Our words have power. Our story is important. I think it's important to remember that, and I know people forget it sometimes (I certainly did), and some people don't believe it at all, but I believe that even if nobody is listening, even if there's no-one to tell your story to; it is still important.

Sometimes it's all we're left with and we have to cling to it with all our might. We're lucky enough to be main characters in a lot of other peoples stories and that's a hell of an achievement. We get the chance to influence other peoples stories,and they in turn influence even more peoples stories. Without us, everyone elses stories get shortened and there ends up being less variation in the story-telling world. If we don't add to the storytelling process then the whole world slows down.
Every single relationship we establish with someone gives them more of a story to tell. Even if you don't make a story of your own you're still a vessel for other peoples stories to travel through, and that's amazing in itself.

The tiniest detail can change everything - the memory of holding a hand, a snippet of information, recommending a favourite ice-cream, falling over in a hilarious manner - it travels through other peoples stories, and without you that story doesn't get told, or gets told at a later time by someone else, by which time the person you could've shared your story with has missed out on the chance to pass that story on to a whole host of other people. That changes the whole storytelling world. Every future chain of events in which you could have, but didn't, tell your story becomes different - there's less of a story, it's not as full as it could have been, and everyone, albeit unknowingly, suffers a little more for it.

Most of us aren't wise enough or powerful enough to be the true "wise man" that our speices name **** sapians implies, changing the world in a dramatic way in one fell swoop with a single action or in the course of our lifetime, but we're certainly capable of being pans narrans (story-telling apes) and injecting a bit more variety in the lives of others. I can't think of a better reason to exist other than mattering so much that the whole future of the world becomes less varied, and slightly less impressive, if we simply cease to be.

Every moment of joy, every moment of anger, rage, suffering, jealousy, euphoria and even numbness contributes to the stories we end up telling other people, even if we're not talking about those moments specifically. We learn from them, we change because of them, and the stories we tell evolve with each new experience.

You don't even need to write yourself, sooner or later, somewhere down the line, someone will write something that never would have been written if you had not existed, and their work will be all the more glorious for the stories you helped to pass on. You are literally part of a bunch of great works yet to be written. You are a poem. You are a play. You are the beginning, middle and end of several bestselling novels. You are the first sentence in a book that grabs a publishers attention and the last in one that spawns a whole franchise. You are important and without you the whole literary world loses a masterpiece that would make a whole bunch of people feel like they weren't alone in the universe. You are their comfort as they lie awake at night with nothing but a book, and the inspiration that causes a child to believe in themselves. I can't think of anything more important than your words, your thoughts and the story you have to tell, but I know that, without them, the world never becomes as glorious as it could have been.

I love you, I know that others love you as well, and I'm certain that a part of the love that people feel for you will travel throughout the stories they tell, eventually end up in a famous book, song, or an artists brushstrokes and cause someone else to love that piece of a story you helped create.

And then they'll pass it on...

If you don’t have patience,
that weight might get you 4 to 8,
if you don’t pace it,
that weight might make your loved ones have to wait,

but I guess that’s better than a 9 to 5,
from 20 to life,
rather be a free man locked up inside,
than in prison on the out side every day of my life,

run away slaves still runnin,

we were once kings,
they turned us into pawns,
how we’re just corporate meat,
for sausages from Uncle John’s farm,

how quickly one can go from,
being Father King to an Uncle Tom,
these cities were never meant for us,
that’s why we’re restless and never feel at home,

anxious yes but if you don’t have patience,
that weight might get you 4 to 8,
if you don’t pace it,
that weight might make your loved ones have to wait,

the whole farm’s for sale,
there’s much more at stake than just steak,
Holy Cow where are we now,
somewhere between Chance and Fate,

somewhere between total failure and absolutely great,

not a rapper not a chance,
at least not anymore,
not here to sing and dance,
I am not anybody’s *****,

this is Capitalism gone wrong,
Consumerism gone rouge,
where every new idea seems so passe,
that it’s out of Style before it’s even En Vogue,

