet. Not into the arms of a tragedy, but into the future which you deserve. Holding tight to a steadier hand than me.

I'm a professor who professes to teach beyond the textbook lessons. To approach the very essence of the creative self-expression,

Known as man and known as woman. Call you to a higher ed concessions, to appoint the very purpose of this presupposed oppression,

Of your eyes, and of your mind, I wish you to the other side, of the unguided and unknowing creative self which lies inside.

Cause what is life without perspective, and what are trials if you do not try, and strive beyond your own horizons, and slide down the back of the other side?

Will there be shadows on the road, yes, will you trip and stumble, a couple of times, but never let yourself be doubtful of the potential you hold inside,

To create the future, sculpt the present, and tread the clay where it resides. Because in class is where I see you, but in this life you use your eyes,

To see the self-inside of others, to recreate what's on your mind. To be the difference and the vision, you have the tools to go and try,

And share your view of the horizon, survive the frustration in stride. Become creative in your endeavors, and you’ll bring joy to me and my eyes.

Some days I wish to soak the earth,
Some days I wish to return to the simple mindedness of the dirt,
To a time when I knew less about me,
And more about how I wished to improve.
When I see the rain, such as it is, I think of this,
And afterwards I think of you.

I am neither of them nor above them.
Though I do stand here looking out.

I am separate.
I am me.
As much as you can ever be you,
And I have ever been me.

For it is in this place where we become we.
The investors,
The collectors,
And the testing who test the testers.

We are us and they are them.
And yet the youth of today and tomorrow so rarely see,
That the educated and the un are all the same,
Just like you and me.

We all are people,
And to each his or her own.
We each try and find our own way to flee from it all,
Above it all.

Outward and upward.
In such a world,
And in such words as you will find here,
Is where you will always find someone like me.

Neither of nor above.
Yet ever present,
Always yearning to be free.

So many poets attack with words,
With the intent to hit you on the first line.
Like a clunky sword or strand of steel,
Which couldn't so much as break through twine.

To which I would say,
That you must first name and know yourself,
Or at least your opponent,
Before you try and sway or slay them with a single line.

Such poetry would mean to me,
Little more than a stick,
In a sword fight with a gigantic tree.

Try not to aim for the heart immediately,
But approach the chest,
And hum your bladed words through the air most rhythmically.
Until an opening you do see for such an acute verse as me.

Deliver then a heavy blow,
A fatal strike.
Which will leave the readers lying in the streets,
Bleeding out of relief and not out of agony and disbelief.

This is the creature which commands my heart?
Which demands my respect and defines my reasons,
For which I refuse to depart?  

This creature in front of me.

What must I try,
Or even ask why?  

Is it a need to impress upon the rest?
That I was I,
Or that she was somehow best for me?

For I have since gone on to see,
That she is but a creature,
And that I am but a small shard of humanity.

Is there proof of this,
Which I have missed?
Quite possibly.

Or am I somehow immune to the truth,
That I am the only one who sees,
Or that my soul alone is the one which pleads,
To be apprciated?

Would you tell me this?

Or is life just meant to be,
A bitter tasting hollow test which I must best,
In a single man’s own exclusivity?

Why must I define such a simple thing?
Why can we not just coincide with empathy?

But to say that joy and empathy are the same,
Is nothing more than a lie to me.

Only recently have I begun to understand,
That I must stand,
Alongside a girl who is not the result of a lesser man.

One who knows the self and serves not pride.
Show me such a creature before my eyes,
And my heart will fly.

God is good.
He uses all things for good.
I trust in him when things are good.
And I will trust in him when things are not so good.
It's a good thing to know that he is good.
Or else I would be good and stuck.
A good-for-nothing vagabond or a good for little son in law.
Yet I am good because God is good.
And though I'm not always so good he's so good to me.
It feels soooo good that God is good.
Makes me feel good so many times.
It's so true, that God is good all the time and all the time God is good.
So good for you and good for me.
Even good for God in his complexities.
He is far too good and gracious to be.
And he's far too good for the likes of me.

So beautiful, so very fair.
On a man made breeze wavers golden silk.

Extravagant each strand of hair.
So intent, with soft intense.
A gentle look to show how quietly she cares.

