all the hopes and dreams of a child are dying, suffocating beneath the weight of the world. but who am i to underestimate the power of fate? there is no reason to the suffering on the other side of this plate, this puzzle piece- one of many, surrounding this earth as pieces of a shell. the comfort i found in our warmth has now become my hell. i'm hiding from the consequences, feeding that void that i'd made so long ago with secrets and products of my heart...and products of my shadow. see not what i say or think, but what i feel- my heart is calling out to you: but you've built up walls of steel. but who am i to underestimate the power of fate? there is no reason to the suffering and the hate that flows like an intangible river underneath all of this. referencing to the hope in my heart is like saying that God is sitting at my kitchen table. there is no evidence or proof to say that it is real, to say that it's true. i've got nothing left, or so my mind wants to believe- but the truth is i've got everything sitting right in front of... there is no reaons to the suffering underneath that beautiful skin; you are a piece of a puzzle comprised of billions of pieces. and not a single one looks like another, not a single voice rings the same as yours. hope has died and come back, who's to say that it won't come again? who am i to underestimate the powers of fate and of love? if the hope returns to the surface, perhaps that's a sign from someone above. i've got nothing left, or so my heart thinks- but the truth is this: you are standing right in front of me. and you are everything, i say, you are all that i need. this crisis of the conscious has finally brought me to my knees. it took years to get this far, only to fall back down again. i know that this is small in comparison to it all, but that doesn't stop this love i feel, my friend.
with open arms, and open eyes, i know that i can change; but for what purpose- there is no real reason to accept the plan of fate. but who am i, i ask, who am i to underestimate the powers of love? the power of hate?
Monday, February 16, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
wishful thinking.
it took me this long
just to realize that i've been waiting
for that day to come,
that day you've referenced to
on more than one occasion.
it took me this long
just to realize that i've been gone,
waiting for that day to come:
but, love, will it ever?
i've come this far,
just to get shot down
by my own heart,
dear, i know
that wishful thinking has no home
under these conditions;
its a famine of dreams short-lived and
i've...taken so long just to realize
that i've been waiting all this time.
just to realize that i've been waiting
for that day to come,
that day you've referenced to
on more than one occasion.
it took me this long
just to realize that i've been gone,
waiting for that day to come:
but, love, will it ever?
i've come this far,
just to get shot down
by my own heart,
dear, i know
that wishful thinking has no home
under these conditions;
its a famine of dreams short-lived and
i've...taken so long just to realize
that i've been waiting all this time.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Goal.
The windows fog with the breath from their lungs; the heat is running on high, but the cold is too strong. The road is unfurling before them like a black carpet with lines painted down the center.
They'd held their hands tightly together, once upon a time, before the dry age of time. Before they had set into movement, like a snake: quietly shedding its skin. Memories die, like the leaves from the barren trees surrounding the road, had done only months before. The engine is like a lion's roar in the silence of the night. The moon reflects from their eyes the death of hope, like an oft-done chore.
Their breathing becomes labored, as the cold increases: cracks in the windows speak louder than any words could to describe the numbness overcoming their bodies. They say, in union, "Should this frame break, we still have the wheels turning upon the ground to keep us moving onward; inspite of what is left, inspite of what's broken down."
The engine carries them forward, the visible path becomes murky, as the moon reflects upon the surface of the pavement: making all that perceive it see but a sheet of silver and white. They shield their eyes against the brightness, and lose track of where their vessel was bound. The wheels lose their grip upon the road... and find their way into the snow.
"Where ever the road may take us," they spoke, in union, unknowingly lost, "we still have our ties binding us to what we'll have and to what has not yet been lost."
They shudder at the thought of distance. The gap between them in their seats is too far, already, for this ride. They shiver at the same instant: both seeing, now, just how far off track they have come.
Their hands held tightly together, fused into one makeshift fist: their free hands grabbing the wheel- turning, urging; straining and pulling it. The weight of the fear pushes their wheels into the snow; the traction is gone, and they've got nowhere left to go. The weight of the fear pushes their hearts into the snow: they've got no purpose other than each other; no true place to call their home.
