Why do we have to tolerate so much
When multiple escapes are thrown at us everyday

Why is it seen as self destruction to give in to one of those escapes
Why do we have to choose between the silent stabs
And the public white flag

Why do we consider using an escape as a white flag
Why do we have to give up in order to be completely numb

We might always feel numb
But we never are
We strive to be numb

Having feeling is supposed to be the strongest trait
But when it reflects so poorly on itself
Why aren't we allowed to be weak

Why do we have to condemn the glares of disappointment
Even though we just need a hand
A hand that we will never reach out for

Why does each eye provide an impact that further pushes us
Waiting on the porch
Rocking chair now steady
Sewing a rip in a jacket
The rip never seems to mend as the needle is drawn to our finger

my soles are copper nearly
black, pudgy and blistering
heels cracked from heat
and hateful words,
my hands aren’t much better.
I soak them with epsom salts and tears
some nights I ask the sky,
why have you given me empathy -
what can I do with it
in a country soaked in blood?

You can call it love
That I know for sure
But, I think it is something else
Something so much more

It's a feeling like no other
You know it when it hits
It's when two things go together
When it's perfect, when it fits

You know the special feeling
It makes you feel quite whole
It's like you've been down to the crossroads
You made a deal and sold your soul

It may just come by once in life
I got lucky, it came twice
The first time, on a frozen pond
When my blades cut up the ice

It was peaceful, perfect, flowing
The ice and I were one
I'd be out there from sun up
Until the day was done

I remember people cheering
Those cheers forever will I hold
This was what I wanted
The feeling was pure gold

Time went by like normal
I had the feeling, but not quite
I found love, but, it was different
Even though it felt so right

Like I said, it's different
Because it doesn't love you too
It's not like loving someone
I can't explain it quite, can you?

Like I said, for some folks
It may come by them twice
I'm am blessed it happened
This time off the ice

You know when in a movie
The sunbeam comes down from the sky
And lights up something special
You know the scene, don't lie

The hockey was my vision
But there was something missing still
I loved the feel of freedom
But, there was something missing still

It Michigan it hit me
It caught me by surprise
I was looking at guitars one day
It hit me hard between the eyes

Worse than any check I'd felt
Worse than popping out a knee
An old Washburn guitar
Was hanging, taunting me

Of all the things upon the wall
All the guitars holding court
This Washburn said you want me
More than playing at your sport

I took it down and held it
Like the first woman that I'd had
It's curves gave me that feeling
It made me feel quite glad

This guitar's full of music
Full of songs to still be sung
Stories of others and my lifetime
Maybe this poem will be one

Most people get the feeling
In their lifetime once or twice
I got mine later with the Washburn
I still get it on the ice.

Not all artists are broken.

They paint with colours
drawn from their memories to
empty canvases.

They sculpt figurines
out of their flesh and bones.

They bleed out words
into beautiful prose and poetry.

They create symphonies
with the gentle swish of their wands.

Their steps beat synonymously
with their heart.

Not all artists are broken.
They take all their pain and
turn it to something beautiful.
It’s magic.

in your first life, you are a human, and express yourself
in your second life, you are a dog, only able to bark
in your third life, you are a tree, existing in silence
the nirvana will be your salvation: god-approved nothingness

humans can not imagine such a state, we only imagine the netherworld:
heaven and hell are places of gates, fire, lights, gardens and trees
so, does the afterlife take place on earth? what is the case?
do the dead, invisibly, populate the earth like in "the sixth sense"?

a famous playwright once stated that the dead dwell behind curtains
but they don't do so, in reality, they flow through our souls
like rivers through a channel, our souls are tools for ancestors
we do not feel them but they sense us strongly, they scent us

souls governed all human acts that were ever commited
souls govern all human acts that are being commited right now
souls govern all human acts that will be commited
a soul's texture is invisible, yet it weighs precisely 21 grams

everything i wrote about the afterlife and the soul may be wrong
i am as human as you, reflecting and presuming; my hands are tied
i would like to be a tv-preacher but i am not addicted to the dollar
god-channels are flodded by donation banners; humans buy certainty

this certainty, though, only lasts until our final breath: then we will know
then we will really know but we can't tell anyone; and that's our torture
i appreciate life but there are things we will never figure out while living
ludicrous uncertainty is drifting through my mind: the end of the dream