Oh heart, you must be,
and release again.
Your only good is in loving,
and so loving, you must keep.
Oh heart, you must struggle
and keep your weary eyes awake;
you serve no one in your sleep,
and in sleeping, no pleasures take.

______________


Dare I put my heart to sleep?
Lay its weary head to rest
upon its throne, and silent, keep
a vigilant watch, that none might test
the chambers in which
my hopes retreat?

Are dreams the guardians of my heart,
or captors fierce, to stay me alone--
Do I vanquish love, and to my imaginings, hide
in worlds of flight and fancy, as life
half-lives me by, a minor shadow
to my hooded, dreaming eye?

Rejoice in what I have given you, and for what reasons.

This Jewel City

This jewel city
thinks more of itself
and more of those shoes
and less of now
this ocean city
sits on the beach
in a magazine
washing down
last night's taste
with fruit intoxication
this breezy city
drives 120mph
over thin snake canyons
in sunglasses and
$50 conditioner
there's no room for sunblock
unless you're over 30
and then you better look 20
otherwise, this frenzy city
will overlook you
unless you go to
the black hole bars
and sidewinder streets
to buy or sell
this front of the line city
doesn't look too close
at its cracking streets
and earthquake dramas
and red carpet beggars
dazzling lightshow cameras
propped up behind glass
let's overlook
the creeping black soot
the crawling asphalt dreamers
and smoker's cough

On Love IIV

I am shameless, drunken in love with you,

though I pretend this love is something false;

but I've never known such a breathless make

as the mist you cast on my poor, sweet self.

I've never known such a shivering truth,

nor a harsher lie, that some worthy act

might come of this, and the world might grant me

just one wish, that neither our hearts defy.

I don't know your love, nor dare I to ask

for curtains fall, and there are years between –

but I would save my hope, and save my dreams

for only dreams are what love asks of me.

It is in that glow when I look at you –

so dream I shall, of love that would be true.

Peaceful
in a way that is wind-free
undeniably
real,
blissful seconds
feeling ready
to live
to breathe
to be.

New

Today, now, I am a new me.

I am someone different than before.

I don't know her yet,
but she is wise,
and I already like her.

I think she can do
what I've always
wanted to do.

She is stronger.
She realizes that explanations
are not as important as actions;
there is no truth in a world
built on contradiction. The state
of this universe is ignorance; enlightenment
is unity in controversy; pure understanding
will never be attained in physical form,
and that is not the goal. The point is not
pure detachment, but rather pure
involvement for the betterment of this world.
That is why we are here.
She will lead me to that goal;
so she already is.

A Promise

I do not believe that you are beyond potential.
I do not think that you are undeserving of love.
I will never look at you and criticize your faults,
nor will I ever love you any less because of them.

I do not believe that you are beyond suffering,
nor do I believe that your cruelties are your own,
nor will I ever believe that you are less than me
nor will I ever judge you for a lack of faith.

I will never pretend to listen to you, while you speak
your heart to me; I will thank you and bow, knowing
you have trusted and seen in me all that I want to give;
if I may, then let me fail a thousand times for you to succeed.

I will never falter, I will never waver in my belief
in you, nor in the path that brought us together;
I will value every brief second we spend, even in passing,
even if I did not make you smile, even if

I did not touch your heart. I will gladly suffer
your pain with you, and burden the greater
if I could, and forgive you for any doubt, and
when you leave, I will bless your feet that

you may walk on water, that you may not
falter nor tire, and that your road will lead you
only to fulfillment, satisfaction, and peace.

Trying to get it out....

No really....

now who the fuck am I supposed to be?

How am I supposed to move forward with all this shit in my life? This is a 180 degree change that is throwing me all out of balance. I don't know what to do with myself anymore. It's so easy to lose hope at the slightest rejection. I really have no point to living... I know it sucks, and I know it sounds like a dumb drama thing to say, but I really do feel like that. My whole life revolved around my dad. I was even considering moving to WA just to be with him because I didn't want to waste one second that we had together. Everything I accomplished, it wasn't really an accomplishment unless Dad approved; it wasn't really special unless I knew he was proud of me; that was my greatest reward, seeing him smile and share things with me, having our deep conversations, talking about life and philosophy and my writing... I wanted so badly to share everything with him. I wanted him to be there for everything I accomplish in my life, and now he won't even see the beginning. With no one to share it and appreciate it, what does accomplishment even mean?

