A tried and true notion,
like a rut in the road,
keeps me from going further.
Letting go is easier said then done.
The familiar ground holds comfort,
that sedates the weary traveller.
Fear of the unknown,
love for the familiar:
these notions kill more
then DRUGS and marriage.
Combined.
Let's leave the spies and shame
to their silly game,
by accepting the wounds and tender cuts,
given to us,
each other,
and ourselves.

A thousand cheeks to turn,
against a thousand angry fists.
A thousand times to forgive,
as the eye burns,
from a thousand gallons of salty tears,
wiped away and forgotten.

A strange thing happened yesterday,
I lost control of my emotions.
A dam, that had been building for years,
was unleashed. It had been built, stone by stone. Each a notion of self repression. The waters, torrid and raging, wiped clean the built up crust and false earth. The deep parts that had been suffocated, finally were free. Free to feel the warm sun. Free to bask in the fresh air. A rejuvenation of hope.

Sixteen again in my mind.
Sixteen again but I've grown too old.
Sixteen with an ego, and a chip
on the shoulder that cracks the veil
of "pretend I'm an adult."
Sixteen and I'm not in control.
Actions speak louder then words,
so why go back to write these
words down? Hoping to cure
What actions have not?
Sixteen and I'm not in control.
And getting the feeling that everyone
is pretending its all ok,
when maybe, it would be better
for all to allow ourselves to doubt.

On the slippery slope I stood, confronted by evil. In the valley below, smoke poured up, from a village in upheaval. We stood, opposite from one another, watching the chaos. He laughed, claiming it was my loss. I smiled, "It was a toss." The laugh faded. "After, all this time..." I baded. "Still, haven't learned, we're always traded?" One man dies, another is born. The tale is older then yorn. "So take it!" I say, "The satisfaction you seek. It's hollow. It's false. It's pitty and meek."

Emotions, gone. Only there to hold you back. Beauty, overrated. Artist with a demon, is a stereotype more common then a cold. If it's the person that makes the work, the work can never truly speak for itself. You may be famous now. Maybe remembered for generations. The knowledge may span empires. But, eventually, the artist becomes obscure,  and only then will the work truly matter. What will it say about us?

It's true. I don't know. And I am scared. Even the bravest in the light, have their fear of the dark.

The viscous glue lays in a glass. A jilt of the table knocks it over. Uncurling itself from the languid position, it begins the journey. Millimeting its way out, like some here to, unknown horrid flood of sap. A rather lame flood, that most elderly and morbidly obese could (if the battery on their, medicaid financed, Hover Round, did not give out) outrun. Lava, after cooling, reshapes the world. As though channeling it's long lost predecessor, the glue too,  comes to a sluggish halt and ruins the table.

"I will do it" said the heart.
Unfortunately, the brain was in control.
"Feed me" it began.
"Sugars and sweets,
Pussy and meats.
The more I get, the more I crave.
Til there's nothing to save."

The future! A bright light on the horizon,  like a never ending sunrise. So promising. Until you realize your walking towards the sunset. Your directional compass led you astray. What you were so sure of, is suddenly lost. All that ground, spilling through your hands like water. And that's when you realize you never really held anything. You can't trap the wind. Suddenly, a huge burden is taken off your shoulders. The false world you held on your shoulders is gone. And you are free to try again.

Far from the forest, in the other jungle, restless she sways. The cookie cutter corners draw blood from her psyche. Relaxed, she is, in the omnipresenet life that thrives deep and rich. Her heart hides somewhere in a gore, but only cold stones and black pavement surround her now.

The Maker's words felt like colored glass in her palm. She knew they held something precious inside them. Some lingering thought, that she could almost just grasp, but not quite. It left her feeling inadequate, holding too few of the remaining puzzle pieces. But she knew deep inside, she hoped anyway, that it would all fit in the end. That it was all part of some grand plan.

Another night ends too soon. The sleeper ends up in his bed. The fighter throws beer. The lover's plans run a foul. The party that never was. If time was reverse, how right, it could all go right. Instead everyone leaves with distaste in their mouth. Maybe for the better. The poet makes no sense of the world in a drunken state. Good night.

Some nights she's melodramatic. Sometimes she gets carried away.
The warmth I feel when she's around me drowns those memories, so I stay. When distance moves between us, and my bed feels too cold, I look to dreams and hope to see her, an illusion of her, I hold. It kills me to forget her smile, her smell and her taste, the sweetest candy, that I could never waste. But time conquers all and memories are not excluded, and so her essences becomes diluted. When ever I return, from this rambling trip, I hope her power overcomes me, with a kiss on the lip.

No more hot flashes of unprovoked rage. No more depressions over girls (disgusted) expressions. The person to be is the person you are, and the persons to see aren't too far. Love comes in waves but your love always stays. The hormones subside for the rest of your days.

Finding meaning behind the words,
and the conversation plays on different levels. Emotions engage beneath the facsimile smiles. A mountain of history beneath the fresh cut grass. It shifts and moves with memories remembered, but never dare spoken clear. A hope that the understanding is still there, that friends will be friends. Forever. But the barriers make it too unclear. Time has broken the youthful spell, and who can tell if you should ever go back.

It's the quiet voice, that speaks up at night. A lone skiff in the tumultuous ocean. Drowned in the noise of day. Failingly heard, when the calming moon soothes the turblent tides away. It's message, a guiding beacon on the rocky cliffs. A lighthouse for the wrecked. Its' mousey whispers worth more then riches. But, only for those, that look to the stars, and hope guides their way.

