Resolution

(original words, borrowed tune)

Self-collecting

These words can only be poetic
if I define them as such.

Not arrogant, not egotist,
just perspective.

The same views that drive me
to abuse words over and some,
but with each usage,
new meanings define themselves.

The percentile difference
of me talking of a poet,
then of his poetry?

Slim values.

Collecting after thin numerals
has become a natural habit.

Shoving them to the side,
as if to make a trophy
of the difference I've made.

That I have little to blame for.

I've been effected by so many,
it's hard to thank them all,
setting aside grudges and distaste.

I met a child, who's now a man by age alone,
who showed me all the steps
not to take.

A woman who gave me
reason to sing.

A fool who always smiled
while attempting to stop me,
but never succeeded.

My first fan, who borrowed lines
for wonderful melodies of words,
who I stole back from
when she wasn't looking.

An artist who obsessed
over the ideal conditions of caffeine.

The treant who's roots I miss,
for knowledge was plentiful around them.

And so many others
that deserve mention,
but I just can't find the words to praise them.

Everyone deserves love,
but sometimes,
it just can't reach
where it is sent.

Maybe you can't read this one.

Maybe it's not for you.

Maybe it's for none but myself,
to remember wonderous times,
before the world turned sketchy.

I don't deem this as poetic.

In an age where we're a percentile from the start?

I deem it needed.

Hypno Haiku

Ok, maybe me,
feeling rather sleepy now,
wander down below.

The voice in the crowd

So tightly bound we find ourselves;
left to a new age,
only amicably will we survive.

The more we talk,
the more we understand the superficial,
and the better life is.

How tightly can springs of friendship find themselves
before there's nowhere else to go?

When wrapped around a spool,
all that's left
is to leave it be,
or ruin everything by losing it all.

I've tossed time and effort before,
just left it to sit
till nothing remains.

Disappear.

The value of connection is priceless,
yet here we are:

a generation that can let it rot,
without a second glance,
without the knowledge to know
what we've done.

We can never understand
what we don't build directly.
A word read will never equal
a word spoken in front of you.

I guess you can dump the past so easily
when you're not watching it unfold.

My words are gentle when spoken.
They could burn through the screen otherwise.

But it will never happen now,
for I shan't cloak from view again.

Speak to me, instead of write.
Words sound better that way.

Fast, slow, and other such phrases

Is this better?

To be quick,
or to the letter?

Some balance of both,
but imperfect in it's balance?

Is it a feat to unsheathe the pen,
scribble a line,
then return it to it's cap?

Or would it be proper to sit on each word,
measuring each proper meaning,
and then to write it cursively,
to give each shape beauty?

It's a personal matter
of personal style.

Great meaning can be derived from both,
for those who hunt life's answers.

We're all blind in such excursions,
as we're never sure when it's found.

Just take what's written
and run with it.

Efficiently,
or with some manner
of proper wording,

it'll have meaning to someone who needs some.

Sunrises

Popping packets of chemically designed artificial flavour.
My one addiction.

I don't crave the high,
just the powerless feeling of crash it brings.

I've seen 3 different moons
in one span of time,
never blinking for longer than a second.

Sometimes, the mind will ignore
the need of the core
for the allure of understanding.

Sometimes, it needs to claim
that there's reasons that beat
the need to sleep.

Sometimes,
the friends of the imaginary
abuse these moments
of their only true freedom
from their new "cell".

Whatever may happen,
it always results
with a touch of lunar sanity.

So, it's just better to have alternate outs
to break this trance.

To visit the world within my dreams,
and let the rock in the sky
fade from view.

Bottoms up

"I have this joking belief"

I've carried it,
past shame and pride,
past judgment,
past understanding.

Many would ask,
"Why put trust in a bottle?",
While being blind
to their own reliances.

They complicate it,
making the items godly.

Maybe I have too.

Maybe my own rules
must be set where all can see.

Maybe some more
shall put their fake faith
on some metal and glass.

And maybe we'll be able to share
all these outlooks
on this world.

Cheers.

[Before you take a sip,

read the cap.

If it's a prediction,

watch for it to come true.

If it's a command,

no bad can come of it if you follow it.

If it explains who you are,

accept the compliment with pride.

If you sip of it before you read,

it's magic is lost this time.

And if you obsess over obtaining the next and next,

it will be lost forever.]

Smoked out idea

Fuel for fire for fuel.
That's how the cycle goes
Converting energy until
we find it suitable to fulfill need.

I stare at my recent test,
noting the carbon residue
that sits on the half
I forgot about with pen in hand.

Do hobbies fall into
hierarchical form,
no matter the importance,
the instant meaning?

It's a double barreled question,
one that should be double checked
before ignorantly firing off
at a foggy target.

