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M Sargent Jul 2014
So unsure of the thoughts we think,
Yet, so confident in these masks we flaunt,
Day to day we play the part,
But not just quite! yells out our heart.
When the crowd disappears,
When its late at night,
So late that you envy the birds chirping,
The ever rising sun mocking you,
Is when you feel at most like you for that's all that's left.
It's when you feel at home,
Like your worn out feet can rest.
As an old time projector shows,
Your mind plays scene after scene,
But you know it's always just a showing for one.
Of wins, losses,
Love, lovers and well again, more losses.
Night is the decider and the one to always listen.
No advice or judgments made,
No words are needed because theres no need when silence tells you more than any sound could,
Because the night is when you meet the side of you,
The side that you keep locked away for all those around you to be sheltered from,
The side that you fear what really means,
But forever the side of you that understands it all,
But in all realization comes a restraint, thus is sleep,
In sleep the reality and truth is presented then promptly thrown away.
Dreams, with a hand on your shoulder then show us the door,
But only allow us the peep hole and through that even, we begin to make sense of why it all is, of who we all are.
But, dreams always vanish just as they are to open this door,
We're given the pleasure of looking in briefly,
But a gave never suited with enough time to take that first real step in.
We know a gilded idea of who we are, and even those around us.
We hunt for this partner who upon meeting, can't put together our puzzle but leaves them with a burning feeling to find out more,
They'll show no shame in looking to us for help for they too will feel that brand of unbridled trust and understanding that can only been told by the other's eyes.
The ones that ask for help in a way that we, in a childish way hope that they can because it's been a game running for so long that you just want a winner to move on to the next chapter with a whole new struggle,
But at least a struggle you can share, a struggle that teaches you the meaning of compassion and love. .
This reveals the help to solve the formula, the key, everything that shows that you actually are you,
And I, actually me.
A someone who will look you in the eyes and ask the same.
We as outsiders and those in search of anything want a challenge,
We want to finally believe in what we no longer know after years of becoming jaded, and hardened to the magnificence around us,
To believe in what we so painfully crave exists somewhere even when we've written all off and came close to settling.
We want something free of normal,
We want something free of what we think or are told we "want",
So there I look for you,
Here alone in this twilight hour,
I bleed into my consonants and vowels,
Hoping in some miracle out there you sit too,
Staring into the cool night, which is soon to be morning sky,
Not feeling sad, depressed, or off center,
But rather you're just staring into the quiet that is being alone,
Simply because it allows you to just be alone.
You'll be staring right into that alone and you'll stare at your hands,
In vision will become those the scars, imperfections, lovers and friends alike, stories and most of all mishaps of lost days that are almost beyond reprehension and alleviation,
The pain is not being able to fix a single part of any fully.
And you'll pick at those scars as I have done.
You'll pick until you feel yourself bleed into what it is that translates your soul in front of you,
You'll bleed all of whatever you can handle showing what's really inside,
Showing what you're actually made of where it matters.
You'll bleed just to know someone lives besides you,
And it's not just a painful feeling inside;
As that blood drains and the weight is lifted,
You notice another line,
Another stream that looks just as yours, just not quite the same
A stream of blood feeling just like yours, but oddly you get scared.
Not scared of this stream of feeling and pain for it's something you recognize and know so well,
But you're scared because you finally see you're not actually alone
It approaches where you let it all go and you can see it,
You, with eyes locked in watch the thick, the release,
Flowing from a source unknown to you,
A symbol of another place that to you feels like home;
Of the true pain and confusion towhere that blood came from,
Of the dark definition of the world that blood was made.
But as this all happens, and while deep inside of you,
From top to bottom; nothing makes more sense than to want to leave,
You can't help but to crave this new found blood's feels.
Just as it hits your stream, and words come alive to your wound,
Giving every scratch, cut, release, and openness a meaning,
It gives it all form.
A form and meaning that after sometime it's realized;
The blood and need for release you find exists and it's not just you.
This blood is red, warm, and once alive, just like yours.
This blood searches for more of itself to find function and purpose,
Just like yours.
Its's warm and reassuring like home after a long absence.
The two streams meet and slowly unite,
Yet never losing one another's form.
Never losing that piece that makes it unique,
That makes it special.
There they lye two different streams running dangerously close together,
Two different stories and collections of scars gone that had been picked open and let free.
They come to a slow stop meeting and almost battling for space after a long journey,
The streams clearly find comfort and hope in another,
Yet the fear of opening up and allowing for full crossing keeps them nearly one but still divided and mange to  stay at a precauciouos distance.
The two different types and shades of blood take affect.
While they never truly become one fluid stream,
They brush so close they are almost one,
Almost a perfect blend of synergy.
Though, many of the borders actually intertwine showing a unification of the two.
These borders finding common ground, similar feel and a greed purpose find the ability to unite together,
If not to make one but to take two and make it even stronger with the help of another.
It brings the two streams to be one yet after some time in a perfectly off tone brand of way,
They are two halves of a beautiful stream now as they grow together.
As you lye there and watch your stream become part of another,
You notice how beautiful it really is, how strong and full it looks,
You start to feel how beautiful two separate streams can be when given just through just enough similarity to naturally find each other,
Given by two perfectly dissociated powers who wanted something more,
Something real and sustainable but furthermore,
How this act of freedom and vocally silent streams,
Running at their own will and with nature's predestined track,
become something that neither stream was looking for but found fullness in finding.
How we'll find that these crossings can become something that balances our lost minds and spirits,
How it can be something that feels real and feels worth being a part of,
Not just for you,
But for someone else.