Yo,

yo yo yo,
Yo MTV Raps got you to dance,
but all those black faces dancing got the white pockets paid and,
most of all the One Hit Wonders didn’t even get a 2nd chance,

gave all our time to Time Warner,
but we all know Warner Brothers is anything but a brother,
from the corner office right back to that corner,
from the lime light right back to those street lights,

better get right,
better save and invest,
we could get an island for what we spend on these diamonds,
know when to hold ‘em know when to fold ‘em well you know the rest,

if you don’t have patience,
that weight might get you 4 to 8,
if you don’t pace it,
that weight might make your loved ones have to wait,

but I guess that’s better than a 9 to 5,
from 20 to life,
rather be a free man locked up,
than in prison on the out side every day of my life,

run away slaves still runnin…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

author of multiple bestselling poetry books.

The word love,
Isn't even big enough.

There aren't enough stars,
enough sky-
Or even enough space between circulating planets
to desribe how much I love you.

You couldn't count the seconds that I've waited,
The lifetimes that I've lived,
Searching for something bigger than love.
No weight could ever tip this scale-
There isn't a stage big enough,
Or a mountain high enough
to proclaim my feelings for you.

Words just aren't sweet enough and
syllables get mixed up like a foreign language...
A distinguished poem or bestselling novel
would still leave me empty
and looking
For the right word.

No fight could ever be won-
because I am forever in your favor
with a word greater than love,
For my two sons.

Historical fiction -
that's where it's at.
Quite fancy writing
about Roman Britain.

A native kid, say,
growing up
in the shadow
of the legions.

I describe
an imagined feast
to my pal,
who pulls me up short.

"They didny hae tatties
in Roman times.
They're fae America,
ken?"

And I'm grateful,
but I'll struggle to base
a bestselling trilogy
on an absence of potatoes.

Culture Vultures dining on carcasses,
a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
or both no vote only the onset of mainstream socialist monarchism,
a subconscious stream of consciousness consumed by a constantly contradicting condition of consumerism,
an avalanche of retail therapy and the avant of avant-gardism,
doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition,
just has to be better packaged and marketed,
sold our souls so we don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance,
just look what what the mass media market did,

our collective memories and ancient traditions all but forgotten,
designer jeans symbolize a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s,
want to end this madness but don’t know who started it,
so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,
as we absorb Virtual Reality and ignore Actual Reality creating an occultism of Oculus,
Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences…

Neglecting the blueprint everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent,
morally bankrupt lazy played daisies try to copy Jay-Z’s blueprint,
but no body has a DJ Clue or a Ty Dollar to spare still everyone’s got their two cents,
all opinions given with no wisdom taken from the Grand Architect,
what good is good advice if we don’t take the time to listen we just dismiss it quick,
showing off trophies donating charity checks,
acting like champions we bare and beat our chest,
wearing fool’s gold and blood diamonds but we’ve won nothing yet,
honestly feels like we haven’t even started yet,
still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance,
slaves of an alien race we pledge allegiance with our obedience and faux pas ambiance,

And it’s all almost over for our entire empire so every moment better cherish it,
white robes with Chipko flip flops we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot,
whipping the 500 horses faster in the fast lane will get you buried quick,
so I try and pace it and not get too wasted still I feel very sick,
when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’a when it’s time to depart this ship,
but you can’t rush good art and I’m an articulating artist for all the artisans,
in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet,

which of course means no divorce from any or all of this,
so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice,
love is star crossed colorblind and my wonder mind is in wonderland’s luminescence,
as I illustrate illustrious illuminations off every edifice in this hedonistic eden like Edison,
with an ample amount of ambiance this is this rebels renegade Renaissance,
I write light before I become just another martyr for the Martian’s master plans,
my words are honest sonnets on tablets of mono-cultured monograms,
mono-glyphs that shine like a beacon on the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith…

This is all honest in all honestness.

Here at the docks with assorted Goddesses and narcissistic walruses,
way up down under not trying to be negative but the only thing I’m positive of is,

we are cultivating a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
so stay up and keep your eyes open because the games have just started kid.

