the sea of marching madness
each face a life
each one with a different beat
under the surface
next thing you know
a smile gone
the heartbeat breaks
no nothing quakes
it was a face
a beat erased
each beat is beat.
I never feel that I am productive.
Not productive enough.
Change the world somehow, everyday.
Those are my standards and I have never met them.
So I have to sit with myself every night.
Feeling disappointment and self loathing.
"You didn't do anything great today,"
a voice taunts me.
"Why are you even here if you don't contribute."
But what is contribution really?
Can't it be small?
It has to be small because I can't make it big.
I have to learn to appreciate my small self.
If I make someone smile,
if I write a poem,
if I walk the dogs,
why can't those things count?
I have to learn to count them
because they are all I have.
I can't be great but I can be good in small ways
and who knows, maybe they will add up to great someday.
I define you.
Whatever you are,
is only because of me.
How dare you run further than my thoughts allow.
The very essence of your being is through my feelings, understand your boundaries.
I've placed you in this space for my own purpose. You will not defy what I will have you to be.
In the very breath that I whisper empty promises,
Even with my lies, still you have no choice in this matter.
Without me there is no you.
She is the girl who hides like a hermit at the shell of her typewriter
With the sound of bells and rings to each of her lines
She is well aware she was born at the wrong era of time
She very much knows that her soul is older than her mind
She makes mistakes,
similar to the ones you make in life
The ones you can't erase
Just another note to crumble
Just another paper to replace
She starts fresh with her chin
and shoulders held high
Unplugged to the noise
that comes from outside
Fingers placed delicately in line as they wait for the command of her orders
Composing the keys that pound
against the ink ribbon
An orchestration of the typewriter as the mind begins to sing
She is the girl who moves you by the utterance of her writing
She is driven with a purpose, there is reason to her hiding.
Do you really think you're never gonna die
The day shall come, you'll know this was all a lie
'Tis, a four day journey
Two days of desire, two days of pie
No one knows what's gonna happen in the grave,
Once the man's put, nothing wakes up the dark eye
The punishment he pays for, is not seen but felt
The wealth he gave his life for, is nowhere at sight
His life was just the same as of a potato blight,
When he was asked to look at the beneficial light
But he didn't bat an eye at the given advice
Nor did he take a look at his hair full of lice
Everyday he would eat a full plate rice,
Still no sign of thankfulness, despite
Was he deaf, or was he blind
Even the disables are not as lost as he was at night
The whole story seemed like a joke to him,
But sorry, it's too late to make everything right
Anyways it's too late to write,
Let me have an apple to bite
Forgive this wandering drop,
It knows not from whence it came.
Searching for reunion, seeping through the cracks.
Finding paths in the grit of texture, high and low alike.
Feeling submersed in the Abyss of Words.
Follow the collection that hath pooled in a lovers talk.
Billow in the thoughts projected from a Mothers gaze.
Lift thine eyes to the Rays cast on a dawning blaze.
Flow with the currents rage smashing against stolen days.
Jetting forward upon life's eternal ocean.
Only to find recession in syncopated order.
Intensity stricken by neglectful resistance to nature's simplicity.
Perceive a drop in a boundless sea reuniting with purpose.
Rippled in calm after the wreckage of waves forsaken to a heedless be.