She never felt dread, a fear of dying, until those roads seemed too small. The blurry poles and trees and houses had passed each day without a second notice. The driver, much too drunk, held the balance of life and death in his obliterated hands. Much, much too drunk, but what could she do? She had agreed to get in the truck. She felt guilt, but that wouldn't save her now. Nor would indulging the buzz that had hit her head, all too suddenly. It had been growing for hours, but there was the problem. It was all too subtle until it was too late. Her fear ran its course with the passing blurs. Each an obstacle overcome, only to be replaced by the next. Then the next. A seemingly infinite amount of ammo for the world to to take her out. Yet the farther they went, the more hope grew, that she would be ok. Every second a prayer answered. Every street a milestone. Until, at last, the destination was in sight! Thu-thump! The driver turned too tight, and came up on the sidewalk. "Oh sorry ha!" They were alive and they had arrived. Never again she promised. Until a couple of hours later, she had to make the journey back. Another drunk driver, another broken promise. Youth never learns?

From a flower springs nectar
that sweetens life
for a lowely drone bee,
a princely humming bird,
and every creature inbetween.
Or does the flower
feel a deeply rooted
quake of anticipation,
sensing its pollen
will soon be spread forth?
A most perfect union,
when all are fufilled.

As the moon rose over my sunny life,
I shivered, standing in the light.
I realize that I do not want to be,
that my laziness is killing me.
I've fought against man and brother,
But to fight imagination is another.
I cannot win nor give truces.
The fodder is fed with excuses.
An endless war I will wage,
Or die trying with my rage.

Slithering down the tip, rain gathers on a leaf.
Rush.
A splatter left on the thirsty earth.

A pair of plastic dice hang in the air.
Cigarette smoke lingers in the air with the sounds of people talking, laughing, braying, and every other noise we can make. Of course there's the sounds of the carnival slots, playing their merry-go-round tune with each wager on a button. A fortune gained in a second, lost in hours. hopes and fears culminating in the moment of release, when the dice leave your hand. Fear of the unknown, just as powerful as the fear of knowing. And in there a rush of chemicals. Loss of self, release of social bonds, freedom. Found around, but never without chance.

A character of granite,

sculpted and unmoving.

Hard shell,

giving hell

to mind and thought.

His perfection screams,

til the eyes split.

Nevermore.

Polished hair,

chiseled teeth,

shoulders to carry boulders,

hands of sand paper,

and a gentle smile.

Some lilies bloom only at night,
when the day
slows and drips
down.
A candle melting
marks the time.
Lost in thought,
as the world loses itself
to dreams.

Take a trip to the woods, where the sugar cranes lie, and the the gnomes play hide-and-seek all day. The mushrooms grow slimy and huge. The slugs are friendly, and always have time to stop and chat (in their monocles and top-hats). The ferns adorned in the finest dew drops, like crystals upon a gorgeous face, have fancy balls. They dance with the wind, and bask in the creeping sunlight. At night they snuggle into their frost suits and snore quite obnoxiously. The creek is where the bands of frogs are singing, accompanied of course, by the fiddling grass hoppers and chirping cicadas. The water spiders orchestrate such fanciful maneuvers upon the surface of flowing stream. The dearth of any rush or worry only perpetuates the calm in the air. The trees who sleepily yawn, can hardly be bothered for a spot of conversation. And the salamanders crawling among the wet damp rocks, are too under-bellied to trust.

Take up arms in powerful conjunction.
Let cities fall, to be replaced with fields.
Our weapons of war will be seeds,
of flowers and weeds,
to up root the foundations
of destructive nations.
Let's be the bees
to pollinate these ideas.
Let's beat the the vultures
that rip apart cultures.
If you be you
and I be I,
with acceptance of perspective,
together we'll lie
in a grassy field where buildings once stood.

Fuzzy Rugs

A richness, so thick,
it carpets your tongue in velvet,
and drips down your throat like choclate.
A puddle of emotions vs
an ocean of...
of...?
expierence vs
lifetimes of space.
Endless,
boundless,
free to roam for an eternity
and then some.
Still too small for that which is
life.

Who needs titles?

Escape the dream
to reality,
but find yourself
in another dream.
The truth obscured
by thoughts that shine
too bright to see.
The hidden hold
is not bold
enough for your taste
but that is where the
truth sleeps.
Can you travel across time?
Will you take that step?
To go upon the greatest quest
that life ever knew.

Atone of forgotten sorrows
ring in my ear.
I can not remember,
the origin of this
poignant sadness,
that overshadows
this hazy world.
The memory has left,
but the spirit resides.
A ghost in the mind,
stalks me from
beyond comprehension.
A time that is long past
lingers by my side.

Birth first, then fear of the ever consuming darkness that follows. Embraced like a long lost friend. Put aside in the thoughts of men. For if it cannot be changed, what use to dwell upon it? A sadness tags along. We think we know what happens after it greets us, but none can be sure. And there is the reason melancholy lies with it. For what is it worth, that we should; struggle, overcome obstacles, triumph, have statues built in our image, or create lasting inspiration in the minds of men? In the end, it all comes to naught. A hollow victory, if ever one existed. To not know and never learn, until it is too late. What a waste of time. What a waste of breath. What a waste of everything til the death.

If I was taken seriously,
I would seriously reconsider
who's taking. What can be
taken from words? What can
be lost but time? What answers
do questions give? The silence that follows
gives the answer to all. So let's put on
some fancy coats, and head to work.
Stay busy til it's time to sleep, then
let's do it again. Serious business,
Serious lives, sour hearts, and
big heads, culminating in an end
not so sweet or profound.

A bubble, within a body of blood and corporal meat,
fills with ego, self doubt, and worries.
Slowly expanding til
Lift off!
Rushing to the surface,
like a drowning man
hoping to suck in
that sweet air.
Clumsily flailing or
Synchronized swimming?
Treading water til the sea collapses muscle, taking it back for it's own.
Another victim throws it's bones to the collection.
Or
Head for horizons,
to a land unseen,
where legends live.