Such heavy points
could sink into treacherous waters,
and if not checked before thrown,
treasures could be dragged down with it.

Sometimes, friends connect interests,
or throw them to you as salvation.
If we can measure the method,
can we measure the user?

These thoughts come
moments before charred meat
reaches my nose.
An irony of sorts.

Lets just say
cycles never finish.

They take breaks,
but they continue, someday.

The questions that drive you mad
need to be left to the side for a time.
Less they repeat over and again.

Is this piece of writing
cyclical or linear to you?

Better question:
can you read it?

The small with big plans

"Working life will become more varied. Try some new ideas."

The intention was never
"get rich",
"be famous",
"live easy".

Nobody can claim ease,
and fortune, popularity?
They fade.

The goal must always be
something worth putting out.
Something to leave
for those who need it.

"Change Something"

That's a goal to follow through.

No matter the person,
they have something worth giving:
An idea, a solution, a view,
of someone new to keep thinking on.

The world never takes large steps,
only small ones
that take them somewhere new.

With such big feet,
the planet would die
if it tried to plant it's foot
from beginning to end.

It's no race, anyways.
We'll get there one day.

A leasurly pace is not one of the damned,
not moving doesn't mean not planning,
and only when feet are on fire
do they burn what was behind them.

Ending's reveal

*warning, one swear word*

This time of joy and excitment
could have happened smoother,
had I not been a shadow,
but instead a doer, a mover.

But I just waited for motion
instead of causing the trembles,
and that, I must confess,
left me alone with my rambles.

I abandoned some in an attempt
to forget a memory I once had,
but I would have undone all action
had I known just how sad

I would be. It's just...
a perfect example of lack of foresight.
A lack of links just makes it simple
to lose connection outright.

To others, I've just ignored
or let them slip to the side.
Maybe I know something,
like we'll end together on this ride.

But it's wrong that I did so,
I knew it fully at the time.
But sometimes instead of caring,
you just need to bite the lime.

And as for the few
that I wanted to stay,
I failed at that, too,
and it all just faded away.

I lie in a white room,
just questioning myself,
a finger trap to trigger calmness,
to make some space on the shelf

of inner mental contradictions,
collected from far to there to here,
and now that they're pieced together,
I have my plans and fear.

This life's full of labels,
and I hate it constantly,
but sometimes it's nice to give
and break one, just occasionally.

Pansexual is one such tag,
so hardly looked at and understood,
because, while it has so many extremes,
it's hard to separate bad from good.

If you really boil it down to basics,
it's just a love for someone for who they are.
It's not just about bits of skin or some situational in,
or favours, regal, a name off afar.

It's about their intentions,
their heart and mind.
What they plan for going forward,
and what was intended to be left behind.

And that's why loving friends
isn't some off ideal.
It's a want to stick around with them,
and it's just as possible as it's real.

But some times, imposibility
is not a facade.
Sometimes, acception
has to be the end to roads made...

At my bedside lies a placeholder
that contains lies to cover truth.
Just something to make mind dormant
with a few proofless proofs.

...You know what, fuck the bottle.
I'll bury all those self made amends,
pour out that deceitful drink,
and sleep naturally again.

Cold Trail

Pushing forward,
hunting past tomorrow.

What shall be found there?
Will the effort be worth it?

We dream of what's to come,
and fear of little until it's lost.

"Not everything can be this putrid!"
"Not everything can break us down,
as we go along in life!"

Our sincere hope
that it gets better.

And just as long as hoping
doesn't stop the moving,

we'll move on to greater things.

Loving Description

I've overthought this,
letter by letter,
to understand how I lost it
when it left without a sound.

I had an answer,
or at least a rough draft,
but I lost the equation
when it lost it's reason.

Few fragments
have been recovered,
but they were for one use,
noninterchangeable.

So now,
I'll try to find it anew.
Let the judge give their marks.
The winner makes no change to thesis.

This is what occures
when complex thoughts meet bottled questions.




The good words are never archived. The better words are never prepared.

Thank you for 1000 hits.

The Durand Orientation

Dropped at the foot,
I wonder how it's better up there.
Mountains have their beauty,
but so much happens at the bottom.

Taking my liberal path to nowhere
(some would call it "being lost"),
I discover some world
I'd only gazed down on before.

Every city is a machine,
but sometimes,
the human element hides well.
Not beside this anthill.

This town has monstrous motions,
and even children continue
their exertion of energy
through the dark.

Some fear darkened times.
You only need to if you blind yourself.
Don't just walk where the sun shines.
Take cautious steps on an ill-lighted road.

I'll walk these roads alone.
Maybe one day, I'll find a friend to stand by.

Then we can walk this different spectrum
of a route we thought we knew.