Why do I want to do the things I do? I want to be a published author because I love writing and it's the only career I can even consider enjoying, other than maybe social work of some kind... but in the end, I think my dedication is to knowledge and spiritual growth, not to saving kids from ghettos. But now I have no one to strive for. I have no one to share my dreams with, or who might dream with me... everyone else is far lesser of a person than my dad. They're a bunch of prideful kids with no direction and no understanding of the world, and even their parents cannot help me. I feel isolated. I feel like I'm standing alone with all of these thoughts and responsibilities attacking me and all I really want to do is die. I've been through this before, but I never thought I would realistically admit that to myself -- I really want to die right now. I would never consider suicide, but that doesn't change the truth. Laying down and becoming nothing seems like a better alternative than going through this shit. This is the death of all of my hopes and dreams. This is the death of myself... or whoever I have been up to this point.

And now it's my own responsibility to resurrect myself. I am only 20. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, never mind next year. Who am I? I am an artist, a kind person... but other than that, I am very little without the love my dad fueled me with, and I'm scared the residues of that love will fade eventually. I will lose him. I will lose him for good and he will be gone, poof, disappeared like so much dust. I don't understand it. I don't understand how something so solid and real as love can just disappear, something that we rely on and that becomes such a deep part of ourselves. I just want to be free. I want to leave this pain behind and just be me, be myself, alone... but now, I realize that I do not exist by myself. I exist only in relation to the people around me, and the prospect of really living for myself, of really being MY OWN person, ME, with no ties and no direction and nothing leading me through life but my own two feet and the common sense in my head... no parents to ask for advice, or to rely on, or to at least look to in hard times... it's terrifying. I already feel lost, and it's only been a month. I can't imagine how I will be in a year, or even six months... I literally do not know where I will be.

i am i am

I am in a dark place.

There is a singular light

shining down on me.

Not a room. Nowhere.

I look up, squint, speak.

I could kill myself with why;

they waste their time searching, like this is

something to be achieved, when

nothing about god will ever make sense

even when you can feel its words

in your stomach.

The light would whisper back, but I

cut it off, quickly--

I am a destiny unto myself

and always have been, but I lie

because I've never been anything more

than you, and without you, shall fall to nothing,

and yet

I remember the promise you made me,

when I lost myself

the first time.

You cannot hide from me.

The light never shifts,

just beams down; I do not know

if it is exposing or protecting;

I need both.

What? Is that all? And have you no explanation?

I listen.

here i am i am

What do I even come home to anymore?

The Tower

I am somewhere between the faded dark

and a fragile kingdom, conceived of light--

a tower's point at mountain's peak ablaze

has caught my shadowing eyes, alight,

and tries to lead my weary path away;

a safehold against this billowing night.

It draws my feet from road unknown, unseen

to mountain slopes, and half-forsaken falls,

where our hearts have stumbled; no love redeemed

nor peace to find, and so we learn to crawl

and humble ourselves before the tower's light,

to reach its doorstep, to hear, to see, to burn

in sweetest fires, bright.

Our deepest holes, our darkest winters define

that tower, as yet unbreached, unclimbed -- I wonder

if this mountain's steepest peaks

are the truths it hides, and when that doorstep seek,

we reach the tower, with only ourselves to find.

My friend and I

eat sunflower seeds

sitting on a park bench

feeding birds.

I point to

a gray spotted one;

that one, I say,

that one has to have every last one.

He nods.

A moment, and a brown one

bobbing from beneath our feet,

stroking its wings.

That one only wants attention.

He nods.

A black bird,

sitting in a lone tree, watching

the others coo and garble for bread.

