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Counting
Does not
Help the
Anger that
Is in my soul.
I have been cursed to become this abyss of endless cruelty and sadness. I cannot be saved and to be frank I do not wished to be saved.
I am a knife.
Do not complain
Of what you have forged me into.

my fingers touch the piano
and gingerly the shadows rest on
its ivory white keys.
inhale, and my hands rise to
hover gently above the keys,
then exhale, and they nudge into
the body of the piano,
ringing five notes at a time.
i lift and push with more force,
and the sound sharpens,
cutting through the air,
through the background noise of the tv in the other room,
past the laughter of two boys playing video games,
beyond the quiet murmurs of the voices in my head.

redemption.
i'm working towards it.
for my teacher, whom believes i will soon
catch up to everybody else.
for my fellow musicians, surpassing me in experience
but standing beside me regardless.
for my instructors, whom led me to be the musician
i am today and will be tomorrow.
for my friends, whom cheer me on and
always will, whether i be smiling or not.

and for myself.
because i've had to prove to myself
i am capable of doing this.
that proof lies in my fingers,
in my mind,
and in my determination.
and because even now, i'm still
doubting myself here and there.
but i am not incompetent.
i am not incompetent.

i was never incompetent.

i imagine little pieces of you
clinging to my shirt,
like dandelion seeds,
when you kiss me.

but you are much, much more than a mere ****.
you're a vivid, radiant flower in a garden of wilting stems.

and every time you smile at me
i swear,
something in me grows again.

perhaps you're the sunshine
that nourishes my growth.
perhaps you're the rain
that makes my cloudy days worthwhile.
and more than that,
you're the earth that keeps me here.
you're the dandelion that grows in my garden.

What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o’er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet’s rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And thy complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend, with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

You stomp on the glass floor
And when it shatters and you fall through
You point at me

It starts as fire in stomach
it churns over burnt nerves
and over used thoughts

It makes it way up
to your pulmonary system
it clogs your arteries
fights the oxygen
slow asphyxiation

Then it reaches your mouth
unwanted word *****
shaken not stirred
leaves a sour taste in your mouth
those acids of despair
those uncontrolled insults
that stab the other
on hit after the other

Then it settles
like the waves of raging sea
it sits in fetal position
in the core of your brain
burning neuron by neuron
with flaming guilt
silencing all irrationale
and giving voice to logic

You sit there
awake, it's 5 am
and all you can do
is replay day themes
of your angry blackout

Oh rage you're such black magic
that I have
yet to
master