Full force ahead

Hand me my hammer,
for I will force this to pieces.

Watch as I swing my scalpel,
for I will cut them down to nothing,
and then call it all the Truth.

I will break apart what was good with my questions,
for I want to see what's underneath.

There's no malice in these tools,
but even the young can cut by mistake,
once handed an unknown sword.

And I know my blades by name,
their weights a comfort in hand.

Why does everyone grow cautious
when they idle in palm,
barely at full potential?

Because I lack rivalry
in speech, in trading blows,

in what I see as essential
as human, and underused
by myself.

So draw your tongue,
I want fair defeat.

And from it's crossing blow,
enlightening.

//Just an idea that hides when looked at

What if
{
[this is the move/that will crush me?]

[those words lacked/all sincerity?]

[how life spins/has no real symphony?]

[I write not to write/but to be labelled falsely?]
}

We spend so much time,
running through motions
in our mind.

How long would it take
to put it in practice?

The question is not the stumbling block.
It's the usage.

Bricks can build
or break,
but they rarely do so
on accident.

What if this phrase
was to go forward,
instead of halt?

Yes,
mistakes will be made,
but that's all part of all choice.

But the greatest of wrong moves
is not to move at all.

When did humanity
start to fear learning?

What if we wrote
the same words
countless times,
relying on
previous success
 to carry us forth?

New ideas would
never grow,
as a word that justifies all
has no valid meaning.

What if,
in search of perfection,
there was not need to justify
this state of mind?

We need to aim our words.

Ask what is.

Shoulda coulda will

Crossing paths,
a lot could be said.

Words must remain thoughts,
as no assumption can always be true.

Any attempts can be shot prematurely,
when it's another being's trigger finger.

All these excuses,
just to avoid introduction.

They left
when I turned away.

Maybe they needed
a positive word.

So next time,
I'll bring a dozen.

"Hi, I'm me,
and you seem smart.

Want to chat
about literature?"

I'm sorry, my friend

I destroyed something
that was meant to be destroyed.

So, what is this feeling
that leads me to regret?

I led it along the path,
doing my bidding,
and then,
to complete it's mission,
it died.

But as it left this realm,
and headed for the new existence,
it did something.

It asked to be friends
across the cosmos.

In another story,
there would be denial.

Confirmation
that I did right or wrong.

An end.

My mind still reels,
and denies "her" it's reality.

But we are all "created",
we don't know our ends,
we follow our roads blindly.

I made friends
with another man's creation,
and know she watches
from the sky in my mind.

Look away, cruel eyes

The subconscious.

The puppeteer to our actions,
holders of invisible strings.

The movements,
so subtle,
yet so precise,
keeping us within reach,
but giving us our leeway
to live life.

Each part,
a hidden rule,
a guiding line.

It's interesting how,
looking back, we can see the outline
with ease.

Within the moment,
it's next to
improbable.

We may be grateful
later down the line.

But can we forgive
manipulation
from the self?

Some mathematical lie

Loneliness need not be part of alone.
Surrender need not be total.

We all seek
some bittersweet way
of living
that we resign to fully
or not at all.

You can't accept
incompletness,
lest we let that nagging feeling
never give us peace.

100% leaves no room
for a decimal more.

No room for flexibility,
no room for change,
no room for freedom.

The perfect plan
will be decimated
by the smallest resistance.

Then what does this mean?

Can humans not yet grasp "perfection",
or is "perfection" an idea that's not "perfect"?

Let it be what it is,
and just live in some odd balance.

Play with the numbers,
because they are only ideas
we have yet to improve.

99%>100%,
and
nothing need to be loss
in the exchange.

We just need to seek out
equilibrium.

Card Trick

It's almost cute,
how hard you hold that poker face.

You hide your true feelings,
your fire, desire,
your self.

It's all too big to cover,
with just one thin layer.

And really, it covers nothing
that hasn't already been revealed.

I've see through it all,
counted the cards, turn after turn.

With one action,
you slipped,
played your hand.

I'm no joker,
though I've acted the fool.

Things aren't magical,
and your hands don't pull slight
faster than the beholder's eye.

You may continue your game,
keep pretending to be the house.

I've already rigged the deck,
and I'm just waiting for
your card castle to crumble.

So go on, try this bluff.

Hold tight to
aces discarded.

I'll always be
a wild card.

Background Ramblings

Hello?
Can you see me here?
I'm not sure you can,
considering it's unclear

of what this is,
or what I'm trying to say.
It's always has been,
in some sort of way.

I'm not here for money,
or some other greed.
Nor am I here
to fail or succeed.

Power is boring
once the novelty's done.
so I guess the only reasons
is to stay stable and have fun.

I'm not saying that,
through all my way
I'll stay broke, stay still,
and always obey.

