On this platform
I brave the weary hearts storm
A drift amongst the sea of troubled words

Hoping for a life preserver to be spared
One that will carry me to safety
With the entire crew in tow

Alas, my love, you come to me
As the beauty that I had envisioned
And I hold on dearly
like the cancerian that I am

Like the gentle moth drawn towards the flame
Even as it’s eye’d wings begin to ignite
It cannot help but to flutter maimed
On wards, searing in the heat of the light

Making alas; night breaks into the day
The morning star peeks o’re the horizon
It’s sights become scattered in such a way
That nothing is missed, going forth; anon

Yesterday evening’s candle of the past
Sits dried, once alive; liquid pool of wax
Rests easy within it’s blackened burnt glass
Wick dwindled to unlightable black ash

And in lieu of all the death that surrounds
The energy, I’m assured, has no bounds...

Normal people aren't anxious and explaining their existence’s to everyone else wholly within their own mind’s. Most people don't do that. Some people do. I'm one of those people.

The abnormal fantasied reality within my conception plays exciting and often scary acts with peaking and valleying performances within. It's not real; however, I am real, so in a way it is. At least to me. And it's a reality that I face and must tame daily in order to be seen as “normal”. What ever the **** normal means anyway. Sometimes I want to run away and other times I'm too fatigued by trying to care. In stark contrast to when I get caught up in the whirl wind of passion and ideas and I want them to be tangible so bad that I sit and create. The mind loses focus. I look away for a second to make something else... That is if it's not another one of those times that I become so burnt out from the fires of present tasks of building the unreal into the real that I regress.

But I digress.

When I look back at what I've done, and it just seems like a distant memory becoming more and more distant with every passing moment of observation I can't help but get the stirring feeling to get caught up in the whirl wind once more and make a new idea. A new passionate thought forms and the creations can't help but take place. The moment is really the only thing I know for sure. It's not a dream it's as real as being awake, or at least I'd think that until it too becomes just another one of those distant memories; another one of those things amongst all things.

But perhaps I'm just projecting...

Senses; those funny things. Almost as funny as the mind that decodes their meanings. The human presence. The spirit within. the very soul. Like mine that has seemed to ache more than it has not ached. I look at all the things, big and small on the place where I currently reside in the universe that houses me. “Relative,” says one man. “Frequency,” says another. People say a lot of things. Especially to one another. What else would understand? Let alone who? Do you even understand you? I'd ask. A dog would pant, and I'd pat its head knowing all to well that we both got the meaning. So easy to try and do. So difficult not to. And if I changed the positions of the subjects it would be equally as true.

But that’s just the moment now as it would have it...

I feel as though I have a paper heart
And every time I write my would be mind's love on it
It scratches under ink tip's pen
And bleeds with no resolve

In relation only to himself
knows only what he can
Or what he thinks he can
Knot
He ties and a boars his prize
The hide
The island man
Has no fear to feast
No rain drops trickle for thirst's being to subside
The island man only has space to confide
Is technology up to its *****?
Does the island mind have enough for needs to be met?
Is there a need yet for island man to have not yet got?
Should island man go and get?
Island man looks for the stars
When he finds them all
Island man knows that they were never really that far
He looks back down on the clouds
And the effervescent ocean that houses his house
Island man finds himself at home
With all the other island people who love him so

My disorder is like a tree

There’s the trunk, the stability
Attached to it, beneath, lay the roots
That keep it grounded to the earth

Above,

There’s the branches with all their sprouting leaves
Struggling in their many directions at the same time
to grasp at the same thing

The rays,

Like my thoughts reaching out
Trying to understand the complexity
Within it’s beings existence

All the meanings to it’s origin,
It’s seedlings of creation blowing on the wind,
The fruits it has bore,
And the enduring labours that stand in between
What can be
And what will become

The ocean, the air, and the sun

Fall, winter, spring blooms summer

An order within disorder’s cycles

Intrinsically placing its faiths within the nature of it all

And here I rest in the tree’s canopies shade

My mind eases to this space within space

And I can’t help but laugh and cry at the same time

Hell, we're all there.
Heaven, Can't we be somewhere else?

(A meaning less image)

If a picture said a thousand words,
Then I'd write a thousand pictures,

Each one would contain one syllable less then the last
Just so I could get to the nucleus

Of what it truly means to express
Expressionlessness.

Ten out of ten, one hundred percent, an A+ plus

whoops, I forgot the period.

(Unless you want to ****)

Not trying is right up there within the top of regrets.

Hopefully you live a life,

One you will not want to forget.

No one wants to see themselves die,
but,
yet,
here we all are taking our own pictures.

If I write misery you'd eat it up,
you'd chew until you couldn't chew,
you'd swallow wouldn't you?

When I write love you have none,
you just become to what you succumb,
several takes away from dumb.

I could chalk it all up to beauty,
but the score board will tell what's there
even without your interventions.

It knows even if you don't.

No one will ever read every note I’ve ever wrote,
nor think every thought I’ve ever thought,
but when I say to you not to look onto your life with hate,
but to find the love that you deserve;
I hope you hear my hope.

I'm indifferent about this place.

I wish that existence's nothing would swallow this shallow apparition and that I could live high inside of a cloud on a planet that had none of the miscarriages that we call modernized life, for existence's sake, on a star that burned out before this was readable.

But that's just what's on my mind right now...

I know that from a human being's conception to their demise that they are pressing their consciousnesses into an image that's being totally misconstrued, and I know that that's no way to live, but it's life.