I sit letting my pen bleed my truth and the ink runs from the paper,
I smirk as it travels off into a world unknown on a path it chooses itself,
All I hope is out there you, whomever you may be, are sitting there,
Staring at your scars and growing tired of so much stream built behind your finger tips,
So much so that you pick the scars,
You study what's beneath them and then just like that,
The scars are open and you can witness your stream try and watch it also find its way home.
It flees from your release because the stream is no longer for you,
The stream is the part of you that you let go in hopes that another will find a way to deal with your stream as you with theirs.
For every stream there is a purpose,
Even if that purpose is simply to find and understand its truly not alone,

All I can hope, is that when the eye wanders from the vast sea we must battle and decipher,
That will turn to look and see a stream,
Running from both sides,
Connecting you,
And me.
Little longer than my usual stuff, but just wanted to air it out a little bit; disclaimer.....this has absolutely nothing to do wit self-harm and finding release in cutting or hurting oneself to "open them selves up" to emotion. It's a bit on the deeper side and more symbolic than that. Please enjoy.
M Sargent Jul 2014
Coffee stained conversations,
Stimulated to the highest degree,
Sitting, Waiting, Thinking, Forgetting,
The task at hand is my plan,
But how has time past so fast?
Staring at a blank canvas as ideas cover every inch,
In my hand rests a pen, ink a cold shade of black,
Spinning now around my index finger,
Staring around writing everyones stories,
By now the task at hand is the least of my worries,
Hours have past and not a word put to paper,
I might as well take a break,
And finish it later.
M Sargent Jun 2014
Rain drops racing down the train window,
For just that split second time is irrelevant,
Life is on hold,
We forget what's going on,
Sounds become just a background,
Problems are afterthoughts,
All that matters is which drop will finish first,
Because we are forced to think,
Which drop do I want to be?
The one that finishes first,
Trim and slick,
Or the slow one gaining water,
Majestic and thick.
For that split second,
A little rain is all that matters.
M Sargent Jun 2014
Both eyes burnt,
Third eye on vacation,
No structure to this barbed-wire nation.

The wind blows begging us to move,
But our legs stay planted,
Our lives stay put,
We let the wind pass,
We think we should.

Things make sense we say,
We're happy where we are,
But where's your mind,
When you forget to remember time.
You're always somewhere else.
Never just the home your feet found.
Never just planted,
Never quite one with the ground.

Your feet get tired the longer they wait,
Your mind gets bored as you stare at the gate.
Your body feels safe with a lack of surprise.
You wear a smile,
But you know it's a guise.
M Sargent Dec 2013
Stubborn like a child,
Yet a demeanor that sits so mild,
Smooth talking,
Careful walking,
And all I can do is smile.
A streak like Bonnie,
A love for Clyde,
She keeps me hooked,
To her I'm forever tied.
We wrote the great epics,
We fought the good fight,
When nothing was wrong,
Yet nothing was right,
We sat together and just painted the night.
It's funny how far you can travel,
If you hold on to the spool,
And still let yourself unravel.
M Sargent Dec 2013
Fast paced world but the pause button was hit,
I don't understand but I've already come to mediation with it,
I sat and ate my naked lunch,
I saw a girl I loved off in a farewell to arms,
Looking around at so many complicated faces,
This world is a piece of art,
But we must all embrace it.

There sits a lost girl who has no compass home,
There sits a beautiful soul that cloaks its wonder,
There sits a meaning and a reason to feel like a brother,
And there sits a spark that looks to be set ablaze,
But hasn't been able to find it,
Looking ever so hard,
But somewhere deep in that ember,
Lies a roaring flame that shines just bright enough,
To make it all worth holding on.

I put a hand on her back,
And pray that one day,
That fire will come back.
M Sargent Dec 2013
As the music starts to play,
And the night engulfs what once was day,
We awaken but remain incognito to the world,
As we bob and weave through human traffic.
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