This is all honest kid.

And I’m open to discuss everything except religion and of course politics,
so if you’re having issues then tell me what the problem is and maybe we can solve it quick,
and please don’t blame the Dalai Lama or Obama’s broken promises,
see we all have soiled wings just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,
as we dine on Soylent Green served hot from the meting *** of concubine colleges,
wrong right black white day night see everything has it’s opposites,
so even the kindest animals will turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,
is blown kisses well wishes ***** dishes corrupt princes and spiritual paralysis,
this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius and the end of our passing genesis…

But what do I know I’m just a Son of a Gun on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list,
dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine and a bunch of empty cartridges,
in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood clean as a whistle mixin’ with ***** Harry’s pharmacist,
The Good Bad & The Ugly drink in acid rain and eat magic cactuses…

Howling at the full moon with peyote coyotes absent minded off the absinth mix…

Alive right here left for dead insane and out of practice with,
no clean water in the canteen and circling are the vultures just above us,
this teenage wasteland has no purpose with,
riff raft rats and religious rabbits in the crosshairs with deserted desert tortoises,
see these badlands will make the most professional professionals seem like just silly naive novices,
there’s nothing more to see here in this mirage except my rusty gun as it tarnishes…

my visions getting blurry bodies stopped but my mind’s still hurried this is what exhausted is,
and I’d escape if I knew a way out but instead I stay because I’m not sure what my other option is…

See I knew I would go I told you before everyone is targeted,
so soon it seems I’ll be just another rotting carcass that,
the Culture Vultures overhead dine on as their dinner when feeling peckishish,
terminated no terminator but like Arnold said, “I’ll be back.”, like I just started this…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Worldwide Bestselling Poet

I stop
as my thoughts spill out
onto the ground.
My halfway thoughts
are nails to step on
while the whole thoughts slip
and slide to the sky-
thought clouds
sitting on fireworks of blue.
I am half-full of half thoughts
and half-empty of hot air
and broken Barbie dolls.
I am halfway to becoming
a bestselling book,
an Egyptian goddess.
I stop
at a fork in the road
and go straight forward,
or sideways,
or diagonally.
My half thoughts are half-bricks
not enough to be a wall,
but enough to be sandbags
on a hot air balloon-
also known as me, or myself,
or I.
Myself does not agree with Me
while Me endorses I
and I hates me and Myself both
for they are altogether
too self-centered.
I stop to collect my nails
at the side of a broken road,
though my hammers
are thought clouds,
my sideways, half-filled air balloon
is filled with bricks,
and Me, Myself, and I
are fighting to the death.
It’s a wonder
I’m still halfway there.

The Dreamers©

I think oft  what it would be like to be one of them

To look at the world through rose colored glasses

Where the world is perfect according to my childhood dreams

In that dream I would be a pilot, handsome and tall
A world traveler to boot

I would be married to the girl next door
The vivacious blonde with that voluptuous figure

Somehow as if by magic I would be rich as well as famous

My model looks would have me featured in a magazine

This would be a follow up to my bestselling book which is
Now being turned into the greatest movie of all time

The movie is a documentary about my days as a rock star

It would highlight my younger years
As a pro athlete and renowned artist extraordinaire

The captivating television interview for my hit movie
Held at my countryside estate overlooking the ocean
It is prominently featured in Homes & Gardens magazine

Having won the lottery my days are filled with
Time to spend with family and friends at will
Or inventing the greatest next best thing

My ideal children seemingly raise themselves
To become childhood prodigies

When I come back to reality in my modest home
Readying myself to go to my everyday job
And writing poetry waiting to be discovered

I wonder “Is this as good as it gets”

Andreas Simic©

3:30 a.m.
when all of them were studying,
for their board exams.
The future bestselling author
was busy stitching her new story.

If you could tell a story about your life
What kind of story would it be?
Would it be an autobiography?
Would it be a novel of a life journey?
Would it be the best tale in history?
Let’s figure, perhaps it might be a bestselling movie?

