I have always preferred the ancient, crippled and malformed ruins of places. The backbones of civilisation laid bare upon the ribs of the earth, I see more beauty in this destruction than angel's houses that stand tall and golden, shimmering in the light of the sun and preserved as if God's own hand had molded them. They are wrong.
See here the gloat of man! How we scream for attention and praise using the shining foundations of an unknown God to control the known masses and make them believe we are bigger than we are; bigger than the dirt that molded us and the humble springs that nutured us. We are not infallible nor unbreakable as those golden houses would tell. We are as fleeting and finite as the ages of man passed in bare rememberence.
We build our homes amongst ruins and return to them despite any prayers, temples, or carved angels, we are born from dust and we return to it, with no divide to say what man served what god or what coin filled who's purse.
The dark takes everything and does not hold favourites.

Let's be earnest.
I mean, let's just burn it—to the roach,
and we'll all toast, pretending like
we've earned it.
Earnest.
Here's to the all the things
we love the most:
here's to blowing smoke and
to doing enough coke to let our
noses bleed. Let's just scream
"**** the masses!" See,
we'll be back, like vapor from the ashes.
Let's be earnest, we
live life, we live it
to the fastest. Clinking
champagne glasses until life
just puff puff
passes.

How misguided
And mistaken
Of me
To impute my 'I'
On bits of
Other people's
Bodies

The fate
Of these bits of bone
And flesh
Is that they will be
Enmeshed with
And buried in
The bigger body
Of Mother Earth

Of course
This me
The mistaken me
The one that we see
Will dissolve
And disappear
Forever

But what about
Actual 'Me'
The me we cannot see
Where will 'I' be
After 'I' die

Windermere Feb 6  2016

What is the meaning of life?
Is it to be remembered?
To have people tell stories of you after you are gone?
Is it to change the world?
To make an impact in the blink of existence allotted to us?
To create something that will last?
Last until everybody you knew or who knew you is dead?

Humans are obsessed with finding a meaning.
A goal.
To matter.
We are born onto an assembly line that is
go, go, go, go, go
and then it ends.
What is left?

We never take time to think about how beautiful it is just to exist.
How, for this moment to be happening, the universe had to be created.
And through an incomprehensible sequence of events you ended up here.
In this moment.
This is a miracle.
There is no need to force yourself to matter, you already do.
You are the product of billions and billions of years of work.
Cherish it.

For the words flow so much easier when you aren't trying to force them,
when you simply sit and watch the sunset and listen to the birds.

What is the meaning of life but to exist?

As the endless and tireless yammerings of life surround me
My mind can curl up into a little ball
Even though I didn’t really need it to

Sometimes I think my mind has a mind of its own
It only asks for forgiveness
Never quite for permission

Sometimes my mind seems like it’s searching
Like an animal hunting its prey
Yet it always seems in the end

To be chasing its own tail
Like a careless curious dog
Just content to have something to do

Sometimes my mind likes to take a seat and watch the madness unfold
And place bets on the most likely winner for the day
I think it secretly likes to bet on the underdogs

I’d like to think that most of these things are broken and need fixing
But my mind knows better
My mind will think and do what I please

Where
Does the echo
Come from
And
Where
Does it go?

What's it all about?
It's time
To figure
It out

May seem
Absurd
But where are
The words
You've heard?

There is no truth
And there is no lie
There's a mind making up
Every thing that goes by

When we look in a mirror
There is no one there
But still we stop
We stop and stare

We're better than Dali
Or Pablo Picasso
We are master painters
Artists also

They touch our minds
With pigments and paint
We make a world
From empty space

Some of our works
Shimmer and shine
With visions of summer
Flowers and wine

But our canvas can cry
And scream in pain
As our world wretches
Again and again


Windermere Jan 25 2016

Dry heave quietly in the back room it feels like I've been coughing up blood for years
Warm house cold friends the noise is distant
Nothing lines up like it should and I can't find the pen in my own hand but I'm writing
But I'm surviving
I am learning how to live in the midst of my own hell
Fragmented relationships spit venom over cups of coffee collapse and repeat
Self defense class on Saturday and I didn't sleep for two days
Paranoid about anyone who could be out to hurt me including myself
And I do
Put myself down in my own head alone
Quiet chiding that I didn't have to let go of the love I used to know
I am a delicate soldier sitting out on the roof till the morning
Trying to get a feel for the light
Trying to get back somewhere in time when my own skin wasn't the battlefield
And my stronghold was my mind
This isn't easy but it's fine
I'm not yours and I'm not mine
Even if it doesn't make sense
(Which it never does)
I'm a walking paradox
Confliction even in the cracks of my skin
The optimistic realist.
The tired kid in the back of the room shaking with fear and wonder at the weight of the world.
What a beautiful thing to live
What a beautiful thing to be
Even when it comes in waves in the bathroom I am learning to hold it right and save
Every ******* bit of life around me
Take the bitter with the sweet and everything in between
I'm just in between the end and beginning
And I'm doing just fine.