It waved it's hand through the sky
Like how a child skims it's arms over the water
Playing in the pool,
Gesturing to the stars.
It's fingers tore into the surface
Paving a one way street in shadow
Forming branches whose tails
Curled into eddies
Flowing out
Propagated light like a spark.
The hologram of an infinitely long firework.

Notice the darkness in all things
write splendid words in a coffee shop
the dark spreads big and small
it fills in cracks and sheets of pages
Die in time rogue soldier, pack your bag and leave
My head is void, my thoughts are black
Go towards that warmth and feel content
Evil thoughts are not to be feared but cherished for their truth.
You lose yourself to the light
Its a cold light, that light of nobility
That everpresent do-gooder visage you display
Knave! splay yourself for the world to see.
Relax your sight and let glare hold your eyes
You see, for that is the light.
It is calm and bright and offers sensitivity.
But lo- it is not to be trusted.
A white hot beam of lies to block out truth
A wanting of a certain way that steers you off the path of truth.
Never fall victim to that cold light
for you are evil, and sad, and a creature of the night.
That dark warmth can grow into a monster most valiant
That table could be more crooked
A slanted smile offers more sadness than an honest scowl.
Offer blackness to those you see and use your soul as a shadow to receive cold light
And know
that you are not alone

My body aches - beating my brain, I yearn for rest.
The work needs done. I cannot sleep until I rest.

That sleep - that nodding off that interrupts the song
while silence plays; a long fermata on a rest.

Awake and you’ll be deaf to what you’ve missed,
but open your ears and you’ll appreciate the rest.

I wish we could be present while we slept,
so we never had to miss a single click of rest,

until the very end. When the players play their loudest
even if they’re resting, a long eternal rest.

For the music doesn’t start until you’ve given
pause— to the contents of your mind. Let yourself rest,

and listen to the universe and its crashing chords;
echoing in that quietness, speaking through that rest.

And as I ache, I, Tyler, look towards playing that final
performance – one that’s sure to give me rest.

It’s lukewarm on this lazy Sunday,
And I don’t know where I put my glasses.
I don’t even want to tear myself
From the syzygy that makes me, my blanket
And my bed, to find them. Maybe I’ll crawl out
Of my coziness and try to seize the day.

There are fourteen-forty minutes in a day,
And I can waste them all on this lazy Sunday.
I could get breakfast, but I’d have to make it out
The door — and I can’t find my glasses.
I suppose I’ll just stay under the blanket,
Spending those minutes on myself.

I could possibly make breakfast for myself.
I do so just about every other day.
Bacon does sound good, but my blanket
Weighs a hundred pounds. And after all, Sunday
is my day off. Where are my glasses?
Right on the windowsill where I left them. Out-

Side, I see people who got out
Of bed already. People as lazy as myself —
Probably… Oh, fine! I put on my glasses
And trek to entropy. At least it’s warm today.
And for a while it’s a very nice Sunday,
But it isn’t as warm as my blanket,

And doesn’t feel as heavy. As pewter blankets
Stretch across the horizon, I look out
Over the cut and appreciate what Sunday
Has to offer. That’s what I tell myself,
But I know that today is just another day;
Seeing the world with rose tinted glasses

Yet again. I stop to wipe off my glasses
That are smudged with a blanket
Of dust from the Oakland air. The day
Is only part way done and I am looking for an out.
I continue the mission to make myself
Breakfast on a lukewarm, lazy Sunday:

A not so sunny day, in my glasses,
Making Sunday breakfast in a blanket
Of optimism. Out by myself.

What lurks unknown in fearful fraughted towns
It flits in shadows watching silently
With dire eyes and looming eight feet tall
The birdman waits for you to walk alone
He slowly stalks his prey throughout the night
And never moves unless it’s back is turned
At first you’ll notice him just up the street
But by that time it will have been too late
You walk but when you turn around again
His owl-like face the last sight that you’ll see

I said goodbye to you every morning for twelve years;
the place where I grew up.
Where all my insecurities are tied.

My friends found you almost as interesting as I
did. I brought my puppies home to you—much to your terror.

When I was younger, I loved playing hide and seek.
And there wasn’t a single space
— in which I couldn’t cozy myself to hide in,
just like how you cozy yourself among the trees.

You’re the warmth of mom, and the coldness of winter break.
You’re a catalog of framed faces.
You’re an audience of one, with a front row seat to my life,
— my home.

Saying goodbye wouldn’t be as easy if I didn’t have so much practice.
Sometimes it’s welcomed, sometimes it’s prolonged.
But some day I’ll say goodbye and learn to find you elsewhere.

Would you think of me strange
if I didn't like change?
That isn't to say differences over time
I mean small round things
like pennies, nickels, or dimes.

Because I really don't think that changing is bad
unless there are seventeen cents to be had
I'd move across the globe if I could
But the sound of those rattling coins drives me mad!

So, I welcome the new in each passing day
but when it comes to quarters I could go either way.