Life has many different chapters of story
Some chapters are sad, some are full of joy and glory
Some are advanterous, the peak of your journey
A chapter after another will complete a manuscript of your story
One bad chapter doesn't mean its the end of the story..

So lets write the first chapter about your life history..
What happened in 1969 the 1st of January?
You told me your daddy had died in a tragedy.
Look.. you have everybody else who have loved you so dearly
Remember your sweetest dream and memory,
Visualize the days when you were in total pain and misery
All these life experiences, aren't they the essence of your story?
Just write a page, you’d complete the chapters, don't you worry...

LIFE IS A CHAPTER IN A BOOK...
Write your chapters, complete your book..
Let the readers read and get hooked...
And you’d be thrilled when they’d start to ask .. who’s the author of the book?

Hearts don't beat out of chaos
And no one's heart beats alone
You are not fighting on your own
I know there are often days
in which you struggle to evacuate the covers
and you may feel lost and abandoned
But I will still be there.
This isn't one of those "when it's convenient for me" promises
because it is always convenient for me.
I will always adore you
and support you and fight for you
I am not one of your imitation friends
that do a complete 180 the moment you pass through the door
I am not one of the girls that haunt your heart
that could not see the magnificence inside its darkened recesses.
I would never see you as a bad person
because you are the sunshine that fills the sky today
and you are the reason I continue to wake up to see it.
You destroy any evidence of unhappiness inside of me
and replace it with pure light.
You are the most beautiful of melodies.
I know for a fact that I cannot do this without you
and maybe I'll end up a boring old housewife with two kids and an SUV crossover and no bestselling books
but you and I both know that future is not set in stone.
That suburban nightmare may come to pass and even if it does
I will still love you.
I will still adore you when the clouds take over the sunshine I cling to
and I will still treasure you when I can no longer see the sky.
You are not inherently evil
You are not a bad person.
You are mine. That's all you are.
And whenever I think of you I think of happiness and sunshine and warmth
and without that
I would be broken
I need your happiness to survive
so keep that wonderful smile on your face.

A door is never open
It's always ajar

A song is never sung
(except by fools
who insist on interrupting
the sacred business of drinking)
It is only heard
In the distance.

A glass is never empty
It's just lonely.

Friends are never a friend;
They're only the next act
Of treachery and tragedy
(Doesn't that sound poetic)

Poverty is the person
Who stole your prosperity.
Prosperity was a similar
But infinitely less honest
Kind of thief
Charity is the one true thief
I'll drink to that
(Truth be told, I'll drink to anything)

Oh dear God stop me
From ever becoming religious
You owe me at least that much
IOU a Jack, a Jim an' a Johnnie
(That’s Daniel’s, Bean an' Walker
to the unbelievers among your flock
of sad unsinners)
Being unholy is kind of cool
Holiness is in the concept
Religion’s got nothing
To be holy about
It’s an empty glass.
Drinking's got spirit
Dear God of mine
Make mine a double
I'll believe in you twice.

(Thank you, Janis. Why don’t we jack that Mercedes Benz you keep singing about? You can drive an' I'll be your loveable but inadequate companion, just like Gabby Hayes. I can’t do Tonto. The Noble Savage is beyond my range an’ anyway, you won’t wear a mask. The world is full of lonely rangers, but how many wear a mask? Maybe we could go to Mexico an’ I'll apply for the Cisco Kid's job. He wears great hats. I'd look cool in a hat like that. Is he any relation of Billy...?)
  
Loneliness in a glass
It's an urban myth
An’ a rural hype.
Drinking's only a curse
Morality is a disease
Curses are like glasses
You can lift them
Ever tried to lift a disease?
Aphorisms; don’t we just love 'em
Especially when we hide behind 'em.
(Is The Lonely Ranger
An aphorism in the making?)
They're a sign of conversational fear.
An’ fear is just a sign of itself
When it's got nothing else
To be fearful about
I think I'll have another drink
Before I start talking about Fitzgerald
And Malcolm the Vulcanologist.
Good word, vulcanologist
Impressive in the right company
Must remember to use it again
On the next innocent abroad.

