Writing poetry, attempting to be honest, and trying to steadily improve my outlook and myself.
Guys, they are working on a new Shaq Fu game. Its finally happened, this is art at its peak, I can finally stop writing poetry!
It seems selfish, I know that,
but sometimes I think
about faking my death.
Not that I would actually do it,
but just kind of playing over
the scenario itself,
because I think we’ve all
wondered what would be
said at our funerals.
"Oh, he lived a humble life,",
“a man of few words,”
“did you see that sweet crash though,
he must have barrel rolled
at least three times before
hitting that truck full of explosives,”
and then I would begin to fear
that maybe I should have taken
all that time I spent
on faking my dead, and
used it on living a life
worth talking about,
because dying while barrel rolling
may seem pretty cool,
but think how much cooler it would be,
to barrel roll into a truck full of explosives,
and fucking live!
God of Lost Things, Part II
said the God made of wires,
“what is it you are looking for?”
"Isn’t that why I’m here,"
the man replied with a sigh,
“aren’t I one of your many lost things?”
"Lost’s things can know what they want."
said the God who’s face flickered
with white noise and lost signals,
“A flower under banks of snow
knows that it craves sunlight,
but that doesn’t make it
any less forgotten about
as mounds of frozen land
drape over the minds
of those unknowingly walking past it.
So, I ask again, what is it that you want?”
"I want to be found,"
the man looked on in agony,
“I am tired of being a lost thing.
I want to be seen, and heard.
I want to be of consequence,
to matter, to effect something,
to have my small existence
somehow touch the skies and stars.”
"Can you not hear yourself,
are you not the factor
which affects the most
important life you know of, your own?”
the God tilted its head as it questioned the man,
“Have you not seen yourself,
have you not felt the power of your own thoughts?
"I don’t want to be the only one,"
the man closes his eyes, picturing his solitude,
“I feel like I’m sitting by myself
and the my words are only echoing back,
because I feel the singularity of my existence
haunting me, like a flashing image
being projected on the back of my skull.”
"Ah, you see yourself as lost,"
The God sat back in its throne
made of dead computers,
discarded boxes, and broken plates,
“because you feel as if your head
is filled with a suffering all your own?
Do others not feel these same thoughts?”
"No, I’m sure plenty do,"
the man was about to continue,
but the God cut him off,
and when a God speaks, you listen.
"Then, you are not lost,"
the God’s voice echoed on
as if amplified to stretch of for miles,
“turn around and see that your feeling
of separation, is what brings you so close
to those who share the same feeling.”
The man turned around
and saw the landscape change
to reveal a thousand sad faces
all sitting in tiny squares,
wondering where everyone else was.
They all shared the same look,
that look which he had dawned
up until this moment,
a look of torn hope,
a look of broken parts
insuring them they were
"Many have sat and will sit
exactly where you are,
because they are closed in,
and feel as if they share nothing
with a seemingly happy/angry world.
Sometimes, lost things
just sit around the corner
waiting to be found,
waiting to feel like
they matter, waiting to feel
that they aren’t alone.
Go, leave this place;
go, start finding them;
go, start finding yourself.
Never be lost again.”
I hear you crawling around my house,
you ghost. I hear the walls groan
as you slowly pass through the hallway,
dancing of broken loves, hidden dreams,
and half-answered wishes of desperate times.
You constantly pull me from a dreaming-state
to remind me of how things could be,
and how they are so far from being that way.
"You are not free," you whisper in my ear,
“for all of your talk of spirit, you are dead.
Deader than I, for at least I know something
besides the bounds that work to justify your angst.”
Then you disappear, leaving me to think, you bastard,
but then you always come back
just when I start feeling comfortable.
"If you are not dead, you are at least dying,"
you whisper more, I can hear your smirk,
“For me, death is past tense, and thus
no longer a worry for me and my ghostly limbs.
However, for you, it is still a pending future
slowly wrapping its fingers around you
and pulling you down to my side of the grave.
You know the anticipation that paralyzes you
and allows me to walk all over your thoughts”
I try to snatch at you, but you are gone again.
"Ha," I think to myself, "I’ve got you now.
You come when I sleep, but I’ve made
sleep my enemy, one which I refuse to indulge.
You cannot infect my dreams anymore,
for I refuse to give you the time or place.”
Though, as many who have done the same will know,
this is not enough, you still find your way in,
planting this awful things in my brain
to fill my chest with bugs, crawling around
and slowly eating away at what keeps me moving.
You are working for the day when I lay in bed,
with my eyes to the dark ceiling which holds me in,
and you can whisper what have you without a reaction.
You want to see a day where my brain is as dead as you are.
Hell, maybe some day you might get your way,
but I’m not letting go quite yet, come at me, burn me down,
because the only reason I have these fears is because
there must be something I have besides my fear,
something that, if removed from me, fills me with purposelessness,
and thus, for all your attempts at foreshadowing my death,
the only thing you can truly do, is remind me that I’m alive
and I’m not done living for something quite yet.
A friend of mine posted an old picture of himself
of back when he had a monstrous green tri-hawk;
a row a liberty spikes down the center standing tall,
and then a short straight row on each side.
It caught me off guard, blasting me with a time
that had only danced in dreams and fleeting moments;
back when he had a messy hardcore punk band
that would play any show they could get,
and I had a shitty hardcore punk band
that couldn’t get hardly any shows at all.
