i am not a theorist, and if i were i would research this more...this my research of science, religion, politics, and how it keeps biting me...if you want to help make the world a whole, it is somehow going to with making this nation a whole...and other ones...the pie has so many pieces and doesn't feed itself...i...we...you need you...lets study with goals toward understanding...then we have more color in our vision...it is hard to be gentle when everyone i know in real life is a cutthroat zombie...they get crap theory and lies fed to them by tv and internet...if you ever see that i am wrong please let me know
Time is a prison That I cannot escape It drags me back and forth Lashed against square walls There is no break In its relentless order It’s like a tyrant Commanding my existence Everyone else is trapped In their own ticking prison But they stopped fighting Gave into the stupor Rats on a wheel is much less painful Than running up against Time’s unforgiving confines Why are we all roped in? Is there no way out? Of this looming pendulum Pounding in my ears Laughing at hope A sarcastic witch Where is God? He doesn’t put himself in a box His days are unnumbered This is a joke or a game I don’t want to play I just want to be free This monotonous pulse Every second dictated Drives me into madness But I’m the only sane one who still acknowledges captivity I will conquer this regime Even if God is the dictator Because there is only void Between the beats Blackness, stillness That’s where God hides Beyond time, beyond life I will break the code I will find Him If He’s not there At least, I will be free In the peace and quiet
Written as narration for a character in a short film created by my husband.
"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. It's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor … and surviving." – Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now ~
Remember the golden age, Wally ***? And the songs my mother taught me?
We sang about what was. Or might never be.
Like permanency. Distinction comes out of stiff and frozen silences. Take it with a spoonful of disdain. Take it in the eye. Actors are like breakfast cereals. They're obvious and according to taste. I stopped needing them long ago.
Beautiful Tallulah. Beautiful, "less to this than meets the eye" Tallulah, dismiss me, that I may be free to find Tennessee.
Open windows and closing doors. Always a breeze, but never a way out. Right on cue the cards shuffle.
Butter and cotton *****, tricks of the trade. I mumble to be heard. I am legend to disciples of the Method.
I wear my friends to bed, burn them like newspaper. They call me "Bud" —cigarettes at dawn after devouring the night. And now my song ebbs, as the stylus hits the leadout groove.
like stairs, it's up or down. i teeter on the middle, hand on the rail, one foot in the air. the stone steps are steep and they go high; my legs ache and i can't see the top. letting go, do i climb or do i go down?
mental decline is something of which is barely ever registered from an outside perspective, we watch people crumble to dust and we breathe in the ashes of their remains. we wonder : ' who knew they felt that way ? ' but we never ask or think to find out. in truth, the biggest flaw in the human species is the ability to see and to notice nothing at all
Madness consumes the idle mind Question everything These words I speak is divine Yet we follow the masses Like we completely blind Hoping to find Worth in this world Yet everything’s a lie This is our time to shine Break free from the stigma It’s about time we draw the line Our morals decline Yet we think it’s fine Believe me I know These words are not benign Take this as a sign I managed to break free from the chains Of this cosmic design Questioning my motives Will only bring us down I don’t mean to whine The world has declined Look at this world truthfully I bet you will see it….. as I see mine
Open your mind, look at the world through your poets eyes. It's a dark cold world....let our words be the light
What of the young Donna Reclining with book in hand A sigh circling her lips A glaze greeting her gaze Her thoughts bored of days Endless days Depthless days Where every voice and all actions Are slowly stewed In rich stock of routine And people arrive, bowls in hand Forming long, bending lines Like the Depressions of old Where defeat, distrust, damage Linger and lay Within the sleepless eyes of many
Inspired by the painting A Decadent Girl by Ramon Casas