It's hard sometimes to remember the good
The blessing of the earth
When all the world is falling apart
Death, disease, disasters, disregard
I feel like a ******* hypocrite
To see this all around me
Then take escape to a different place
In my body and my head
But my heart?
How do I sneer at those above me
But turn my head to those below?
What drives these people to do the things they do?
Is it hope? Is it empathy?
Or is it love that all of this is about?
What drives these people to do the things they do?
Is it hatred? Addiction? Misfortune?
Or is it fear that all of this is about?

A portrait of a child
Here he sits and wishes
For grasping ambitions
Too young for the feeling
Of content in the middle
Everyone around is feeding
On primal urges
They swing and stumble
But focus on focusing
They don't see the sky
With their eyes fixated on
One another and
All the shuffling feet around
They just seek the solace
Of safety, comfort
They settle for sitting and
Sipping, sulking, some
Perhaps weeping
This boy who sits, listens
And often thinks of
His positions and dispositions and
Places
Who he is to you, or you
Behavior reflecting the
Surrounding
This is the center, he thinks,
Which is a whirlwind of sand
Every particle a thought
Every thought an unvisited
Reality
Acknowledge them, he thinks,
But shall not explore
Instead, focus on focusing
Toward the edges
Toward the hills
Toward the hoops
And cease to sit, wishing
in the places surrounding reality

I wish I had a way
to destroy things
Intangible things
like memories that
mean so much to you
Because I feel
that power to control
would allow me to
take back from you
Just a quick swipe
Wipe a smudge
in your precious recollection
and distort
whatever insignificance
you were clinging to
with that little
painted picture
of a moment that only
truly existed
in your synapses

Life isn’t about having control;
No, not how we see it.
The greatest struggle is not
Nor ever was or will be
About power over what happens to you.
It’s not about having control
Of the events that occur to you
Because things will always occur to you
Outside the realm of what you
Can actually determine. Life
Isn’t about what’s coming at you.
Life has to be about what’s coming
From you
And how you see, perceive, and
React to the madness
Or beauty
Or pain.
What greatness will you exhume
(As rays of brilliance)
That pierce the cloud of approaching
Challenges? Can cluttered
Thoughts, though seeming so thick,
Be seen in a better perspective
That lights its ephemeral nature
Like a match that lives as short?
See it aside a candle
See this moment as a flicker
Instead of a flame
Life isn’t about having control
Of the events that occur to you
Because things will always be
Coming for you.
Life has to be about having power
Over how you come at them.
Life has to be about how you
See, perceive, and react
To the madness, or
Beauty or
Pain.
Oh how foolish to be caught in a trap.
We desire to manipulate our course
Through the crowded world of
Mishaps, meanings, mere
Coincidences. All along
We should be grasping
At what can actually determine.
Actually control.
Put your panicked hands aside
And open up your eyes

Perspective falls like patient winter snow
And melts the instant it escapes the sky.
It lands so softly on the dirt below
To dissipate; the cold ground seems so dry.

With vital time and much consideration,
Perspective builds like patient winter snow
And clarity outweighs deliberation;
Security and comfort start to grow.

The frozen moonlit night will then bestow
An affirmation; fear will melt like ice.
Perspective thaws like patient winter snow
Revealing that the journey was the price.

Is spring then some arrival? Or a start
When things will grow together or apart?

The comfort of your eyes is matched in none;
Your soul brings solace to my weary mind;
I’m stuck, convinced by fate, that you’re the one
Who’s meant to help me see what I can’t find.

So soon it seems to swoon and beam indeed,
But never has my breath been quicker taken;
If life is short, I’d hope you would concede
To spend time in my world which you have shaken.

I’ll take your hand with yielded understanding,
The hour may bring a devastation near;
If letting go will prove me less demanding,
I pray to muster strength to quell the fear.

This pathway means a means to absolution
If not together, still a resolution.

What hope is this, my eager heart has found
And thirsts like tendrils arching toward the sun?
What fate awaits if I should hear the sound
Confirming ambiguity has run?

What hope is this, whose outstretched fingers cry
Like children’s tantrums grasping, wanting more?
What heart is mine, forgotten at a sigh
That retrospect has shown me this before?

What hope is this, that I have broken out
Of history’s repeating prison cell?
What selfishness has overcast my doubt?
I fear I fail to trust that time will tell.

To step away from my anxiety
Would help to strengthen all deserved to me.