I wish I could tell you which ones are important.
I know you’d say the same, if you could.
It’s cyclic, and it doesn’t really matter,
but it doesn’t stop the sensation, all the same.
Repetition is our creature of habit,
not the source, but the product.
We paint the ceiling with metaphors and French songs,
or Moon River from the balcony, a couple generations back.
We’re absolved of love or whatever
cynicism we use to disregard our absolution.
It’s cold, and everything is frozen over
but it feels like spring in regards to days past:
You’re lifting up from yourself
and flying away, one body still on the ground,
the other, five feet up and looking down at the same thing you are.
And it doesn’t matter which one is you.
And which one is not.
We can’t all choose significance;
Such is the sense in negation.
Cold, these moonlit institutions
shadowed echos in vaulted halls
haunted by prophetic voices
teeth that grip to bleed and gnaw
in blooms of deadly nightshade fear.
Whispers mutter miserys reign
(you`re no good, a filthy stain)
delusions march without restraint
as spectral visions flirt and dart
igniting fear and killing trust
breathing vicious nameless fright
and oh how dark is dreadful night!
Magic elixir to quell emotion,
to muffle voices, to quiet the mind
dulling fear but numbing joy
dread of this unnerving potion
resounds the instinct; suspicions spike.
Who can say of shadowed comfort; is
peace now gained worth loss of light;
should minds be settled in abnormal rest
and is it kindness to give respite by
alchemical actions that still pro term
the clamorous false beliefs that worm?
Shadowed halls imbue; incurring
questions of complicity
People seem to have this odd notion,
That all great writers and artists one day just get compelled
To pick up a pen or pencil.
Oh! How are they wrong!
Sometimes you meet someone.
Sometimes you lose someone.
Other times you just hit rock bottom.
But you do not have a choice.
One day you'll wake up with ink covered hands,
Stained from all the words you've yet to write.
Or colourfully painted checks from all the tears,
You have shed during your sleep.
And you want to get them clean,
You need to get them clean.
You spend countless hours feverishly straining over a desk.
Desperately trying to rid you of those tints.
But your filthy hands will never be able to touch a blank page again.
I missed the sunflowers and tangerine,
The who’s, what’s and why’s of the sky at dawn
For I chose, not the morning, but the dreaming of night,
And wondered what to make of it all
Walk miles in the day for the heart to beat
Sometimes feeling nothing but small
But I wonder a lot of the weight on my feet
And about what to make of it all
Love is far from the only fancy I’ve known
But the hardest of things to let fall
A butterfly’s life, but a song for a day . . .
Would a weight be lifted if I knew the same . . .
No time for distractions, and no time to waste
Or to wonder what to make of it all
to George Herbert wherever you ended up.
I broke my lead
and cried, "fuck this,
The scene is dead."
This rope of sands that twists
around my neck
shall burn for every time
it pulled me back
to these blank pages
and their accusation of a crime
as yet undefined,
in the embryonic stages
of requesting it's own writing:
The lord that calls itself child
While putting on a deep voice.
Caught clocked in
at another boring pitfall;
back blocked off
front/left/right
all wrong.
Thinking that
I've got to be
something better
than a better me,
and I could be content
but is that what it means
to say you're free?
I just move
(I never said that I am living).
I don't have to prove
a single thing
cause I'm not listening,
and the only one that matters
doesn't need to hear to know
that everything will follow
once he's finished saying so...
Rejection has all but consumed me
wrapped me in bubbles started playing
the funeral march with ever pop.
When nobody wants you, how do
you move forward? I am stuck,
a revolving door of hello and goodbye.
The universe never donates the
stories I want to tell. I am left with
cracked casts and an eye patch.
I guess that’s what I’m here for,
to make other people look better
to help other people find their dreams
while mine remain an infant, desperately
trying to crawl away from home
with a rope tied around my ankle.
Can it be this dream world a spoke within a wheel?
An alternative life supporting our endless wheel
The path not taken, a kiss upon shores of life, reveal
Familiar ruts, deep and wide, in journeys upon this wheel
Secrets appear in forests deep through the surface seal
Messages like warnings on spokes within our wheel
Then times we pause and reflect, realize what we feel
Other times we continue in circles upon the Ferris wheel
We love, we care as best we can and shyly to conceal
A free link to give us sustenance like meals on wheel
We rant in thunder’s passion, wind-blown without a keel
Then continue on prisoned paths, a spoke broken in our wheel
Sigh in hopeless vastness, not aware of other’s zeal
Will we ever decide to cleanse our wheel within a wheel?
I am the error in my ways
a format that I can't explain
in status of an editor
it's hard to read my own work.
The principals that I've applied
are stretched and so they are denied
connected by similarities
immersed in substance but lacking a hook.
Vague does well to justify
I've tried to find a better side
but things are not as stable
or specific as they seem.
Just take a look and you will see
with reason there's uncertainty
and though I read and write in text
I am not a book.