That one, I say, he would rather wait;

he thinks he's better than the flock.

But all birds are still birds.

My friend nods,

considers me with hollow eyes,

gathers his robes.

Death tosses his seeds

and leaves.

Show me

where the wild winds pull;

over the tilts and truths of this threshold.

So I gaze beyond

for a star's second;

looking in, wondering

how our feet can carry us into silence;

across the blackened floorboards

and back, deep into some sinking room

where I sense firelight. Surely,

I have been here before.

A glance

with the snow;

she knows the softer ways

when time was a mother,

but I traveled here over

hills and heartlands, learned

languages and traded love

for some rocks– and never once regretted

the back roads or the unknowns;

so she nodded with my shadow.

The darkness wavers, hovering between

gold and night; I am the streetlights

and the drifting snow; a simple creature,

I only know the silence beyond that top step,

a craving for what is fiercely blind,

my own darkened door wide open.

___________________________

You have the look about you

of autumn; something fiercely gold,

soft-spoken and fallen. Do you sleep?

Do you close your eyes anymore?

The sound of snow clouds

drifting low from the sky,

ready to drop to the ground.

Now what am I supposed to value?

my dreams, my future, my past?

am I supposed to hope for something,

realizing all I love from this point on

is who I decide to love, and what I become

is purely me;

to reconcile with the past, lay down

and put to rest those laws

that held me bound; where am I to travel,

now that I have no road, no beginning

and my ending only a shadow;

still a shadow, though all I've ever loved

has gone. I am lost, having fled my spring

to a forsaken winter, embraced gray dawn

and let go of brilliant cloud; I am a new beginning,

a plan unsigned, something fierce

and unbroken, driving my pathway

across the sky,

as surely as love

drives the sun.

Twilight, the Mystery

Twilight, the mystery we made

for ourselves. What lies beyond

the curve. We laid breadcrumbs

of heaven, burned libraries

to make martyrs of verse,

needles and threads

for the minds that weave.

Still, they are all just stories,

locked in deeper realities

or so we've forgotten; let us worship

the means to gather food, or

bow to the unknown that we might

tame it; that we might stare it

in the face and not know fear.

I live

where the mist hangs low

beneath the branches.

Sidewalks wind into cloud; is here a city?

Fragile lights glimpsed

between street-known-

all-too-silent-

death.

Fog shadows of tree giants

looming; I know their

murmurs, their time moments,

their footprint roots

before me all-too-sudden-

splitting-cold-brush-

of-breath,

gone.

Air stillness, the

intently curled

crisp of leaves; between

my feet a thousand graves,

watching them drift

to the ground.

Poetry

is

therapy.

Started writing

as a child

too young to

vocalize

why.

Still don't know why,

just felt the needless push

of words

cramming out of me

had to

pour them

with the rest of that

silence.

Everything

in this life

is set up

to teach us

how to

love.

If we

could

just

conform to it,

live by all of

the cliches:

in the moment,

holding everything

for all its worth

then feeling free

to let it go,

knowing one has

never taken

anything

for granted;

acceptance is easy

with no guilt.

We would be

happy.

We would die

smiling.

I guess sometimes Life likes to play rough...

So the last few days have been a strange fluctuation between periods of bizaar euphoria and the very pits of hell. I'm a little confused. I think part of me, a good 50%, one could say, is completely baffled by this whole situation. I feel like I've had a rug pulled out from under me. I feel like every dream and expectation I've had for my entire life has been turned on its head. I feel like my plans have changed so suddenly, completely, and abruptly that I don't even know where the hell I am anymore. This is my home... but suddenly, it's MY home, as in... my house... and never again will I have a safe place to run to, someone I can turn to at any time who'll put up with me and help me no matter what happens. And Dad wasn't just a normal, average guy, either... he was that kind of guy that you only meet once or twice in a lifetime. The kind that went out of his way to make everyone else around him happy, and not in a pathetic, spineless way, but in a genuinely good and caring way. Dad was great. I don't know what I'm going to do now... I don't know how I'm going to deal with this, or how I'm going to make it through. This hurts a thousand times worse than losing my mother... and the pain is immediate, right here in my face, shoved under my nose. Look, he's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

Fuck.