Nobody loves you when you're just a poor drunk. A few people love you if you’re a clever drunk. But everybody loves you if you're a rich drunk. You've got a friend in every pocket, and that's what friends are for. Your relatives live in your wallet ‘an we're not talking photographs here. You can only trust your enemies. They at least will be true to themselves and as treacherous as only an enemy can be. Truth be told, there's truth in wine, but a sadder truth is: we all tell lies. The wine just makes them more delicious. We can all drink to that. The rich are never drunk, just unsober. Only the poor can be driven mad by drink. (It's the only experience of being chauffeur driven they'll ever have.) The rich are merely inebriate and eccentric. Class and euphemism are always so reliable. It’s a very rich language we have here; in every sense.

Especially when we talk in clichés
Even with perfect strangers
(Why are strangers perfect?
Are they some kind of deity?)
Clichés are a wonderful thing
When you have four fingers
Of blessed rye in your hand.
‘Only the good die young.’
That’s a great ole cliché.
‘Been down this road so long
It looks like upper street again’
That’s an even better one, I think
Bob Zimmerman’s brother in law
Didn’t get ‘round to being related
According to the romantic plan
“That’s not a cliché, that’s an
urban myth”, said the stranger
When Dante met Janis it was
Downhill all the way for them
Thank you, John Milton
Where would hell be without you?
In ever decreasing circles
You might say, an’ then again
You might not bother to say anything.
Intellectuals are sometimes lonely.
Perhaps you don’t speak to strangers
Even perfect ones in dark glasses
Who are unafraid to look in mirrors.
Let me buy you a drink in a darker glass
Did I tell you, me an’ Janis are
Heading down Mexico’s dusty way?
Elvis and Marilyn are living there
They were secretly married even
To each other's each other self.
They were all set to become
The King and Queen of America
But the constitution wouldn’t allow it.
Norman the Mailman’s going to write
(That’ll be the day dream all believers
Try to avoid believing in too much)
A bestselling an’ hard hitting novelty item
About it all, with the built-in revelation
That their kids were kidnapped
By all those dead Kennedys and ……
Is the floor getting closer or am I collapsing?
An’ what did you say
Your name was, Mephistopheles?
That’s a cute name. But why are you
Smiling at me in such a strange fashion?
Make mine a double; what’s your poison?

You are the reason I smile
Every time I happen to fail
Because, when I think about you
I know all hope isn't lost yet
And I can even beat the worst ever Monday blues
Your never-say-die spirit is tough to beat
Even when it comes to someone like Rahul Gandhi
It's what makes you such an awesome poet
Not to mention, a bestselling novelist
A truly intersectional feminist
And last but not the least
One of the fiercest anti-caste activists
Of course, I know you haven't even properly met me
However, you have made an impact upon me
Which is utterly impossible to forget
Really, I have to admit
You have made me think more positively
And act more independently
Which has done wonders for my mental health
Also, have you taught me to keep up the faith
Even when I have been at my nadir
Therefore, is it no wonder
That you are an inspiration to one and all
Thanks to you, even when we fall
We know how to rise again
And smile through our pain
You are a powerful voice of change
In a country that is thoroughly resistant to change
You speak what most of us are afraid to speak
And inspire even the meek
You call a ***** a *****
Your keyboard is the sharpest blade
Finally, you awaken those who are asleep
And give a red alert to those who are merely pretending to sleep
You know, whenever you enter my mind
I feel a quiet but fierce pride
Certainly, has God been kind
To present me with the opportunity
Indeed, a very very special opportunity
To come across such an incredible human being
Without whom, am I nothing!
May the Lord bless you with everything
Which you deeply crave for
Dear Comrade, please keep fighting and do take care
Jai Bhim!! Vaazhga Periyar!!

A door is never open
It's always ajar

A song is never sung
(except by fools
who insist on interrupting
the sacred business of drinking)
It is only heard
In the distance.

A glass is never empty
It's just lonely.