They shudder at the thought of distance. The gap between them in their seats is already too far, for this ride. They see, now, just how far they've gone away from their intentions. Whatever their intentions may have once been: wherever their intended destination once was. Their hearts are sinking in the snow; drowning.
"We'll be here, together," they swear to each other, "we'll be here, no matter which way this river flows."
"We'll be here, together, despite the loss of direction; despite the depth of the snow. We have the moon to guide us, if need be, through the unknown. We still have our wits, and our eyes, to show: no matter how far off this path we drift- there is no certainty that we are lost, no truth in the lying light reflected from the soul."
The wheels find pavement once again. Their faith is rewarded with holy charity. The way they'd known is picked up...their path is shown. The light of the moon reflects upon the Earth; and their eyes once more see their goals.
They'd held their hands tightly together, once upon a time, before the dry age of time. Before they had set into movement, like a snake: quietly shedding its skin. Memories die, like the leaves from the barren trees surrounding the road, had done only months before. The engine is like a lion's roar in the silence of the night. The moon reflects from their eyes the death of hope, like an oft-done chore.
Their breathing becomes labored, as the cold increases: cracks in the windows speak louder than any words could to describe the numbness overcoming their bodies. They say, in union, "Should this frame break, we still have the wheels turning upon the ground to keep us moving onward; inspite of what is left, inspite of what's broken down."
The engine carries them forward, the visible path becomes murky, as the moon reflects upon the surface of the pavement: making all that perceive it see but a sheet of silver and white. They shield their eyes against the brightness, and lose track of where their vessel was bound. The wheels lose their grip upon the road... and find their way into the snow.
"Where ever the road may take us," they spoke, in union, unknowingly lost, "we still have our ties binding us to what we'll have and to what has not yet been lost."
They shudder at the thought of distance. The gap between them in their seats is too far, already, for this ride. They shiver at the same instant: both seeing, now, just how far off track they have come.
Their hands held tightly together, fused into one makeshift fist: their free hands grabbing the wheel- turning, urging; straining and pulling it. The weight of the fear pushes their wheels into the snow; the traction is gone, and they've got nowhere left to go. The weight of the fear pushes their hearts into the snow: they've got no purpose other than each other; no true place to call their home.
They shudder at the thought of distance. The gap between them in their seats is already too far, for this ride. They see, now, just how far they've gone away from their intentions. Whatever their intentions may have once been: wherever their intended destination once was. Their hearts are sinking in the snow; drowning.
"We'll be here, together," they swear to each other, "we'll be here, no matter which way this river flows."
"We'll be here, together, despite the loss of direction; despite the depth of the snow. We have the moon to guide us, if need be, through the unknown. We still have our wits, and our eyes, to show: no matter how far off this path we drift- there is no certainty that we are lost, no truth in the lying light reflected from the soul."
The wheels find pavement once again. Their faith is rewarded with holy charity. The way they'd known is picked up...their path is shown. The light of the moon reflects upon the Earth; and their eyes once more see their goals.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Thinnest of Threads.
Hope is held by the thinnest of threads
here within my head.
A yarn made of trust, fragile-
susceptible to the slightest of winds.
Reinforced by love and by courage,
taken in stride, once upon a time.
Now known for what it is-
a picture of beauty, of
what could one day mean happiness.
Happiness...: that ill-imagined fable;
a million lives and hours spent chasing it:
and we only end up chasing our tails.
Hope is held by the thinnest of strings
here inside my heart.
A yarn made of trust, fragile-
a breath of air may cause it to bust.
Now known for what it is-
a picture of harmony,
not always in that state.
I pray to God that one day,
some day,
it will strengthen;
that it will flourish;
and that it will find a way...
to stay in that state.
A yarn made of trust.
I know now: that it must
never become skewed.
here within my head.
A yarn made of trust, fragile-
susceptible to the slightest of winds.