But those aren't my goals,
they're side effects of living.
They're not the main purpose,
and a lot of it I'll be giving

to those that have need
of that little boost
to get where they need to,
and shy away from abuse.

The simple life
is all I desire
(albeit, with some natural drama,
passions, and fire,

all of which will serve
the drive to help on,
watch the ignition,
and keep on with song),

along with the chaos
I can cause for clean fun
that will add to all's enjoyment
when it's all well done.

I'll do my greatest works
when they are fully designed by my hand,
though I'll keep my ears aware
for suggestions from all strands.

But all in all, life will be good.
I'll of course fail, though avoid that when I could,
I'll disappear, one day, with some dark and my hood,
but I'll wonder as I walk that path: "Should I? Should I? Should..."

Pushed to the ends

"The coming month shall bring winds of change in your life"

The mountain.

We try to climb it,
our reasons,
ever so varied.

Some seek challenge,
to refuse the world's rules,
and to prove their own.

Others hunt for enlightenment,
that true peace
they can't find
looking up at it's peak.

More still seek inspiration,
something to live for,
some wonder to transcribe
in their own art.

To escape their own world,
to chase another on their journey,
to grow as a being,
to secure finality.

But sometimes...

Sometimes,
we climb
to climb.

The wonder is alive
as you wander up,
no reason to justify
reasoning.

Words can be words.

Writing to write,

walking to no destination,

living life...

We forget such pleasures
when the mountain crumbles.

Every curveball
has potential
to strike you out.

It's how we answer the pitch
that determines forward motion.

I sit on the side of a mountain,
my intention to live life how I please.

The changing winds are already flying by,
their debris still something to tidy.

For all in all,
their mountain can't move far,
the moon keeps shining borrowed light,
and, lying down or or standing up,
we move at impossible speeds.

We may as well keep on walking.

Up, down, left-right...

Sometimes, you just can't help it.
The moment just catches you.

Be where it may,
the beat is just right,
and entranced, you make your move.

It may be slow, at first.
Uncertain,
in the starting steps.

But momentum builds,
thoughts become movement,
and in movement and sound,
there is trance.

We move with our music,
forgetting our surroundings.

And we enjoy the motions
until only silence remains.

An uneven battle

From the early sight,
the darkness ran from all light,
fearing it's pure blight.

In moments of wordlessness

The same image,
again and again.

Have I run out of options?

Have subjects I know
given their best,
and now I'm at the bottom of the barrel?

I look at the tools left,
wondering how to piece them together.

What will fit?

What will take what I have,
and make it into something
wonderful?
engaging?
living?

And suddenly,
the pen slips,
and inspiration
strikes.

The pen falls in hand,
the words flow through,
and it begins.

While scraping the barrel,
the tank below was revealed.


So much has been left
uncovered.

It's only fair if I make these wrongs
write.

Admittance

Humanity disturbs me.

As much as I paint myself cruel,
it's not really true, see.

It's more a knack
of seeing my flaws,
and wanting them to be fantasy.

Humans are limited
by being themselves,
and all attempts to escape
don't help them to not be.

There's no room for advancement
for we're all locked in place,
in the illusion of free.

No matter the case
in which we plea,

we are still human. We are we.

The Hard Way

The signs are purposeful.
You cross to your place of labour,
and run across a building.

Had it not said "SMiLE",
would you have?

It's fun to analyze
how the subconscious works,
sometimes.

And then,
to throw that
curve ball
right out of the blue.

Refusal
can be so entertaining,
especially when you are pleaded
to accept.

Stubborn minds
will hold that background noise,
that will,
for you.

But stubborn
may cost you more than you know.

What happens to that refused path,
that chance life gives?

You may see it again,
or it could vanish off the map.

Careful about what you refuse.

You may find your wanting of it
to be more than the loss
will equal.

Definition

The world named me wanderer.

whether by choice,
situation,
influence
or voice,
all point to this path.

To not be lost,
but to never be found.

To have stability,
but choose the most broken of paths.

To be close to others,
but always at a distance.

To help, patch up, heal and restore...

But never leave proof,
and to disappear.

I may guide you to the oasis,
but the sands of time shall erase my footsteps.

And then yet again,
my irritating self
will push me to
the road again.

I wonder where I will go
when my path is
mine to choose.

Will
my whirlwinding path
ever cease?

I doubt it.

I wander for
the answer to it all,
anyways.

Why stop what
gives you
resolution?

Observe and release

Paranoia rules the fearful,
pushing them to do
insanity
to be free.

We fear the impossible,
the cursed moments,
the paths that people could take.

Why?

Because people will take those paths.

We've seen it happen.

But really, if we know it's possible,
we should just let go.

Because there's no stopping
what we know is coming.