Friends are never a friend;
They're only the next act
Of treachery and tragedy
(Doesn't that sound poetic)

Poverty is the person
Who stole your prosperity.
Prosperity was a similar
But infinitely less honest
Kind of thief
Charity is the one true thief
I'll drink to that
(Truth be told, I'll drink to anything)

Oh dear God stop me
From ever becoming religious
You owe me at least that much
IOU a Jack, a Jim an' a Johnnie
(That’s Daniel’s, Bean an' Walker
to the unbelievers among your flock
of sad unsinners)
Being unholy is kind of cool
Holiness is in the concept
Religion’s got nothing
To be holy about
It’s an empty glass.
Drinking's got spirit
Dear God of mine
Make mine a double
I'll believe in you twice.

(Thank you, Janis. Why don’t we jack that Mercedes Benz you keep singing about? You can drive an' I'll be your loveable but inadequate companion, just like Gabby Hayes. I can’t do Tonto. The Noble Savage is beyond my range an’ anyway, you won’t wear a mask. The world is full of lonely rangers, but how many wear a mask? Maybe we could go to Mexico an’ I'll apply for the Cisco Kid's job. He wears great hats. I'd look cool in a hat like that. Is he any relation of Billy...?)
  
Loneliness in a glass
It's an urban myth
An’ a rural hype.
Drinking's only a curse
Morality is a disease
Curses are like glasses
You can lift them
Ever tried to lift a disease?
Aphorisms; don’t we just love 'em
Especially when we hide behind 'em.
(Is The Lonely Ranger
An aphorism in the making?)
They're a sign of conversational fear.
An’ fear is just a sign of itself
When it's got nothing else
To be fearful about
I think I'll have another drink
Before I start talking about Fitzgerald
And Malcolm the Vulcanologist.
Good word, vulcanologist
Impressive in the right company
Must remember to use it again
On the next innocent abroad.

Nobody loves you when you're just a poor drunk. A few people love you if you’re a clever drunk. But everybody loves you if you're a rich drunk. You've got a friend in every pocket, and that's what friends are for. Your relatives live in your wallet ‘an we're not talking photographs here. You can only trust your enemies. They at least will be true to themselves and as treacherous as only an enemy can be. Truth be told, there's truth in wine, but a sadder truth is: we all tell lies. The wine just makes them more delicious. We can all drink to that. The rich are never drunk, just unsober. Only the poor can be driven mad by drink. (It's the only experience of being chauffeur driven they'll ever have.) The rich are merely inebriate and eccentric. Class and euphemism are always so reliable. It’s a very rich language we have here; in every sense.

Especially when we talk in clichés
Even with perfect strangers
(Why are strangers perfect?
Are they some kind of deity?)
Clichés are a wonderful thing
When you have four fingers
Of blessed rye in your hand.
‘Only the good die young.’
That’s a great ole cliché.
‘Been down this road so long
It looks like upper street again’
That’s an even better one, I think
Bob Zimmerman’s brother in law
Didn’t get ‘round to being related
According to the romantic plan
“That’s not a cliché, that’s an
urban myth”, said the stranger
When Dante met Janis it was
Downhill all the way for them
Thank you, John Milton
Where would hell be without you?
In ever decreasing circles
You might say, an’ then again
You might not bother to say anything.
Intellectuals are sometimes lonely.
Perhaps you don’t speak to strangers
Even perfect ones in dark glasses
Who are unafraid to look in mirrors.
Let me buy you a drink in a darker glass
Did I tell you, me an’ Janis are
Heading down Mexico’s dusty way?
Elvis and Marilyn are living there
They were secretly married even
To each other's each other self.
They were all set to become
The King and Queen of America
But the constitution wouldn’t allow it.
Norman the Mailman’s going to write
(That’ll be the day dream all believers
Try to avoid believing in too much)
A bestselling an’ hard hitting novelty item
About it all, with the built-in revelation
That their kids were kidnapped
By all those dead Kennedys and ……
Is the floor getting closer or am I collapsing?
An’ what did you say
Your name was, Mephistopheles?
That’s a cute name. But why are you
Smiling at me in such a strange fashion?
Make mine a double; what’s your poison?”