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The world is grey.
Well...slightly more so now.
The nerve endings have healed.
Yet the numbness has lingered.
I stumble on my own feet getting out of bed.
Is it that hard to believe I’m simply.
Average.
I get more lost with compass in hand.
Although I can tell you how to find north.
Theoretical knowledge always worked in school.
But my life mentor is absent.
What happens when there is no teacher in gym.
A bunch of kids wandering the grounds.
Some fighting.
More aimlessly wagging their tongues.
Trying to figure out the social heirarchy.
Then there is me.
Smoking a cig at the edge of the property.
Day dreaming of past events.
Even then I secluded myself.
Unknowingly laying the ground work for the next ten years.
Countless routines repeated with different faces and surroundings.
Sometimes even the words would transition into the other.
In those moments I was living faux dejavu.
Losing my mind to my own reflections shadow.
If only I had read the letter My past self had written to my future self telling present me to listen to the mistakes I already made.
Maybe things would have been different.
The possibilities is what destroys the intellegent mind.
Not pain.
It’s the “why”.
The only question that will truly have no answer if asked enough.
And I can’t seem to stop asking.
It’s strange. Not for the fact that i feel this way but because i don’t know any other way to be. I don’t consider it holding it in because it’s not a burden. My fathers memory will never be a burden to me. His absence...now that is a different story.
Spike Harper Aug 2018
I usually begin these rants with a question.
But i find myself lacking in just this instance.
For whom can say.
Anything more
When ash refuses to respond.
No message can be relayed.
Just more things that i silently promise.
As i figuratively toast to a memory that will never do you justice.
Is it disrespectful to take words so literal.
To the point.
That looking down gun barrels and beer bottles.
Turned into a ****** routine that pride would boast.
Only there was no smile in my smile.
Inhaling disappointment.
As the years of missed visits and substance abuse.
Led me here.
At your deathbed.
wishing my words could reach beyond.
Without worry of a certain spectres blade in my shadow.
Then somehow.
I made my word.
The only thing worth asking about.
Because allowing the past to weave around the last routine we shared.
Would force everything that i have come to embody.  
To null
Et fin.
But no.
Your gift was ever changing.
Trading a jack for skills.
While masking scars that only those with them would know of.
And in the darkest moments did i find a crystal.
Clear.
Resolve.
To struggle onward.
Tears wont spell the revisions we seek.
and i was taught to always look my best, no matter the destination.
Everything that i am.
Came from you.
It didn't come from a book nor a Professor.
I can only hope to pass on your wisdom.
Although cryptic at times.
Will remain in my heart.
So even though I will forever be thinking of a new metaphor.
A penny will sit in my pocket.
Until the day that I can place it in your palm.
Rest easy Pop. We all love you and you will be sorely missed. no matter how many days pass
My father passed at 10:37p.m. August 15 2018 just a couple weeks after his birthday on the third from cancer... He was 58. We barely knew about his condition for less than 3 months before that night.
Spike Harper Jun 2018
The use of the word "it".
To personify.
This.
Is indeed a boast to say the least.
For not every piece of writing can take on attributes.
Not every poem will breathe.
Only a select few will grow strength.
To have the ability to move.
Now that is what we poets strive for.
Because there is a beast.
Constantly tearing away at our hearts.
Sadly.
Spewing a story of such does not sate this very real phenomenon.
Yet those that tap into its growing power learn to maneuver..
Guide the outlet.
And in so many ways give it a new face for other to look at.
Giving others a chance to gaze into a new darkness that...
Maybe they haven't yet.
But the darkness is only there to show how precious certain lights can be.
So not only is it kept around.
It is cultivated.
Allowed to walk the streets to grip someone else.
Possibly to loosen the noose around a suffocating soul.
Long enough to bring a tear.
Or a slightly longer sigh.
Something.
For if this is just for some common blink.
Ill save my copper for the boatman.
And ask him to tell me a tale for a change.
Spike Harper Apr 2018
It isn't always an imperfect meaning.
Nor never as flawless as we wish it to be.
These constant cycles are in place to keep the masses sane.
Distracted from the fact that they will live and die in the same fashion.
In small.
Insignificant.
Boxes.
Much like the time Punch cards that enslave them.
Even with evolution of time the average worker is still.
Just binary..
Infinitly encoded to mediocrity which sadly.
Has no bottom.
Nor was one programed.
But by the sweat of our forefathers did they carve a place.
For the next generation to pick up and sew the seeds for the next.
And so on.
And so on..
And so on...
Until some one with more wit than grit comes along.
To dissolve the mundane routine.
And possibly shake free from the chains of old.
But with so many ready to turn the other cheek.
That time.
could be some time away.
Spike Harper Apr 2018
There is so much unaccounted for.
Is it strange to feel so alone.
Yet still feel jumbled around
In some tastless concoction
That is more and more bitter with ever sip.
This worlds populace just smears into little ice cube trays waiting to be misunderstood.
Made to represent a whole while still maintaining some sort of murky sense of self beneath the surface.
And as more time goes on.
One can't help but meld into the weave.
No more than a ripple in a puddle.
And what was just a pond just moments before.
Has morphed into a chasm to rival the steps to ****.
And it's these stone pillars that has conditioned any who pass.
Forever riding this grotesque escalator in the wrong direction.
For even when this body is beyond broken.
An unseen pupeteer tugs at the noiseless chains.
Sheer will is all that's left to keep consciousness.
But then again.
Who's to say this is a choice either.
Demented or dementia...
Spike Harper Feb 2018
A smile can mean so many different things.
Or mean something and then add a twist at the end.
To prove no one really understands the maelstrom that resides within.
being a unique snow flake still means one of a kind.
and these 4 walls as friends is getting too loud.
each direction is a new black hole to search for insanity.
it wasn't always like this.
they got darker with every sentence scrawled from broken and ****** fingers.
the scent still lingers the darkest places but having learned to evade some treacherous acts.
even if its only from walking into it dumbfounded so many times.
it seems like repetition is the theme branded on this life.
sadly there is no limit to failure.
or pain.
and all the pleasantries are so finite.
its hard not to ask the question.
but ****** is.
as ****** ******* does.
so may the next land mine be the last.
for punishment is the only gluttonous act to truly gorge.
it will get much worse, this fate can attest to.
so should this smile fade before then.
will the dark be everlasting.
Spike Harper Dec 2017
These many days have gone by.
Not since any particular time.
For any one person need only one in mind.
Feeling the weight of humanity come.
Forcing the knees down.
Demanding compliance.
Expecting it no less.
But this weight is no stranger
Nor is the very realistic events that occur when people unknowingly chain themselves to it.
Now that is the riddle.
For we all are stricken by it.
Handed the key to lock them down.
and a choice....
Remain and live in servitude.
Or leave and let the cards fall where they may.
Yet so many fail to hear the words to even begin the quest.
And slowly whither like the forgotten orchids in the back room.
Some even believe themselves above this in some dream existence.
But only the dreamscape fades some time later
Leaving behind carbon copies of other after images.
Be it the day that these miniscule words and beliefs find an ear.
Will treacherous paths will be made undone.
One can only hope.
Sadly
That was stripped away in a forgotten time.
Like catching a scent of something sweet in the air for a brief moment.
There is only one directive now.
If there was ever a time that it could be nurtured.
The call will be answered.
And here yesterday has ended and the new day breaks.
With no bells or whistles.
For the campaign is not over.
And the enemy is afoot.
With what little trust left.
And possibly an over abundance of will.
There is no quiet to be had.
Life never happened in such ways.
Why should.
I.
Be.
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