A wayward bee searching for a place to land,
some invisible force guides towards my hand.
A friend trading chaotic wind for tickled skin.
My spirit uplifted.
This bee thought, "There's something sweet about him!"
Perhaps it was the salt we shared,
perhaps a simple whim.
A reassuring embrace with nature;
"Said the blind man to his deaf wife,
sitting at a round table, trying
to find a corner."
-Frustrating words from a first girlfriend
It's funny how as I age the layers of irony get wiped away
while building up again like waves.
Stability I crave seems at odds
with cosmic horror I face.
Weeping with a whole soul
or is it laughter?
In the intensity "I" tend towards confusion.
I mention this to my mother and she knows not
of ambiguous sounds. The fusion of emotion
suffering in our translation.
Do we differ
or are we lost;
Embracing simulacra while our true selves wander alone?
The child peers past a mask or two and gets spooked.
Out of love I withdraw inside nativity.
I am here with you.
Talking to ourselves.
The petals are already wilting
Is their stay really so short?
What irony twists is whim
but such is life
There is no end to a rim
The hoops of my own eyes mirrors that of reality itself
also that of my own sanity
Is it sanity that makes me seek infernal truth?
Is it a different sanity that makes others blind?
Is it an insane man who seeks eternal youth?
Is it insane to wish
of seeing petals in perfection one last time?
I want to retreat from the reality I created.
Hide in an old, faded memory.
Out of all the worn, stuffed animals that surround me
my truest friends are the ones that can found me.
I am a ghost
who has remembered what it is to be a man. I weep.
As a man
I remembered what it is to be human. I laugh.
In this way, deep each moment grows a knowing:
all our sisters and brothers observe feeling.
Beneath imposed hurt
and supposed cross
is understanding, human in nature.
Swaddled in this knowledge is a flower
basking in the sun.
Love is real;
as solid as a pebble
fixed inside a mountain.
My conscious Being flows through every atom.
I remember what it is to be!
Air moved with music
as a body is moved by music.
I am a man dancing madly to the drum.
Standing still does nothing for the beat,
which sounded long before i could dance.
Love is the only dance,
Love is the only beat,
Love is the only drum.
I wake up and wander a strange place.
Part complacent, part disgust;
I'm shaken up and wonder what to do with this mistrust.
A once keen machine was left to rust.
Crust was cut.
****'s now dust.
All for a useless crumbly lust.
Ignorance is bliss so I learn slow.
Resistance is my M.O.
Don't get ****** when I act like my IQ's low.
Going bananas with monkeys
means my imagination is in nature.
Behold all I've nurtured.
I've engaged in guerrilla warfare
with knowledge for ages. It's fateless.
So what does this mean for my later pages?..
****, I've relapsed.
Encouraged another darting spark in synapse.
My brain grew by storm of truth
then floated into the past.
A bowl has the most potential empty: the enlightened fast.
So why bother learning anything?