I remember a house show where half of his band
didn’t manage to show up, but he played anyways,
screaming words, thrashing on his bass, and smiling
ear to ear, because every moment playing music
was a moment always worth remembering.
I remember how the strap on his bass would bust,
since it was only held on by duct tape and crossed fingers,
and how he would just let it sit on the ground
as he said “fuck it” and continued to scream.
I remember how he played “I Wanna Pierce My Brain”
three times in a row as we waited
for all of my band to show up
so we could play our set to a total of five people
at eleven at night, in a venue I didn’t care for,
but I also remember having the time of my life.
I remember mouths like smoke stacks
standing outside venues between sets;
clothes like tired threads barely holding together
as drum beats pounded against our open ears;
minds like young hands grabbing at constant discovery
looking for the thing that’ll take them ever-so far away from home;
lips like the wheels on passing bikes
that were never quite done moving
as the conversation spread from schools, to work,
to bands, to states, to countries, to skies, to space,
to life, to love, to dreams, to fears, and so on and so forth;
flyers like graves and nurseries reminding us of new and old
in the ways that year books reminded us of what was and will be;
and I remember moments like gusts, here and gone
before we could measure them on how
that would end up impacting our lives from then on out.
Like, I remember when my friend disappeared,
like steam to close to the spinning blades of a fan,
and I remember hearing, two months later,
that he had joined the army, dropped everything
and thrust his life into a completely different direction.
My mind was filled with images of camouflage and green mohawks,
like a caricature contradicting what I knew of him
and what I knew then was probably the truth.
I had no words, I was unsure what to think,
it can sometimes be funny how people just vanish,
but I didn’t feel like laughing, confusion tends to take
the humor out of things like that, reminding you how real it all is.
Though, I remember receiving a message from him
months later, and how I found hesitance in my reply,
so much so that I didn’t follow through until a week later.
His spikey greens were gone, traded in for trim browns,
but I could still pick him out, no problem.
We talked for hours, catching up, going over old times,
and talking about what was on the way in our lives.
By the time my band had been gone for some time,
lost in a moment of time I can only look back too,
but I was excited as I had something new in the works.
However, he had a band, a pop punk band
with an ear for more precise melodies
and lyrics that came from a different part of his heart
that that of back when broken basses filled out heads.
I was happy for him, he seemed to be in a better place
than he had been when I had last seen him,
and I think the changes we had both made over time,
made us seem more distinguished than hair dye ever could.
We’ve gotten better at this whole “living” thing, haven’t we?
Sure, we still need work, but we are pushing along,
looking forward to what the future holds, even if sometimes
I find myself staring back at the past like this,
but sometimes knowing where you were
can give great perspective on where you are,
and while we might not be punching holes in stranger’s walls,
or screaming “fuck you” to everyone who wasn’t us,
we are still finding ways to feel alive,
and if we can keep this up, I look forward to the day
that I can look back at these years
and see where I’ve grown from there too.
Don’t believe the headlines,
don’t buy the hype;
we aren’t dead yet,
we are just frosted flora
eating ice and cold winds,
holding on by the bottom of our roots,
waiting for the day
we either feel the sun
melt away what weighs us down
or feel ourselves break through
the snow and stand tall
above this dormant world.
We. Aren’t. Dead. Yet.
I’m in a land of developing bones.
I wish we could Break the heart of sleeping giants,
by telling them you will never let them
carry you through oceans and mountains,
because there are just some things
you need to learn how to do on your own,
and if there is always a bigger person
pulling through the waste and garbage,
then how are you supposed to grow?
But we’ll just keep getting carried,
because its easier that way.
I dream of flat lands.
These hills were good for friends
and late summer days
when twilight suns licked the sky,
but now there is a job and survival,
and I cringe when I wake up and find
that I still have to climb so much
before I am where I want to be.
Conflict is good for stories,
but its just making me feel like shit.
I was too well built for this.
I wish I could cry stars
and scream fire,
because it would fit
my heavy handed imagery,
but I was built like a human,
to do all things humans do,
and unfortunately they did
too good of a job,
without the kind of mistakes
that would leave me able
to fly across time and create
a better city to live in,
instead of this place
where I still need to grow, and
where the ripples in the land
tower over me in the early sun,
and where the real is too real.
There is a black hole
slowly pulling me in,
creating days where one
would gladly destroy
everything they’ve made,
and I’m getting real close
on certain days
when it seems that its all
just getting thrown
into a hole off of
the edge of the universe.
"Burn it all, its all fodder,"
echoes a selfish voice,
“maybe they’ll care when its gone.”
I try to snuff that voice out,
but it comes back,
like an eternally resurrecting
sore on the back of my tongue,
trying to get me to shut up forever.
My brain runs on gasoline
and I’m just producing exhaust,
burning holes in my thoughts
so that my weakness slips through
and leaves deserts
with small oasis’s found
after long periods of traversing
I’m getting tired of walking down it.
This was all so much easier
when it was all just
crayons, scissors, and
but now its themes, concepts,
conflicts, first person, third person,
narrative, subtext, subtlety,
beat, slam, sonnets,
formal structure, intimate thoughts,
and its starting to drain me.