Just fuck. Sometimes I feel so fucked that I want to scream at something, a wall or a floor, or someone who'll understand... I'm so fucked, I'm not ready for this, I mean I am... or at least, I keep telling myself I am, but the honest truth is that I'm terrified. I'm a terrified child, alone, a little girl who just wants to hide in a corner. How do I go back? How do I get out of this? I am so blindsided right now that I can only think up to a week in the future, otherwise I start panicking. The panic doesn't come from the idea of not being able to keep the house, or not being financially stable... it comes from the realization that from now on, this is it. I'm on my own. There's no turning back; if I decide I don't like life on my own, I can't come home again for a few years to get my shit together... no, I have about three months to go from a completely dependent child to a full-fledged, functioning adult who can provide for herself, and a house, and a car... and sooner or later go back to school... I know I can do it, I know I'll survive... but it just seems so overwhelming. It's just me. Just little old me.

Testament from a survivor

Death strikes

like a pin-prick;

one flinches,

no blood.

Then the infection

sets in.

She walks a little slowly now, neither
left nor right, she stumbles there alone and
needs a place to lay down, but no rest comes
on a road of no moss, just broken bones

that line the pathway, and old, splintered teeth;
she tried not to look, but his hand was so cold
when she touched it, she remembered his grip
she would hold, as they walked, as they searched

for the road that she wanted; well now here
it is, though it's nothing like glory, a bit
more than she asked, and his warm hand is gone.
Is there no place she can rest? how does one

finish a story, or replace all those pages
with no chance left of love...

She has nothing to write for, no meaning transcribed
on this bone-laden road, undisguised.

Terrified
alone
they keep saying a word
orphan
but that means
no parents
and I have parents
had parents
never will
know them
again.

***

In all of my imaginings of God,
I cannot imagine Heaven.
Nor can I imagine grace.
Nor can I imagine wholeness, or home;
And often I wonder
was it somehow planned this way,
How do I live through
one more day--
I can't; but the body can, they say...

I am dying a new kind of death.



***

Experiments.

We sat

darkly

listened intently

thought something

dead

as lilies

we waited

listened

waited

listened

listened

**

I would blame,

but I have only

myself

to blame.

I will say sorry,

forgiven,

it was just a

simple

mistake.

Here in this room, behind shuttered windows,

dark shadows are rising from under the floor;

defenseless, my heart has taken the corner

to huddle in silence, slight-shivering, sore

as the ice in my throat, a settling sickness

to stifle my lungs; I am bled of my hope

like a stuttering candle. I've forgotten

to breathe for days now, but at least I can hold

my breath as a shield, my only defense,

a measure of time in this heart of an ocean,

I am trapped in this room, surrounded, captured

and bound, all dreams dark-dying and frozen.

How do I rise? Surely, I've lain here before;

trapped in time trapped in breath upon the floor.

_______________________________

For he was as fallen as Satan, but he was also the Son;

John Milton, who saw God as he was.

I am but a silent soul,

with secrets that escape all worlds,

and so I travel, life to life

to give my gifts, as you are owed--

I'd like to gift you with a heart,

and eyes that might see through this dream,

for all we lose are shadows

of their true, unrivaled vibrancy;

and the words I try to speak with,

all the methods that I use--

in the end, I am a simple truth:

I give everything out of love for you.

Doubt

would destroy me

in a time like this.

The heart is an offtimes mysterious thing,

dangerous as sunset, bright-painted as dawn,

false-gilded in romance and love's faded song--

may we remember the moonlight

and the roads we walked from;

this is the heart that I carry,

you may gaze at it plain

for I've structured no walls,

I've no buildings to name

that are not built of love,

found through darkness and flame--

I am made of my faith, conceived in Its name

as a hell-walking creature, bent backwards

and drained, though no hate taints my lips,

and I shall not complain

for we all are our paths, and my path

is my choosing; act not with attachment,

so gaining and losing my only reward,

taking all I've been handed

and giving myself, as my faith has demanded--

and here I shall stand, a pillar of fire,

a light to the wall through your dark-driven ire--

I shall give you a hand and lift you awake,

let us pause, let us breathe, let us pray.