Reinforced by love and by courage,
taken in stride, once upon a time.
Now known for what it is-
a picture of beauty, of
what could one day mean happiness.
Happiness...: that ill-imagined fable;
a million lives and hours spent chasing it:
and we only end up chasing our tails.
Hope is held by the thinnest of strings
here inside my heart.
A yarn made of trust, fragile-
a breath of air may cause it to bust.
Now known for what it is-
a picture of harmony,
not always in that state.
I pray to God that one day,
some day,
it will strengthen;
that it will flourish;
and that it will find a way...
to stay in that state.
A yarn made of trust.
I know now: that it must
never become skewed.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Never the Same.
He knows all too well, that the dissolution of his fears is merely temporary...or so speaks the voice that resides further down, below the surface of his skin: a red king wearing a false crown. Coincision between what once was and what will be keeps his spirits from reeling.
Shortly after a brief resurgance of fear, his heart grows cold and his intentions are clear: what if the enemy only lies before the mirror?
Honing a blade to cut out, once and for all, every ounce of nuisance; every memory of every downfall. He sharpens said blade, and feels the pressure thicken with each second that the clock's hands tick.
The heart grows restless, beating hard within its cage of bone and flesh- like some long-endentured slave. His eyes close, as the blade is aimed- he strikes once, and the blood falls like rain.
The pain...it is merely consequence for relief. The brief moment in his mind when all the babbling begins to cease. His thoughts are clear, his mind no longer numb; he wishes each moment were as clear as this one.
He opens his eyes to see that the blade is merely a thought- a crushing blow to the barricade in which he had placed before his heart. There is no blood, no wound, just a menacing hole where the fears had once stood; and what to replace them with? Love? Hope? "If not those, then what?" he asks the empty room in which he resides...falling ever-onward towards unconsciousness.
Sleep beckons, but he cannot turn his back on this goodbye- a long-due farewell to the fears and the lies that he's held within his own child-like mind...his eyes close once more, and the blade is in his hand again.
He says, "I can do this," but he knows: there is no way in Hell he can do it on his own. So he fills the hole with all that he truly knows; and stitches the mental wound with his heart-strings- tying them up in bows..."This is my gift," he tells the room, "a gift to myself, to ward off my self-made gloom," and he opens his eyes once more, and sees only the light from the window upon the wall.
"Surely," he thinks, "this gift, this chance, this opportunity cannot be in vain- I've given to the best of my abilities, so far, and made it to this point without shame." The blood that he'd envisioned on his hands, and on the bed, before him, flowed backwards, into his veins.
He closed his eyes once more, and finally answered the beckoning call from sleep he'd been warding off with visions of what may have been, and what still may yet to be. His heart slowed, his mind wandered, as it does when it dreams its dreams.
He did not wake up the same. He was never the same.
Shortly after a brief resurgance of fear, his heart grows cold and his intentions are clear: what if the enemy only lies before the mirror?
Honing a blade to cut out, once and for all, every ounce of nuisance; every memory of every downfall. He sharpens said blade, and feels the pressure thicken with each second that the clock's hands tick.
The heart grows restless, beating hard within its cage of bone and flesh- like some long-endentured slave. His eyes close, as the blade is aimed- he strikes once, and the blood falls like rain.
The pain...it is merely consequence for relief. The brief moment in his mind when all the babbling begins to cease. His thoughts are clear, his mind no longer numb; he wishes each moment were as clear as this one.
He opens his eyes to see that the blade is merely a thought- a crushing blow to the barricade in which he had placed before his heart. There is no blood, no wound, just a menacing hole where the fears had once stood; and what to replace them with? Love? Hope? "If not those, then what?" he asks the empty room in which he resides...falling ever-onward towards unconsciousness.
Sleep beckons, but he cannot turn his back on this goodbye- a long-due farewell to the fears and the lies that he's held within his own child-like mind...his eyes close once more, and the blade is in his hand again.