Now time to add to my story; see you in another 13.8 billion years so I can regale your consciousnesses built within their chemically responsive fold's housings, or perhaps rather a (for a lack of a better word) reconfigurable differently shaped cranium, or whatever non human jelly fish like organism then which would hold thee, but irregardless this is English and you have nothing to show for it but the allegations of judgment and communal stigmata that you probably don't even care to understand, nor bother to know why it even existed in the first place.

Simile if you know what's on your mind every time you have something to say on this plagiarist's controlled orientated  platform created by the people that some guy alive at some point ripped off and was sold to some other people that don't give a **** about their own lights.

Like if you like.

Comment only if you want your insanity to be on display.

Don't understand if you don't understand, or at least if you don't want to.

The mind is real.

Reality is real.

People often don't understand either of those two things, whether it be conditioning, or that it's a fire to bright to look into that they'd be happy with their average deaths.

Then that's that, but that's neither here nor there. It's in both places at the same time and a rant can be called such, but if I summed it down to one word I'd be called crazy.

So I won't let you in on it love.

(written drunk)

I rather turn into a bouquet of flowers then a basket of roses...

If that means anything to you then do what ever you will do.

Smiley.

Playing off of Shakespeare seems to be the case...

I don't know you.
You don't know me.

"I" Which I often said in life.

I’m in awe that I can not write fast enough for me to ask a question within myself, but on my thoughts they will be.

I'm just a remembrance of me that I'm trying to describe at a later time, but isn't that how it feels all the time?

Living in a moment just so later we can watch that moment unwind.

I wonder, when will time look me up?

Is it just inside of a thought--just within this dream; my own mind?

Reality plays coy when it must and a wild current when it wills itself to be.

But still this is real.

Looking above the fences of offences to try to see the luscious garden on the other side; the mind that gets filtered through the soul so as to put circumstances to the side and say what "I" really mean.

I'm me and I know what I mean and as I write me to know me I become me to explain it to me, and of me, to get to the meaning of what it truly means to be an I.

What's happened before tomorrow
that never happened within a day?

there is something where something has never been before

a footstep,
a word,
a soul sworn

there's something about existence that I find mesmerizing
I just wish you could see
what I have seen

definition

there is a world before us that wants to be walked upon
it's as far as the eyes can see
and as grand as the mind can be

but in all

honestly

that's just me

People don't speak the same language even when they're speaking the same language

A word can have as many meanings as there are people, along side intent and experience,
everyone's description of the world before them are unique to them selves and even if there is a just definition it doesn't remark quite as simply as such.



Love sits high and resonates in the soul a word often thrown around in meaningless tones
The quibble of the world quanders in particulum that can't quite reach the query of the aforementioned quote

What words are these that are very rarely ever spoke?

Something within pokes and prods
within this time,
within the mind,
within its scope


Reasoning to see for what seeing reason can be

There are many and descriptions have failed before to describe, for if the love I've begot could begin to reverberate and be shown it would shine in its purest meanings that words couldn't even begin to envelop

But true they would be

Not silence nor scarcity

But more like power in glory to be believed

However if not it doesn't squander, nor does it fade

It waits patiently, aloft, until we all reach the meanings conveyed

What are we waiting for?
Stable lives and daily bores?

We pay the toll till every sense is spent
In refrain I can't regret lament

Going out into the crowded city streets
Maybe someday we will meet

We're gone too soon in a fleeting greet
Passer byes and distant memories

I caught a glimpse of arousals hints
I'm rotating in and out of wits

I've tried too hard to be denied
I don't give a **** I'm rectified

I asked her out to a whiskey bar
It didn't take long for her to accept

Our ulterior motives might
Come from our different minds

But in the end they're the same tense
I take her home and we have some ***

We wake up with the new day
Just to do it all over the same

The tables full and I'm well fed
The plate is clear; living to dead

I'm replenished in their stead
Natures faction is instilled in my head

I'm off to the market place
To find out what the new taste takes

Some are spoiled, others are left to waste
A hunger grows within our mistakes

This is about the time the soul kicks in
The words grow long and they fall apart

Apathy towards a disregarded heart
Should have known some were rotten from the start

Some say this cannot be fixed
When water leaks it collects in drips

A damaged floor tends to give
Caving in; an over saturated sieve

The candles dwindled to a flick
In a pool of wax the wick sticks

We ran through the forest
We ran against the breeze

We ran across the Great Plains
We'll run until we're free

The search is almost over
Our keepers want to be kept

All else is good and nothing's perfect
As she slips back into my bed

She crawls up starting at my feet
Making her way into my head

Our stomachs are full
Our blood is un-bled

But still nothing's changed
She begins to twitch and call my name

She begs me to **** her again
The scene is almost exactly the same

But when she wants it so badly
Can I really be the one to blame?

We're living, breathing, animals
Living, breathing, animals

I don't know why I'm still here
I don't know why I haven't run away
I don't know why I watch the waves crashing on the rocky shore
Forevermore

When some people built their paradises
Others hells were formed
When they used the tools created
By people who didn't know what they were doing

Still entrenched in me a lovers brow is born
Waiting at the coast for the signs of clear;
Forlorn
If I jump in will I crash the waves in loves rock place?
Or shall I sit in silence waiting for the misses?

After so much time I wish I could be done with thee
But low and be hold the ocean holds the air we breathe

O, champion of words

O, wisdom of gab

speak thy savory terms

of sultry endearment that makes the poet blush

and thine fairness lust

over syllables that consonants and vowels equate

so that the uneven can lie flush

and the plain can run straight

yet,

over the course of mounds of flesh

the burden stills

that within a heart,

or be it brain,

can beat and remember thrills

some left in time

and some do have weight

that over the hills

can be

the end of my commiserate