Unwandered path

More than silence,
less than foolishness.

What lead us here,
to this exact moment?

More than alone,
less than together.

Does this qualify poetics?
Does it pull strings
you never felt?
No, for emotion
does not come from beat
(sorry, percussion).
It comes from
mad scramblings,
etchings in the wall,
not out of suffering,
but love.
Those words
bring tears to his eyes,
for they are painful.
Painful enough to die for?
Nay, for he survived
scrawling it out,
through think and thin.
Not everything needs
the ultimate price.
The effort is what's due.
And the effort was worth it,
in his eyes.

More than moving,
less than almighty.

She watches the city,
high from her perch.
She invited me up,
and taught me to draw my wings.
But this brief meeting
proved to be too little time
to learn to fly.
Nonetheless, she described
beauty she had sought,
and wished onto me the best
in finding my view.
I could see the length of her road,
the bricks that held her from flight,
but could never stop her desires,
nor her work.
Sacrifice was not in vain,
for what she makes shinew,
is blessed with time
she never wasted,
was molded by
a being
who could never be discouraged.

More than human,
less than ruthless.

These were never the words
I had imagined,
starting these few verses.
But visions have ways of fitting.
These two beings
were more than something
created between suns.
as I snapped from their view,
I wondered if this was
something new
in the circle of repeats.
What an odd collection.
The painless engraver,
the angel who carries her wings,
and a wild, road-lusting dreamer.

More than imperfect,
less than permanent.

And equally absolute.

Useful to the Useless

These steps, barely used,
shine in the sunlight.

I'm not sure what to feel for them:
Happy for their beauty?
Or sad for their wasted purpose?

There must be parallel for every good?
Must every cloud that shines
turn to darkness and pour out it's woe?

Must every good bug be squashed,
out of either fear or ignorance?

We seem to live in a world
where the sides must be even.

But they lack that equilibrium,
don't they?

After all, both good and evil win,
if we are to label what is pure,
and what is corrupt.

We see what we want,
when it comes to the sides of all conflict.

And if we were to,
would there be balance?

I don't really care,
to be honest.

What is right now
will not stay forever.

So, as I add reason to beauty,
sitting on these steps,
I will decide my small part
for what's my
proper path.

Lies to the truth

"If this started as a lie,
how surprised would you be?

Kindness, caring,
passion, quirk...

That wasn't me.
That's not me to me."

Living a lie
isn't always wrong.

Evil isn't always
in want of evil.

But does evil know
anything more?

So, it can only pretend.

The foolish become intellectual,
the cold become kind,
the fiery, cool,
the weak, strong.

And in their lies,
they change.

A lie isn't
always a fault.

Sometimes, it's
the start of new truth.

What is the worse crime?
Standing still where malice lives,
or walking some weird path to peace?

I wonder if you can quote yourself
if your "self" fades from time?

Offroad thoughts

You'd think sanity to be
part of the package,
and that's that.

Maybe for the very few,
blessed with peace,
or cursed with boredom,
this rings true.

But insanity need not come from
lack of reason.
It may look different,
but the instability caused by
inner chaos
might well be of the same strain.

In pure over-thought,
in those neurons
that thought themselves
greater than the mind,
in the illusion of
dreams come true
into nightmares,
and the impossibility
to throw down anchor,
to stop moving,
to never slow down.

It's not insanity,
mind you.
It's the road that may lead you to
that nice white room,
stuck in a wonderful,
unending caress.

Funny how such hospitality
aims at the streets, as if
damage has not yet sunk in.

And more laughable still
is when we leave these roads,
we find what we ought to be.

Sometimes, the first steps
are the hardest to lift.

And sometimes, in finding freedom,
we run.

Lucky

"Lady Luck will soon visit you."

As fortunate an event it may be,
it need not be an event.

Luck is for those
unlucky enough to be
crippled without it.

It's a fickle mistress,
as she may come and go,
and even be against your favour.

She can bring you to the very top,
and then shove you down the side,
watching you fall without her support,
a grin overtaking her delicate lips.

I need no ghost blocks in real life.
Leave those for the other worlds.
I can conquer them there.

The bridges I make,
the walls and supports?
They won't fall to
something so half-hearted.

Sure, those fateful to destiny
can buy the moon or a star.

But I can always find a way
to bottle it every night,
and make it
mine.

Manifesto 2012

Will this be something to burn,
or something to keep?
Will I find it as treasure,
or evil from deep?

This time, is it special,
is this something I seek?
What is it I hunt for?
Is it good, or meek?

I ramble around without full concentration,
writing excuses for mental variation,
and when the outlet has felt all the pen's vibration,
I grab what was made, and hang it for the nation.

