strong spirits

welcoming in nature-

powerful in instinct-

trying to find a moral compass-

one that they can believe in,

with all of their ****** hearts

searching for complete harmony

in a static world, charged by the sun.

their own saturated, sturdy bodies

learning to not know-

experiencing the now-

accepting that simplicity is beautiful-

realizing that no life has to be so complex.

—

no life needs to have so many thumbtacks

stuck in its cork board,

hanging on its bedroom wall-

only to be stared at by its owner

to distract from the present-

to keep sentimentality afloat-

to compare and contrast;

to remind a tired soul

of better moments and feelings

in its personal history.

but when those tiny memoirs

are reminisced upon,

the soul becomes vulnerable-

susceptible to reminding itself

of memories it does not want

to have as its own.

memories most likely forgotten-

blocked, and left somewhere

in the owner’s brain-

lost, due to lack of importance-

deterred from its conscious-

pushed back into its energy’s

open life storage, unconsciousness.

—

those memories like sharp tacks,

metal tips, dropped and unseen-

abandoned in a grey **** carpet-

left there so many months ago-

waiting for their owner

to decide their fate-

to either lay its bare foot

upon their thin metal,

creating a river of crimson-

so they may be finished with

their metaphorical life-

thrown in the trash can-

or they could taste the sweetness

of not being crushed-

of having one more day

to become as best as they can be-

to enjoy the soft, scraggily **** carpet-

to be unwanted, unfounded-

to aide in the growth of the now-

by refusing to resurface.

those memories, remembered or not-

are locked behind the purple indents

above the owner’s cheekbones-

below its red, puffy eyes-

violet crescents-

slowly caused by sleeplessness

and lack of nutrition.

—

if the past was not meant

to be consistently remembered,

why does humanity constantly try

to decode the future?

recorded history is meant so

living beings will not

repeat previous mistakes-

the human race is a cycle-

history will repeat itself-

mistakes and all-

the future is completely unknown.

predictions are never certain-

why spend the life one was given

trying to figure out why humanity

exists the way it does-

when in actuality, the researcher

is missing out on humanity as it is.

why try to figure out what happens

when someone’s energy is depleted-

when a mind is laid to rest, dead.

while searching, one is losing out

on actually being alive-

no one knows exactly

what happens when mortals die-

humans have been searching

ever since they developed cognizant

abilities, conscious minds…

the future will happen eventually-

people will experience it when it is time-

it is wasteful to spend one’s life

always looking for the answer-

instead of celebrating, and exploring

the earth that has given humanity

endless opportunities to love.

—

ghosts of creative minds

walking amongst the living-

ghosts encased in flesh

with no memory of their past lives-

their auras radiating-

saturated with ambition and kindness

following different dreams-

floating toward their goals

in a similar manner,

all with the same amount

of vigor and curiosity-

young (old) spirits;

hoping for their fellow

outspoken, anxious specters

to listen, and notice their potential-

to make their words understood-

to show their many points of view-

to let go of their pasts-

to stop worrying about the future-

to live in the present.

intelligent, brightly glowing entities-

the ones with flowing energies,

pigmented with color-

the ones striving for positivity;

the ones who really wish

for just one simple thing-

only for their peers

to consider clarity

as a degree or two on their own,

individual moral compasses.

to love this beautiful world

with no bias, with equality,

with excitement, and with

virtuous appreciation of life

as a common mystery-

one that would end a lot better

if it was left unsolved.

My fingertips will never let me forget the scent of stale cigarettes.

I was a fool in London. All the friends I made had better accents than me.
I dreamed of Bulgaria and Brazil.

I walked through mud. I waited for French tides.
I trudged in heavy water waders.

My hands built a house with stones older than the country on my passport.
The etching of cement on my boots still reminds me what we carried there.

We drove along tired volcanoes and craggy cliffs in the dark.
I never learned how to drive manual.

We flew further south. I dried out in the sun.

The glands of Spanish streets pulsated
citrus mist into the air, my lungs.
I never did remember the difference between limon and lime.

We stayed in a haunted castel but missed Halloween.
The upper peninsula, where Napoleon dreamed of a better dinner.
We moved to Shangri-La. Even in Eden, people still snore.
But there were cakes laced with flowers. And I was over the moon.

Then, a dreamscape. The closest to the Arctic I’ve ever been.

We ate deer for dinner. I baked Danish pies. I slept supine in a smoke-filled yurt. It was all peace. It was all over.

The crystalline water, so clear and so calming. A wash so deeply needed, a cleaning of my sins and hardships. An ocean of wonders and ravishings, a vagabond at last had found his dear home.

Cataracts have grown over my eyes.
Blinding me from the gorgeous tragedy
That bestows wandering winds to my moored soul.

Suffering and freedom on the East coast.
Pines call to me like a mother
Searching for her lost young.
Desperate and warm.

Lounging in the decay and sap filtered light,
I find myself.
I am calloused fingers looking for scratch and song.
A Vagabond of soft heart and pernicious wrongs.

She was unaware about the way of the world
Radiant beauty did capture the vagabond heart
Trampling along the green meandering path
Where not any traveler have set their foot
Walked across the ****** valley and yonder
The ***** came to the crystal clear stream
Aware of his thirst, from the endless wandering
He stooped to drink from the sweet stream
Unaware of the maiden’s presence, who tip-toed
Busy was he drinking to quench his thirst
For the first time was he aware of the maiden
Vagabond heart captured by the reflection’s beauty
He kissed her reflection, making the maiden blush
At the twilight the eyes meet, making the hearts flounder
Radiant beauty did capture the vagabond heart

Instead of open skies and gold clouds,
Its florescent lights and shuffling crowds.
Once I'm gone I'll never miss another sunrise.
My neck will ache from looking up,
But at least I won't look down in defeat.
Once I'm gone,
The only weight I'll carry is a pack and dreams.
Instead of a past that looks darker through the seasons.
I am watching from further away everyday.
I am disconnected from everyone.
They try to talk to me and I spit back dial tones.
I am burning my bridges;
Wearing the embers in my teeth.
My grin will be brilliant,
From all the smoulders I'll eat.
I'll leave the cage I've been pacing ruts in.
Clipped wings will grow anew.
Fresh feathers with a sense of purpose.
I'll smell like rain before it hits the smog.
I'll sing like I was born to,
Just like bird songs.
I'm not here to make you proud.
I'm not here to stay silent in these rooms.
I'm not here and I never really was.
*I'm already gone.

I've nothing to offer
but
my simple writing on papers.