The shattered world vanishes beneath thee,
the emptiness, now pervading within me.
I see what was once there before,
now ceasing to be there at all.
What I once called,
my life and my family,
the cornerstones of my very identity,
turning into dust, a part of my memory.
Even this, ceases to be,
what was "forever", now just a "could be"
time erodes all that I deem,
important to no one, except me.
Yet this breaking,
deconstruction of worlds,
changes my perception,
for good or for ill,
into something beyond,
into a part of something, new it may be.
My ideas begin to break,
my thoughts begin to shatter.
What was important, now doesn't even matter.
I recall a time, things were important to me,
now no different than the dust beneath me.
I then pay attention, to what is void and apparent.
The unchanging past, and the future in development.
I see what was broken, will be made anew,
and that there is nothing that won't be so.
Breaking my mind, breaking my soul,
breaking the heart that tears me so.
Overwhelming the part constituting this "me",
what then dies, is now reborn to see.
Of a time once past,
of a future yet to be.
Of a wholly new perspective,
rich as can be.
Our lives are such,
a deconstruction of the past,
to make a better future,
for every one of us.
It all happened on one summer’s eve in mid July.
I met this innocent and alluring young girl.
So true and pure hearted I simply could not pass her by.
The more we talked the more my stomach swirled and whirled.
Before I could possibly even know, my heart let out a golden glow.
I was struck by her sensational presence, I was in love.
The only thing I could do was see where it would go.
For our love was as beautiful as a burning dove.
But now I see that I have fallen under her spell.
For everything thing she does weakens my heart.
For no matter what I do I can’t repel.
This amazing love that keeps me here even though we are forever apart.
One day I will forever be held captive.
When our eyes meet and our hearts beat, we have never been so attracted.
The echoes of the mind,
reverberate like bells,
across the empty, endless halls.
The corridors of memory,
containing pain and ecstasy,
pervade the emptiness,
within the noiseless forest.
An unending passage,
an unceasing path.
The uneasy silence that accompanies us.
Thus we thrive in noise,
dance and song,
never once remembering,
where it went wrong.
Occupying our minds,
with past and future things,
wasting the present and all that is,
what's left is nothing, simply this.
We cry in pain,
we cry in sorrow.
We feel the anguish that comes with tomorrow.
We feel the sadness and pent up regret,
and all the things that we left repressed.
Alone with nothing but thoughts in mind,
we forget the peace that's within our mind.
Between what's familiar and what is unknown,
we neglect the latter for a pain well known.
So what is the meaning, what is the point,
of choosing a noise, for which none would rejoice?
I empty my mind, I abandon my wish,
I simply relax, in what simply is.
For within noise is silence, within darkness a day,
hidden behind a curtain which may,
conceal a truth, or reveal a light.
It is your choice, will you stand and fight?
If the meaning of life is to give it meaning,
You gave it the best one, thank you in advance
As an aggressive and weary ogre,
I will keep you always in fragile glass
Even though you flutter and leave me someday
I can set you free and from all I can hide
Henceforth it is your homeland - my heart,
And of course, if you wish you can abide
You are the only reason to find some meaning
In my indefinite and nihilistic cage
You are the happiness I can never have
Just this reality ignites my rage
I am not a weak one, I will surpass
Just for your happiness I will be glad
But still I cannot understand that,
What is that inside you making me mad?!
"Niche." That's a word that has been used.
Although describing me is fairly difficult.
"Intense." Could also cut it, or just "Abused."
But look at me, making myself out to be "Occult."
In reality, it's not about me or what I write,
Pretending that the pen I use possesses some might.
I feel absolutely disgusted by this, shed some light
On what I should be doing to change, this isn't right.
At the end of the day, it'll always be him and the suit.
The story of why he refused to enter is this tale's root.
But somehow I still make it about myself, I'm selfish.
If only I'd tried, nothing would be so awkward and niche.