He says, "I can do this," but he knows: there is no way in Hell he can do it on his own. So he fills the hole with all that he truly knows; and stitches the mental wound with his heart-strings- tying them up in bows..."This is my gift," he tells the room, "a gift to myself, to ward off my self-made gloom," and he opens his eyes once more, and sees only the light from the window upon the wall.
"Surely," he thinks, "this gift, this chance, this opportunity cannot be in vain- I've given to the best of my abilities, so far, and made it to this point without shame." The blood that he'd envisioned on his hands, and on the bed, before him, flowed backwards, into his veins.
He closed his eyes once more, and finally answered the beckoning call from sleep he'd been warding off with visions of what may have been, and what still may yet to be. His heart slowed, his mind wandered, as it does when it dreams its dreams.
He did not wake up the same. He was never the same.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Product of Heart and Shadow.
The stones are piling upon the surface, collapsing lungs and crushing limbs. Who would have known that the body buried here was vulnerable to stone? To weight? Susceptable... to all...that the heart holds dear.
Panic set in, like a rat escaped from its cage. The forces of beauty and nature, and of storms could not contain the fate that befell him; the addiction was crying constantly, just wanting more. He fed the mouthes he made, the vice, like a child, latched on and would not let him go.
The stones are piling. Faster, as the Hand of God makes Its prescence known. The weight is daunting, crushing, squeezing the life out of his soul. The memories of before flash before his eyes, he cannot stop; his heart commands him- "Watch, for every smile you have planted upon your face, to coast by; every moment in content silence you had shared with her; every time you have ignored your duty; every wasted second spent on nothing. Watch for the choices that led you down this road. Watch for the broken glass from the dreams that you've shattered. Watch for the empty graves around the ground in which you tread. It seems like a lost cause, I know, but you are not yet dead."
The weight builds upon his chest, to the breaking point, his ribs bend inward. The bone begins to creak, but the stones begin to fall away.
Around his body lies a circle of Earth's oldest treasures, long cast up from the depths. His brow is slick and shining, his entire body drenched in sweat. What had once held him, like a child, barely visible through the lies, now lay in shambles, squeezed like juice, from the fruit of his soul. He stands upon the ground, barely breathing the cold night's air. The presence of the Hand is far away, beyond the place in which he stands.
The light of the moon escapes cover, and for one wretched moment he sees his reflection in a puddle of his tears. Broken, bleeding, sick, and in needing...of sutures...for the wounds are far too deep. His heart is pumping blood: seemingly enough to fill the seas.
He stumbles out of the cirlce that the stones have formed around this place...this place that is now hallowed ground in his mind. A place where impurity and shame was squashed from his heart. He stomped upon the flood of sin that had once been dormant in his soul; he kicked it, and beat it, because, even while his tears were mixed with it: he still saw his reflection- a freeze frame of his Shadow pixelated upon the ground.
The pool took shape: standing on two legs that perfectly resembled is own. And, even as he backed away in horror, he knew that this sickness before his eyes was merely a product of Heart and Shadow, a picture of fear and weakness...and it had his face...and that fact...made it that much easier to turn away.
Panic set in, like a rat escaped from its cage. The forces of beauty and nature, and of storms could not contain the fate that befell him; the addiction was crying constantly, just wanting more. He fed the mouthes he made, the vice, like a child, latched on and would not let him go.
The stones are piling. Faster, as the Hand of God makes Its prescence known. The weight is daunting, crushing, squeezing the life out of his soul. The memories of before flash before his eyes, he cannot stop; his heart commands him- "Watch, for every smile you have planted upon your face, to coast by; every moment in content silence you had shared with her; every time you have ignored your duty; every wasted second spent on nothing. Watch for the choices that led you down this road. Watch for the broken glass from the dreams that you've shattered. Watch for the empty graves around the ground in which you tread. It seems like a lost cause, I know, but you are not yet dead."
The weight builds upon his chest, to the breaking point, his ribs bend inward. The bone begins to creak, but the stones begin to fall away.
