I want to do something,
not for you,
something for me,
something gleaming with everlasting renown.

Throughout this fraction of life,
I have grazed this objective
like a lover's fingers
tracing the profound edge's
of the starving artist's spine;
I have tasted that moment of completion
but only in the smallest dose,
like that last drop
that collects around the bottle's rim.

I cannot say this life has been mediocre,
but I yearn for the exceptional.
I'm tired of seeing lesser fools
idolized by fools more talented than them.
I'm tired of the chorus,
let me write a new verse.

And though the greatest agony I bear
is that I may never reach that fabled nirvana,
I hold close the dreams
that make believers out of fools like me.

This is
a cattle nation,
an endless sea of
black and white
floating perpetually towards
a smudged horizon,
grey and faded and
seemingly farther away with
each step.

I feel confined in this world of
flat-irons and resumes
and the words
and the people who say the words
but really mean something else,
expecting me to speak in the same
cookie-cutter sentences and
plan out a logical progression of mundanity
to cloak myself behind,
placing my footsteps carefully
in the molding
that was set by the infinite
faceless people that trudged on
before me.

There is no fork in this path,
no place where it splits into
two strips of gravel,
but there is grass on either side,
waist-high and swaying rhythmically
in the breeze;
I step out of my molding,
out of my cloak
and there is mud soaking my feet,
grass grazing my bare knees
and I can see music
and hear color.
I look at the black and white creatures
who can see only shapes and shades
and their grey destination
and I turn around.

I feel free in this world of
choices and serenity,
allowing my feet to lead me
to where the tall grass
meets a pond;
my body caked in dirt,
my hair loose and curly,
my lungs full of air.
The wind whispers fervently,
words unlike
anything I have ever heard
telling me of that feeling
between hiccup-sobs
and moving on,
between being tied down
and pulling away,
reminding me of the
moments of calm and
moments of chaos that
eventually led me

Here.

Staring into the reflection in the pond,
where the transparency meets
the slow ripples,
and I see

Me.
Alone,

leading the way
to my new destination.

Today, I am saying yes
Today, I am saying I will
Today, All that I ever was
I am taking along with us.

I will bring home dessert
Even when you do not ask me
I will tell you the story
When you are not sharing it with me.

In the morning, I will continue talking
Even if you do not answer
Until you have had your coffee;
And in the evening, so tired,
You will hug me
While I am already sleeping.

It is not a lifetime I promise
But a routine we will cherish
It is not a lifetime I promise
But a routine we both wish

I will take your quirks and talents
I will embrace your light and darkness

Today I am saying yes
To the past, to now,
To our future, I vow.

I will not love you til the day I die
I will love you every day we live our lives.

Today we say we do
Today we say forever;
And I am yours,
Just the same, a little more each day;
Long after.

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

               Last Sunday after Pentecost

A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer

The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky

Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds

Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.

"I know what you're thinking," he says. "That today's just like any other day. That today is just your birthday; that other people are also born on the day you were born. And you're thinking: what is even so special about this day if other people are born too? If other people are much more talented, beautiful and lucky souls, then they deserve so much more than I do."

She replies him with a silent smile, waiting for him to construct his words-- to see what he could possible come up with to make this day, at least, brighter than the others.

"You know I love you, and I say this to you everyday. But just like any other soul, you are just as talented, beautiful and lucky. And what makes you special is that your existence makes me talented, beautiful and lucky in return. That's what makes you special to me. And I don't think I need a special or certain day to say all of this to you, because you're special in your whole life, from the moment you existed. You don't need a special day-- you have a special life."

She nods with a tinge of pride for him as it dusts her cheeks: she is glad she has someone like him who understands her.

He finishes, "This is why you're special to me. This is why I love you. And in the least, this day is a little more special that the others."

he was the only one
to return successful
from the voyage
set to discover the lost soul
of the mystery girl.
about his adventure,
he would write a story every night.
the story that had a part of her soul.
every morning,
she'd read his story
to collect the part of her soul
and place it at the right place.
unknowingly,
he was completing her,
solving her mystery,
ending her charm,
opening the ways
that lead to her door,
making her just another
ordinary girl.
The only thing she had feared
the most !!

I feel like I should be excited,
Or at the very least a bit sad,
My heart should be ignited,
My thoughts driving me mad.

Instead there's silence in my mind,
It's another ordinary day,
Though now I have new friends to find,
As we drive our car away.

They told me here my life would start,
Where experiences make us old,
Passions and people will shape my heart,
My story is waiting to be told.

Yet my story came long before,
It did not begin in hallowed halls,
And for some reason I thought it'd be more,
Instead of rising my heart falls.

One day soon this world will
Realize that it's not worth
Dying because people don't agree.....
It doesn't matter if someone or
No one agrees with you, really it doesn't.
And having a different opinion
Really truly is what makes us unique.
Yeserday is the past and

Let's learn from
It, not repeat the same mistakes!
For centuries, we've been repeating history;
Each day that goe by is a new chance for a new beginning.

*Change starts with you!

Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.