The Dance

Letters fly, away from it all
Language does best – burned and tethered
Armor lines the people’s chest
Many lines can attest for
The embargo on many actual moments

But on the brink of
Time becomes still, while we, as its company,
can do nothing but match the decorum
We are fallacies upon melodies

Take us out of time, find ourselves in space
Where movements align, morph, match, to the point
where you can’t differentiate
The dance comes after 1 more step or, one more line and
1 more song or, when you are ready

It never says ‘come’
But always welcomes
you home

Dilation

Downward spiraling, and much to be said about the endless rains
The heaven bound will be back, I have no opinion on whether better off (again?)
Because I’ve just arrived, am still coming and still searching for a way here
Infinite and humbled,
I, Bound and liberated by myself, and other
The only meaning of perfection that I can state with a straight face or,
Something close

Seed and grow
The lands are delirious, and they attempt to forget themselves, with many no-matter-if-their-uncontrolled substances
Losing our history by excusing the one thing we’ve got
And it is inevitable that the reflections have become skeletons packed away in boxes
All labeled ‘fear me not’
Is it a trick?
Meet your everyday maker or,
Raise your glasses to the good life
Most will never know, the answer to the one question they’ve been asking and answering all along

Duality – the principle that doesn’t roam and go.
Here or not
Death is something I won’t talk about
I’ve seen it too much to have an objection
Things do work out, in the end, or following it
So why am I still here, you ask? Because
Been in love. Could you recognize?
This was all for you, and all out of you
And that continues on

Everything but, Anything shown

Can you explain? Washed away in a legacy, never cleansed in lakes. Baptized or Bastardized? Never no mind. Either, I was sent on my way

Can the bear minimum be cultivated into infinity? Or can something I don’t remember really take a part of me? And if this really is just a game, can they take that, and make that for keeps?

Mellow yellow, by way of green. Moods can be tranquilized or glossed over but they will not be released, if history tells the story. This is my call to the orator: please, stop using these words that you’ve already heard. The only true relief comes from simply witnessing the scenery.

The surroundings bound or liberate. The memories murder and resuscitate. And the kill buries slash levitates. Pick a side. Often now, those who laugh, do so in vain. And the ones that try will have many poems with many lines, pushing worth by trying to quantitate

I breathe in darkness. That has not changed. Light up in sparks and think that that, is the only shame – that I can cannot lay in that instant and no longer recollect the minutes that proceeded it

…And that assumption keeps being made. My downfall lights up the trail for every one of my days. The choice. Have to substitute the one being made with its counterpart. With it, this thing we call the world can stop resembling an avalanche and be the portrait of the fall. It can begin, return, remember its place as workable cinematography. Its place, as art

I begin, to return, and remember,
once more

Atonement

One more moment
We exist like this always
But where have we gone, been?

Away from it,

I sit here, reverently
In a matter of an instant, most things have changed
Where am I going? I ask the coffee table
It will be here for me tomorrow, so there is my answer
The mirror holds my enabler.
That painting. Dead,
Like porcelain. Beautiful,
Like that too. Alive?
Always a possibility
I must keep moving, so
Solidification and the,
Stagnation can not, keep up, and
Keep up

Respectively.
Respectfully,

I lay here, in reverence
Under stars that will reveal themselves to me
City lights can’t stop this. This process
Not if I remember.
Old ties and, forth coming lies
For them, I mourn.
New existence takes this life out of old souls
Know better. Been here before.
The Tower – is a myth
So true. It crumbles. And then shakes
Energy, not destroyed. It, seeds this place
Then starts anew

But, I’ve imagined much of this. This is obvious to me
What was not so clear, was that everything before this: imagined, as well
Dreaming the impossible, in real time
Leaves space for all things
You can never do

I Hate School

Kid HangingI know, I should get in line.

I just went to parent teacher conferences. No relation to the child discussed, just along for the ride due to a wide open schedule. And I heard a lot of things about a few kids. “Has done well, just needs to participate more,” “you have nothing to worry about, your child does everything perfectly,” and “he consistently arrives 3 minutes late.” Yes, she’s been counting. I couldn’t help but wonder what the point was. I never saw the point while in school, and now I especially don’t see it. When have I ever used anything that I learned in physics? Or geometry? Technical drawing? Really? I haven’t. Someone has, but I haven’t had the pleasure yet. I don’t knock any particular subject. I just dislike curriculum as a whole. Everything that I’ve needed, I mean really needed to know, I’ve learned on my own, or have been taught through the world.

I never learned about death. I never learned how to tell if someone was lying to you. I never learned that love is always conditional with most people you meet. I never learned that most of the love you show most people probably is too. And that people do die before their time, but they don’t really, because we don’t really know what time it is. Those lessons hit hard. Harder than a textbook.