Thoughts of the future,
Visions of the past.
The present moment,
simply does not last.
Time is spent,
on speculation and niceties.
The self-deception plaguing oneself,
The unceasing banter regarding wealth.
What is left, to truly spend,
is an echo, a fraction, of what we truly have.
Paying attention to useless things,
occupying the mind with countless daydreams.
Imaginings of futures never coming-to-be,
Recollections of a past causing hurt to me,
What is left is but a bare fraction,
the actual time that is spent on the present.
Wasting away the gifts of time,
we squander the present, however benign,
on the past and future, or thoughts of the present.
Rather than seeing what is truly inherent,
the very impermanence that defines the present,
We miss our chance,
the biggest chance there is,
to shape our future, however bleak it is.
As with countless drops one can fill a pot,
day by day we can always walk.
For the path of a thousand miles begins with a step,
with the beginning at hand, the end we will beget,
the very future, we will seek to protect.
How many times do I have to say a word for it to mean what I want it to mean?
I'm not fine
but don't just keep asking
I will never say anything else
don't let me go
because I will try to leave
but let me go
means I'm too scared for you to see me cry
so tell me it's okay
rub my back
take some of my weight
I've been holding it on broken feet a long time
I will lend you the words that always have the same meaning
I love you.
the world is not a stopwatch.
my gaudy lenses consists of entrapment between two copper hands,
one slightly more deprecating,
one slightly more omnipresent-
but we're surrounded by curious skies,
not a dome comprised of the middle school locker room and the sundress that rainy Sundays begged you to twirl aimlessly in.
in these crevices of half life when I can undress the assembly line to its barren tremors,
i breathe in a light spanning counties worth of mountains and mom's chicken enchiladas.
there are no stifling, expendable hands.
there is the first sip of snowy December espresso.
there is my favorite fleece blanket resting on your ambivalent shoulders.
there are endless timelines of the homeless finding shelter and your roof softening the unyielding razors on my skin.
the copper will always find new ways to imbue itself,
but for now,
my breath will carry on for several spring meadows
and remember all of my forgotten names.
What is the body,
but a pile of meat?
seeking only to eat?
What makes us human,
what makes us strong?
What is it that pulls us along?
Do we have a soul?
Or just a mind?
Do we have an identity,
beyond what we can define?
What exactly lasts,
what thing underlies,
our very existence,
whose meaning is undefined?
Some call it "soul",
others simply "mind,
yet there are others,
who call it not "mine".
The first sees an eventual, heavenly life,
borne from the sacrifice of a holy Christ,
or the forgiveness and judgement of a heavenly being,
or the results of past actions, coming into being.
The second sees the mind,
a product of the brain.
No different from nature,
which never ceases or begins.
Having existed since beginningless time,
what comes to be, eventually declines,
and one is returned, to the darkness underlined.
The 3rd is one, who does not distinguish,
he sees the body and mind,
not as one who would wish,
for a lasting identity, or an eternal peace,
nor does he see it, as one who just is.
Instead he sees things, unlikely as it may,
the aggregates of consciousness and body, clear as day.
He does not deceive himself, thinking of meaning,
nor does he lie, thinking himself as "body".
He separates the speculation of a soulless man,
as he does the thought of a mind separate from man.
He overcomes the dualities which we normally comprehend,
With a sight that sees, what is simply at hand.
The truth that this body, its aggregates and mind,
are all but products of our imaginary mind,
which projects and creates,
in an endless thought-pattern,
a speculation that is ceaseless,
an identity to be had.
Instead he deconstructs,
he sees the body as it is,
an aggregate of thoughts, perceptions and things.
He overcomes the idea of "suffering" that exists,
and does not cling to the idea of "pleasure" for bliss.
He rests in the nature that is rightfully so,
not overthinking, whether he has a soul.
Because such things, are deceptions coming to be,
by the ever-thinking mind, always deceiving thee.