Wouldn't you rather....

Wouldn't you rather

run on the sand?

Let it slip

like the rugs we stand on,

flip away from us

in a thousand thoughts

feel the salt breeze play

on our salt-worn cheeks,

brush away the salt-drops

and slit our eyes to see,
we'll claim it is the wind

Wouldn't you rather

be at peace with this sea?

I don't need to understand
anything, only that the sky
is free; I can afford to keep it,

though its not much of a roof,

and its reaches are
too high for me.

________________________

Just live for a day like you would live

if you could, forgetting that here are

boundaries that cannot be crossed, and there

are eyes that would surely see--

wouldn't you rather just hold her

like she was your last breath, breathe her

like she was your last scent, keep her
as though anything can be kept

I put one of my dearest and sweetest souls
in your care, but only for a few years
because you see, I need her to be like me
in all of her ways. Many of your ways
were my own, and so I kept you, and trusted
you would teach her how to think, how to be kind
in the face of hate, how to hold herself proudly
when she is humiliated, how to bow herself humble
when she knows her betters, and how to sit, and listen,
and learn. But there are parts of her that still
must grow, and I have many parents and teachers lined
up for her in the future, people who will also take
good care of her, and will allow her to bloom
and receive all parts and facets of me, that she might
fulfill the task she has taken on herself. It is she who asked,
and I simply give what she asks for; she asked for help,
I gave her help; she asked for hope, I gave her hope; she asked
for love, and I give her love, and I see that the love I give her
she gives the world, as a whole fruit, as a generous heart.
So I am sorry, I know you have loved her dear
and that she is your child as much as she is mine; but you are all
my children, and I allow you each life to only have a few, that you
might know what to value, and why I value you,
and why we must value each other.

Seems that we are only a little wind
and a bag of flowers, wrapped in twine,
sitting in the sunlight, growing
until we grow to mud.

Seems that we have only a little sky
and a patch of grass to cushion our feet,
and then we are forever encased and veiled,
packaged and displayed in long, silent hallways,
bordered with flowers trapped in vases.

Flowers grown in boxes,
buried in boxes,
seen behind glass
or under roofs; how many flowers die
to grow inside this place,
and give it the illusion of life?

My Long-missed Muse

Suddenly the glorious sun has fallen;
embraced once more by night's sweet breath
of remembrance, here I stand again
and prepare myself a seat with death.

I wait upon the white-washed stone;
he is an old friend, long acquainted
yet seldom seen, he's hovered here and faded
to the back of my book, but now has deemed

a visit due; I suppose he knocked
and I heard him, though my ears were tuned
to other things, like my father's laugh
as he fell in love; 'twas just too good to last.

I sit here with my childhood friend
in silence, no words to break this place--
I bow to death, my long-missed muse,
here come to prod this hand awake.

On Age (II)

Tell me now, who will I love?
And for what purpose shed my tears?
My heart's been hammered to the mold
and yet found lacking, as my years
are lacking still of wisdom's grace,
though I have walked this withered road
twice, no lines have graced my face;
badges of courage in a world
where beauty replaces chivalry,
and age has become a disgrace.

I would remind you now, I have not age
to offer, though my lessons are well learned--
I shall sit here, silent, listening clear
to gain the years your heart long earned.

I would beg you for just one cent of love,
a penance' worth, if one might be so kind
to give me leave to speak my heart, you'll find
a moment's worth is all I need

to float me on the harshest ocean, sometimes
just one whisper can lift me along
to the future's bow, driven by forward motion
in the heart of change; I am lost, surrendered,
here avowed

and trapped, my heart a road in winter,
fallen, false standing, adrift in snow
to see the stars, a desperate distant glow,
hidden, dimmed, their light misty now

and drifting, so I beg for love--
just a second's worth, for my heart can take no more
than a simple dose, enough to clear my voice
and hold me close; I've been afraid before.