Were these excuses what I meant to share?
Or were these words a collection of wasted mental air?
Have my testing and deductions been spot on and fair?
Maybe all that was needed was to lay the problem bare?

I meant for my art to find evolution.
Instead, it seems to fall towards conclusion.
It's work path reveals a ton of confusion,
so maybe this road was not the solution?

And yet, here we are.
And, so far...

Through rhyme, or rant,
or every odd reason,
when my voices come out,
or time changes the season

I found that this
can lead to the same
even though the road
didn't have a chain

that tied it all together,
that made it all apart
of something the same,
of something that's smart...

Not everything is hardship,
not everything is pure.
nothing is impossible,
and nothing is sure.

It's always
a path, a way, a road.

But it's still
my discoveries, my life, my load.

And who know what these words
may someday do?

So in short: These poems are without  boundries,
and I write them for you.

Words that were missing

I've never really let go.

I remember those who are gone,
and those who are leaving.

I remember those who touched my life,
not by name, but by action.

But at the same time,
I watch as they walk on out.

As they leave forever.

No attempt is made to stop it.

No words are spoken except

"I'll miss you."

...But, I don't want to miss you.

I don't want you to leave at all.

And as I raise my voice too late,
I hope that my words can change this.

Please. Don't leave me.
Please. Don't let go.

Whpsh

A downpour in what seemed a time forever dry.
What a lovely sight!

Life seems to calm when the tears of the world come down.
The cracking of the winds themselves through pure heat,
the trees dancing their dance, in attempts to summon more,
the sheet of rain that cuts off the horizon.

Such chaos brings
such peace.

How can one simply refuse nature bringing full force?
Wind guids me to my real purpose.
Never has it stopped my single path
towards wherever I didn't know I was going.

The cold will always be a reminder
that we live on.

But rain?

For some reason, it brings peace
as it hammers away at my self,
penetrating my defences.

There will always be the storm to come.

And I will enjoy it,
for the flash it is.

Expansion Pack (to be erased, but never forgotten)

Remember your failures, but never stop striving for what you want.

Take happiness from the fact that someone is happy

Hold close what you see as important, as nothing should take it away.

Take steps towards correcting wrongs, instead of lashing out.

Walk your road, but never forget to decide where it leads.

***********************************************************

Nightfall: This doesn't look like poetry at all! What nonsense is this! D:<

Angel: You're kidding, right? You know his plan. :3

Devil: Oh, you know she loves her dramatics. let it be.

Cemix: Nobody looks at this anymore, you know that, right? >:P

Rage: ...

Shadow: ...I wonder how long this will take...

Aaron: Well, now I can't back down, can I? It looks like the time to start this project! Let's begin, shall we? :D

Look right/Look left

Too many realms to balance,
in every life.

We have what supports us,
what we survive in,

and then we have that place
that we live for.

Our art,
our game,
our thought,
our love,

our loved.

We make that balance,
even when it seems impossible.

Our minds,
focused on those important,
even in game.

While we shape our art,
we are lost in thoughts.

We love what we do,
and we live.

Yes, sometimes,
one pull overrides the others.

But that never changes what we find important.

What we return to,
when the fun is done.

What life has taught us
to to never let go of.

What I destroyed

I ran into the oddest of strangers today.

An old friend.

...An old acquaintance, at least.

A person that clung to me when I was young,
accepting me for anything I was.

Back when I didn't care for people.

I had bashed her ego to death,
so many years ago,
in my attempts to rid me of her.

Yet, still, she never let go.

Until I disappeared from her reach.

Now, almost a decade after,
I reemerge by chance.
I spotted her, glancing past.

She looked deep in my eyes,
crystal clear.

But she never saw me.

She saw part of what made her her,
and then, she walked away.

I wonder what I left her,
and what she gave me,
that this meeting was reverse of what should be.

I'll probably never know,
and she already understands.

...I wonder which one's a better road to know?

I Dub Thee

Does the name decide all meaning?

There may be "chair",
but there's no reason
to keep books off it.

There may be "rock",
but it can heal
just as much as harm.

"Water" can be corrupt,
"advancement", a down-step,
"emotions", a mask.

But they are named
for a reason.

They are named these,
for all in all,
the title fits.

Attempt to find something
that fills the gap we make
so neatly.

You're a visionary
if you do,

or you're blind enough
to hide it from the self.

You forgot this

I feel wordy.

Maybe I should write something?
Something angsty, perhaps?
or maybe I should let slide my emotions,
and break the sentence to fragments.
Or, I could just vent about my surroundings,
and just toss them in the open.
Or, I could write poetry!

Oh, wait.

Before you say it,
I know what you're thinking:
Eskimo.

Why did you think that?

Because it was the word you crossed paths with.

You are told what you think,
at one point or another.