For or not for me remains to be seen.
And yet beautifully she looks at the silver screen,
In such a way which is beyond compare.

Her eyes of blue as summer streams.
Her thoughts obscured,
But her smile maintains a certain air.

Quietly I catch a glimpse of the unseen breeze.
Ever fading, hard to find,
And beautiful beyond compare.

Keep your distance,
Don’t get too close.
Enjoy the pure unfiltered happiness.

Soak it in from around the bend,
And imagine once more to begin again.
With someone new…

So many eyes, so few to see,
The future as it unfolds before you.
The want, the yearning,
The most basic human need.

Close your eyes, but do not blink.
Imagine yourself already there,
Yourself within in which you think.  

This scene you see,
Couldn’t possibly be,
Someone else’s life passing before your eyes?
Or potentially your life just passing you by?

Calmly, slowly, most beautifully.
Are you to be sight within this scene?
  
Eventually your eyelids blink,
Though rare enough for anyone.
A wink and smile just might be seen.

When I saw you I knew,
I belonged in your scene.

If I were but a falling leaf, I wouldn't care for anything.

My life would be played out on the breeze, and falling short would not be such a shame.

If I were but a falling leaf.

I'd leave my parents lengthy tree, and fall to the ground, yes I would leave.

And during the fall I would flutter with glee, as I descended down, and just before I hit the earth, I'd look up to the sky and see.

If I were but a falling leaf.

I would mold my edges to catch the wind, and drift upon the gusts of change, most happily.

If I were but a fallen leaf.

I would greet the Earth upon the ground, and curl my corners to the sky, to soak the rain and drink so deep.

If I were but an autumn leaf.

The sound of the wind would not mean change. But that another journey has just begun, and that I and the journey are one and the same.

If I were to fall like an Autumn leaf.
I hope that I would be the same.

It's down the hallway,
Hovering just above the tile floor.
It's wallowing in the wake of the last man's grown mistake.
Because you cannot see the quiet struggles behind closed doors.

He failed,
I won't.
And if he ever tries to say a word,
Just don't.

You don't need him,
And you don't need me.
Though on your own you don't belong,
It's beside my side I find you fit,
Most perfectly.

With someone who cares,
Someone who tries.
Someone who lets your self be broken.
Someone who knows that the rain is a direct result of when you cry.

Don't be with him,
You shouldn't be.
I like the rain.
And I,
Unlike him,
Simply know how to let it be.

I pick you up,
Ever so gently.
And lift you onto a chair in front of me.

Taller than me now you are,
And on my toes I have to reach,
To greet your face.

Most quietly,
With enchanted eyes,
And steady passion,
I kiss your cheek.

Not once but twice,
So that you might know,
The boy I’ve been,
And the man I’ll always be.

The present standing in front of you,
The past surrounding most of me.

No one to witness,
Or tell the tale.

Or even explain,
Why I love your cheeks.

We are but stone stirred ripples atop the lake of the all knowing.
Ever flowing, ever moving, always steady, always growing.

Stretching out like the limbs of an overhanging tree.
Reaching out like the hands of the lovers lost at sea.

Desperately, we being again, in the shallows we are saved.
And yet I am cautious to advance upon an overlapping wave.

I am in awe to understand, that I am asleep, and I am a wake.
And no one ever knows the impact of the ripples they create.

On this tabletop we sit, soaking bodies weighted down.

Overturning back and forth, arm in arm, alone in town.

Rushing water pouring in and spinning round, pounding down.

Inside of this house and out. Turmoil rises up, and gathers all around.

Listen to the hallways hum, and hear the words escape my mouth.

Like a song you sing aloud, speaking of a hiding place where you belong.

Echoing, my old guitar is crying out.

Asking if within the flood we ever will at last be found?

Robbed from my throat,
These thoughts of you.
Pulled apart like spider legs,
Only the frame remains,
A body be it black and blue.

Tired and worn,
Of being reborn.
Will we be soon?
The dusk and the dawn,
Of each new moon.  

Arise and fall,
Like the trembling falls.
But beneath these still waters,
Is where our time,
Will begin anew.

In the darkest night,
All the billions of lights,
Call out to you.
Like the shimmering stars,
To kiss away the black and blue.