This dread winter has already marked its years,
and they shall never be restored.

Gone is the white wind,
my homeland, the beautiful.
Lost is the steady
smooth hue
of my hands.
I am smothered, adrift
on this violent black sea--
so easily unmade of me.

We are worlds bent backwards,
made of unknowable oceans--
I've been shattered, refracted
and thrown by the notion
that perhaps hope is nothing,
like a curse from this sea--
I am cracked,
I am flawed,
I am free.

**


we are shards of ourselves,
splintered wood, contradictions,
unnamed places;
dark inertia,
confident ignorance
and the illusion
of peace.

I am well practiced;
with a laughing smile, straining
every second
happy happy
no
I had only one genuine summer
and now I am back
to shows.

I'll do cartwheels and flips;
make rainbows and bridges
skyscrapers
all for the sake of hiding.

I am a hole.

I am a hell
I have always known.




**

I thought maybe
if I valued every second, every memory,
if I said thank you every day
and prayed and bowed
to all this world gave me,
I thought maybe
love would keep you
for me, thought maybe
I could grow old with you
and knowing only half of myself
would be okay, like maybe
if I could cling tight enough,
prove that I take nothing for granted,
that I value love above all else
and I would never waste it, and share it freely
that maybe
life, or good karma, or something
would stop this. You know, maybe
if I racked up enough points
I could cheat, avoid life, avoid another hole
because that's all I am
holes
which I have tried to climb from
since a child -- dear god, was I ever a child?
I will always be terrified--
I am cropped of myself, stolen
and drained, sold
as a porcelain doll, empty
so I am, so I will never know,
so I will always be
unknown.

Poems from the Ocean

Went camping for a few days on the beach. Came up with these poems while staring out to sea. Enjoy!

The Watcher

Between every grain of sand
the watcher sits,
counting many things
and carefully dividing them into
countless pieces,
creating of itself
a thing unnamed, a division
of one into many.
It divides
that it may create, and as its creation
makes of itself a precious thing,
a thing so valued
for one day, it shall end.

The watcher made an ocean
to teach us of a wave.
It made many collections,
circles, spirals, stars,
things of no number
to remind us that we all are countless,
and we all are counted,
and we all
are the counters
of things.


On Love

Shall I make of myself a fool for love?
Drown myself in it, a child spoiled by my years--
or shall I chase it own, a fox after the morning dove,
or relent, have it tame my will, instill such fears
as loneliness, or disregarded dreams--
I shall cleave myself of love! Fling it to the ground, retreat
to way of solitude, they themselves asleep, adream--
and I myself awake -- and in so waking, seem
in love of all, yet I am in love with none,
my heart promised to this world long ago,
and so, as promised, gone.

Love is not my master, yet neither am I tamed
by its pleasure, or the scarring of its flame.


Ocean Poem

The ocean, running into the sky
solid, like a land of lead;
I must shut out all the voices,
can't they leave me to the wind?
liberate my ear, as my ear, to listening, lends--
I would steal another minute,
one more wave to breach my soul,
give me silence, sense of purpose,
let me listen to that pull--
the rhythmic rushing of the future,
tangled currents of the past;
perhaps I'll be the ocean's lover
and be buried in the sand.

It was this ocean that taught me how to pray;
now I bend and bow to every wave.

I shall play...

I shall speak of the joy
that you are.

Like a thousand suns
burning
in my chest.

Like a thousand voices
singing
in my ear.

Like a thousand lips
pressing
to my heart.

Like a thousand eyes
seeing
through my soul.

I shall express
only the deepest
satisfaction.

Give me the burdens
of your song.

I shall play.

I shall play.

I shall play.

The last leaf of Autumn...

I suppose I shall always be
the last leaf of Autumn.

I shall always be
a stubborn rose
of Winter.

I will always be the first rain
of Summer,

a rainbow

just a little too late for Spring.