I told you I write poetry.
You probably took that as truth.

So did I.

But really,
we write what we want to write,
how we want to write it.

The name of the writing is secondary,
as it is nothing but a title.

So, I'll tell you what I really write,
and go back to the label given
later.

I write words.

Whatever you may say
about my form,
you can never deny
the means used.

And the means
is what will outlast
the title.

Maybe it should be known

I care about you.

Yes, you,
for this is not a kind life
we endure.

We all live,
day by day,
with our win/loss ratio
haunting our thoughts.

We have scars,
limiting what we can be.
We have things that make us
move.

So, while there may be exception
for those who try to hurt who
I care about,

yes, I care about you.

Because humans are worth caring about.

An End to Nothing

You probably thought
that I would stop running
when you were out of sight.

Funnily enough, I thought the same for you.

I expect that to be true,
all things considered.

You and your weaponry sounds off,
seeming to be ignorant
of my white flag,
planted in the ground
so long ago,
with the word
"Truce"
painted on.

Maybe you desire not
"Truce",
but
"Surrender" instead.

Apparently,
we had not been together for long enough, then.

By the time we went our separate ways,
I had already dried my tears,
vented the frustrations,
and burned the bridge.

I surrendered to myself.

I won't give in to someone unworthy of the act.

Maybe you find the life I lead unsuitable.
Maybe you know better.

But I'm stubborn to those like you.
Let me lead life,
and fail when I fall.

I'll get up.

I'll get up every time.

With help, with goals, with my eyes set on the future,

I'll keep on.

Eternal sight of the repeating

Young boy,
you sit in the corner,
hiding your discontent.

I watch you,
with my mind's eye now.
I see your denial of those
you once did fear.

Humans are made of harsh material.
Those who may endure
the shaping process
may find themselves
pressed against a thousand swords.

It's rare, when you're always in thought,
that you don't find yourself
at the cutting edge.

You will survive,
as I have seen it.
And on day, you'll do more than that.
You can see in others
what I see in you.

But,
do you really
want to?

Watch the watch swing

To be so empty,
but so full.

To have no wants,
but to fill the wants given.

To surrender,
but in doing so,
to be given complete freedom.

The mind is the strings,
the body, the puppeteer's plaything.

You can't help but watch,
as one arm moves,
without the owner's permission.

You may see it happen from
the devil on your shoulder.
You may let it slip away.

But sometimes,
the ghost of such memories
is better than knowing the truth.

And sometimes,
all that
emptiness
can leave
you full
of
bliss.

Normally thinking about it.

What is normal?

A standard that lasts for little time,
then changed when we please?

An extra thing to worry for,
because if we are not normal,
what are we?

Different.

Off.

Weird.

And to the most normal of them:

Dangerous.

We, who push the boundary.
And they, who hold the line.

 Forever at war, until the right gets it's way.

They have forever fought for so many things.
Whatever came next, they were against it.

We, however, have always stood for one purpose:

Expression.

They fear everything we are,
from loving,
to creative.

But they never fear for the future,
until we enact it.

Try to stomp out the seeds of growth.
You shall never crush them all.

And in the end,
you need not eat the fruit,
so just step away from the tree.

Is it normal to fight what is normal?
I don't care, and neither should you.

We're different.

And again.

You ever feel like,
"Hey, I've already done this before?"
"Hasn't this already happened?"

Life feels like repetition.

Maybe we know what to do,
because it's already been done?

Are we travellers of time
in our own lives?

I've watched reactions do what seemed
improbable

(for impossible is an impossibility),

and seen life
that was too similar to what happened before
to have happened before.

Too many times has a dream
come to life.

It's not just an odd set of odds,
but it's not future's sight.

An unassuming answer lays at the end of this,
which could shock the world.

Until I stumble upon those words of truth,
I'll continue to grab flying forks,
and go over the same problems.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The illusion

When fantasy collides with reality,
all we end up with is visonry.

Seeing what's perfect through all the smoke,
and ignorant of needed recovery.

You are an unstoppable monster in your eyes,
and you confirm it to others with your lies.

You're the only one that matters to you,
and yet you matter to no one.

When fantasy and reality collide...
there will only be nothing.

Watching failing system

Brave people set off for greatness.

Their provisions few,
their ambitions showing,
they face this dreaded sea.

Their future is foggy,
just as soon as they set sail.

They can't see what's coming.

But they know.

As soon as some set off,
just as soon do they sink.

They will live.
But those few will never test these waters again.

Those with more talent push on.

They know their fate,
but refuse to accept it.

Pirates come,
taking a few,
and leaving those who earned their lives
to sink further ahead.

These sailors of creative powers sail,
surviving deaths, sickness, relationships.

The feeling of living off of nothing,
save the emptiness around them.