Around his body lies a circle of Earth's oldest treasures, long cast up from the depths. His brow is slick and shining, his entire body drenched in sweat. What had once held him, like a child, barely visible through the lies, now lay in shambles, squeezed like juice, from the fruit of his soul. He stands upon the ground, barely breathing the cold night's air. The presence of the Hand is far away, beyond the place in which he stands.
The light of the moon escapes cover, and for one wretched moment he sees his reflection in a puddle of his tears. Broken, bleeding, sick, and in needing...of sutures...for the wounds are far too deep. His heart is pumping blood: seemingly enough to fill the seas.
He stumbles out of the cirlce that the stones have formed around this place...this place that is now hallowed ground in his mind. A place where impurity and shame was squashed from his heart. He stomped upon the flood of sin that had once been dormant in his soul; he kicked it, and beat it, because, even while his tears were mixed with it: he still saw his reflection- a freeze frame of his Shadow pixelated upon the ground.
The pool took shape: standing on two legs that perfectly resembled is own. And, even as he backed away in horror, he knew that this sickness before his eyes was merely a product of Heart and Shadow, a picture of fear and weakness...and it had his face...and that fact...made it that much easier to turn away.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
memory
in my heart of hearts,
i know one thing is true:
no matter the distance apart-
i'll always be with you.
i will be in every breeze
that pushes your hair from your face.
i will be in every memory
that we share and cannot replace.
i will be in every drop of rain
that finds its way onto your skin;
i'll be the blood inside your veins:
giving you life from within.
i'll be in every star in the sky,
far away, but close to your heart.
i want to be all of these things,
and maybe even more;
but even if i become just an occasional thought to you,
a flutter of memory synapses firing off randomly in your brain,
i still know that my memories will not fade,
the memories that we share, that cannot be replaced.
i've come to realize it was not always a need, but a want:
having you near me,
having you close to my heart.
so when the wind blows the hair from your face,
or when the rain falls upon your skin:
know that it is merely the storm of change,
slowly approaching; slowly blowing in.
that's all i have to say-
in the only way that i can:
i loved us, i love you,
i'll never forget -never-
everything that we've been through...but....
Now is the time of no longer worrying, no longer contemplating what has been, and what will or will not be. Now is the time to turn the other cheek, to show the cold shoulder, to earn respect through apathy. Now is the time to flip that switch -the old failsafe- to turn off the feelings and the pain. Now is the time of numbness, it's cold and it's dark, and comprised of things that are partially vain. Now is the time of no love, no soul. Now is the time of a heart that must be left alone. Now is the time to let things be, and so... I am done.
i know one thing is true:
no matter the distance apart-
i'll always be with you.
i will be in every breeze
that pushes your hair from your face.
i will be in every memory
that we share and cannot replace.
i will be in every drop of rain
that finds its way onto your skin;
i'll be the blood inside your veins:
giving you life from within.
i'll be in every star in the sky,
far away, but close to your heart.
i want to be all of these things,
and maybe even more;
but even if i become just an occasional thought to you,
a flutter of memory synapses firing off randomly in your brain,
i still know that my memories will not fade,
the memories that we share, that cannot be replaced.
i've come to realize it was not always a need, but a want:
having you near me,
having you close to my heart.
so when the wind blows the hair from your face,
or when the rain falls upon your skin:
know that it is merely the storm of change,
slowly approaching; slowly blowing in.
that's all i have to say-
in the only way that i can:
i loved us, i love you,
i'll never forget -never-
everything that we've been through...but....
Now is the time of no longer worrying, no longer contemplating what has been, and what will or will not be. Now is the time to turn the other cheek, to show the cold shoulder, to earn respect through apathy. Now is the time to flip that switch -the old failsafe- to turn off the feelings and the pain. Now is the time of numbness, it's cold and it's dark, and comprised of things that are partially vain. Now is the time of no love, no soul. Now is the time of a heart that must be left alone. Now is the time to let things be, and so... I am done.
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