On Rocks

I thought I told you
that all rocks
are skeleton proteins
that somehow form our heart.

But if the world were trying
to tell us that we were
nothing but rocks,
I would ask
does a rock cry--

and does a rock
sing;
does a rock
hold its breath
in the dark,
does a rock
lean down
to water flowers,

does a rock rely
on its mother,
does a rock
copy its father,
does a rock
stretch back
in the dirt
and wonder
what is
a
rock?

Here I thought we would stand
as statues.

Here I thought our love was
a rock.

I looked at you like
a mountain.

Then we turned to stone.

My Last Gold Coin

Knowing that you are my last gold coin,
I would never spend you,
I would never waste you
on trinkets, or throw you
to a beggar's cup.
I would keep you close to me at all times
and wear you proudly,
knowing that you are all that stands
between me and nothing; knowing
that this is a richness that the wealthy
could never feel. And if we were
forced apart, it would only be on
my life alone, and even then, I might
die first before trading you, because
you are worth so much more to me
saved.

Would that gardens could grow souls...

Would that statues could be people.
Would that gardens could grow souls.
Would that I could tame my heart,
or create for me a heart unknown.

God is....

God is the absence of space
from here to there,
from there to here,
all things --
at one speed --
moving.

On age...

I have not age to offer,
of that currency, I'm poor;
few years burden my shoulders,
and on yours, quite a bit more.
But I've earned what years I carry
and I'd gladly spend a few
to learn what age can offer
and share some time with you.

What is the point of all this, really?

Should should should....

That's all we learn are shoulds.

They teach us writing by teaching us what came before, what might come next, and what we should do now. They teach us writing like it is a forgotten thing. Like it has no future. Writing is dead.

What do they know? Do they know tomorrow? Next year? Next century? Of course not; tomorrow is for us to decide, not those boxed-in thinkers that cling to old structures because at least, in that realm, they have some modicum of authority. Authority in any given subject is an illusion, because that subject is constantly progressing and changing. The contradiction, then, is that to remain an authority, one must never become one in the first place... one must continue to change, revise, and progress. Move with the times, shape what comes next. One must never think they have reached their summit: all is perception, and most importantly, how you perceive yourself. To reach your summit is to stop and stagnate. That should not be the goal of any artist. Mastery is a lie.

Never fulfill your dreams, and if you do, promise me you will dream again.

The Memories of Autumn

I speak, like the trees,
of the memories of autumn --
of that time between times,
of that road between roads.
Where life settles like dust
and is ofttimes forgotten;
those soft, silver nights,
those days, calm and slow.

It is here we belong
in the memories of autumn,
between our winters and summers,
between our silvers and golds;
and as always, we find
that those paths we've forgotten
keep the secrets we've buried,
and build the lives that we hold.

Sold out

I am a not-so-stylish person
in this very stylish place.
Trends
always make me feel
left out,
sold out.
Like a perfect crystal eyeglass
I watch the people come and go;
and somehow they effortlessly
keep me left out
and sold out.

Be slow and cold....

Be slow and cold;
be broken.

Be forsaken;
be forgotten.

It's in silence,
evanescence,
It's in rain
and dying things.

It's in whispers
and rose petals,
the blooming dawn,
the fading eaves.

This is where it rests,
and this is where it keeps.
The deepest forests of your soul
is the world in which it sleeps.
It's the voice that says tomorrow,
the wind that says today,
and the heart that breathes forever,
I am Here,
and Here I'll stay.

This is not....

This is not the hope we've lost,
Nor is it the truth we've found,
This is not the Hell we fear,
Nor the Garden grown unbound.
This is not the deepest wound,
Nor is this our final mirth --
This is not our place of death,
Our hallowed lands,
Our reborn Earth.
This is not the ground we walk,
It bears no answer,
It finds no key --
Hardly, it's a swaying bridge
That ties your fragile heart to me.

This is not what Life has planned,
This is not what fate has sewn;
This is simply what we do --
We love when loved,
And love alone.