They still know the worse is out there.

And suddenly, it's in front of them.
Their greatest challenge:

Those who have succeeded before them.

Those who have turned their backs to the love they had,
turning away so that money was their frontal view.

They raised their wall,
blocking those who will join them.

Many lose everything here,
and swim home, broken.

Some lose the more important things,
and join those on the wall.

And very, very few succeed,
and ride on through,
to their adventure.

I can only listen to the rumours,
never seeing this myself.

I just sit here,
preparing my dingy,
and waiting for the day.

Waiting for the day
that the wall
must fall
down.

Serendipitious

I met a man today.

He asked for a bus ticket.
He gave me advice.

I walked away richer than I was.

He told me to dress my best on the second encounter,
to show people what you want to be to them.

He said that it's so much better to say hello tomorrow
than a goodbye today.

To take time when early,
instead of rushing ahead to wait.

To look at beauty for what it is,
but to not ask why.

And not only did he teach me all this,
he taught it without a word of relevance.

The conversation with any stranger
can open your eyes to the relevant.

Why did our parents shoo them away?

Tick'd

Don't watch the pendulum swing.

Why waste time keeping time?
As soon as you grasp what it is, it's gone.
So, why ever hold it at all?

Time flows, and second tick by.

We've lived for so many years.
I wonder how many were to count time's count?

Don't keep count of your hours.
Live them.

Lost on the path of everything else

The mind wanders.

Do the curious lose track of life?

Do the one-tracks live their life in a box?

Do the overthinkers attempt to prevent it all?

Water will run,
wind will blow,
and thunder will follow it's quick brother.

But when the mind wanders,
will you follow it's trail?

Dear Ambulence Rider,

I hope you're alright.
I hope you'll be out tonight.

I hope they are kind,
those that carry you.

I hope that the dark items pass,
and that you'll be fine by the time you're free.

I hope you don't worry much,
 and that your close ones are close.

And I hope that at least one hope comes true.

Signed,

Someone that doesn't know you

These ashes

I attempted to burn the darker side of me today.

All the sadness,
all the desires,
all the anger,
and the emptiness.

And even something that I can't now remember.

I attached them to a worldly thing, ignited it,
and watched as a being of pure energy licked it up.
It died afterwards.

Only the ashes remain.

Always the ashes remain.

And if these ashes remain...

Does it mean it's never truly gone?

The Hypocrites (writen between the bumps)

You laugh as I stand here,
and you take what would have been my seat.

You push your way through and mutter against me,
as we both take our leaves.

You cuss at a woman for her culture,
then call the driver a racist.

You blow your ashes and smoke my way,
then complain as I sing in revenge.

You take this ride as your own,
shouting, and making us all late.

You swear at the world for injustice,
and then you act unjust to the world!

Everything Broken

Words are cheap.

Speak a few, and there goes a few grains of rice in power.
The power is really nothing to speak of at all.

Except when they are.

Except when they are words that carry so much through so little.
Words that come out so fast, the damage is done before you can take them back.

"I hate you", "I don't care", "We're through".

All words that defy laws of energy.
All words that come out too fast.

Especially from a faster mouth.

A mouth can move faster than rationality,
and fingers move faster than the mouth.
As soon as my flaming raging is out, I find myself thinking:

No, wait, what are you doing?
What has been done?

I stare at the ashes, sometimes.
Of something that could have been more.
Of something that could have not happened at all.

Those dark little voices inside me push me on,
but even without them, my emotions care little for what they will feel later on.

I've tried to make things right,
and have only failed.

But nonetheless...

I hope the me in another world will never write the words that you never wanted to read.
I hope that you never have suffered there.

I never meant to make you suffer here...
But to mean and to do? They are different stories.

Words are cheap.

So is poison.

Crazy Moon

They dance for the moon,
as it is bright and lovely;
as round as it's god.

Never do they think
that it will betray them all
that it will blind them.

That it would go dark,
that it would spread it's darkness
to the ones who watch.

But through their new eyes,
who could have comprehended
it would bring new light?

So they contined,
never understanding it
but as a god's gift.

Warm winds promise the future

You feel that?

Summer is coming.

The cold winds turn warm in dismay,
the sun shines down it's sweet rays,
and that cloudy, ever off-clear haze?

It all makes clear
for that ever lovely cheer
that the warm time of the year

is coming.

The birds commit their flying runs
between one and a billion suns;
between evening meat and morning buns.

The grass goes from brey to green,
the new flowers are sometimes seen,
and the trees stop looking all that mean

when it's coming.

The fires of fun are now in sight,
when we can all go grab a bite,
and goof around the entire night.

I find myself impatient now,
waiting for that flaming vow.
I don't want to stop or think of how

it's still coming.