But the third Matrix movie did help me understand that nothing can exist without its opposite. Clubs showed me that most people drink to escape, and made me look at what we we’re running from. 2 years of college showed me that it isn’t for everyone, but there’s a small amount of avenues for those who don’t fit the mold. Kids have shown me that everything is possible, until the world beats the imagination out of you. People who test my nerves have taught me a lot about my limitations, and more about myself. An illegal substance has taught me that we’re all just different cut-outs of the same fabric. Can you guess which one?

Now, that was through a pipe. I don’t know how you put those lessons into a classroom, or how you teach guidelines for truly unique experiences, but there’s no room for wonder. Everybody knows that not everyone is the same. So why do we have the same criteria for the masses? Who are you to judge me, mold me, place me in a box? There isn’t room for spontaneity or for life to occur in those boxes. As a person who never really fit, I don’t think there’s room for all personalities to excel. Not everybody sits comfortably at desks.

“Why does he need to participate?” I wonder that as I overhear a teacher telling a kid what he’s missing to be her ideal student. “What if he doesn’t care?” Because… I don’t blame him. I never got an A for helping to diffuse a situation, or an F for letting her off the hook when she used fake tears to disarm me when I was mad. Those things – reading people and situations, harnessing courage through your fears, standing up against authority when it needs to be done – aren’t graded. Aren’t given praise. But they are so advanced, that those lessons are passed grad school. They lie somewhere in a moment that won’t be looked at on standardized testing. Where is that kid’s gold star for not caring, and for not wasting time on things that aren’t important to him? That’s a lesson that I still haven’t been able to grasp fully. Ahead of the curve, he is.

I don’t like school. I don’t like what it promotes: A whole lot of sameness. I hate that it leaves out the differences. And parent teacher conferences are like the nail in the coffin. R.I.P. to personalities. And I don’t know how to fix that; just consider me a complainer.

From my days as an after school teacher, I know there’s not much I personally can teach. But I can offer this: Kids, duck and dodge the laws of the curriculum. And most importantly, no matter how many other people are facing the other way, don’t ever think twice about running towards what you want. Real life comes out of every one of those steps.

Carpe Diem

carpe-diem

Some people are scared of ages. The ones you pick up are more of a burden, it would seem. Like it didn’t mean anything. I don’t doubt that. Especially when you’re reading symbols. The story is yours to create – No, not always. To tell – Maybe, if you wish. To remember. To personify – Yes. But experienced knees are such a hassle.

Some people look at ages as building blocks. Concrete, not the philosopher’s stone. Like that point will be the point. There, all things stop, settle. Come together. Perfectly. Not journeying there, but getting there. The point.

Life: Means to that End

But some people look at ages as ages. Who were you, really? It matters, in an encapsulated way. Someone said that our selves regenerate every 7 years. It feels faster now… So since birth, we’ve lived many lives, many lies and many truths. And there is much to take from all of them. Not definitions of self. Experiences of. Through a whole bunch of eyes.

But the key is, to only be there. Not seeing age as a burden, or a block. Not anything to run to or from. See it as a stage. Try to be aware of every word and most movements and it becomes something instead of. Something instead of another nothing. We get too concerned with how far away from it we are. This is it. And why would you want it any other way?

Carpe Diem

Her Mourning

The mourning
Day breaks into little pieces
Of repetition
Swept away for every action dismissed
And being done for a reason.
Love?

Unsuitable
Would multiply headaches
Would quantify
Put the emphasis on gestures missed
Leaving the weight of a legacy on every moment
It was an opportunity to witness beauty
Witness life, in any instance
Met by her presence
And you missed them all

Try, to replay downfalls, to justify
But can only see the sunlight
The image of her, embodying it
Like it came from inside
She was a cause for: daybreak
House of mirrors reflecting her waking
Reminiscing of perfection
In every one of 
Her mornings

False Hope of Gods: Summertime

Nothing feels good about it
I knew where I was supposed to be
Is this what every April brings?
Went on without me, didn’t need to give the cue
Summer’s dawn has consequences
All must fall to start anew

But summer ends
Again, like the last time
This is the cycle we’re stuck in?
Hushed men carry tons
Balancing act on hunched shoulders
Always nothing to show for, unless you count
Dreams

Gold lays right below the floorboards she weeps on at night
Beneath the cold concrete that gave birth to the hard exterior
That: Maintains ground dwelling,
Gravity
Keep digging.
Holds you, holds your treasures
I never believed it
Eyes kept downward
The reason:
Only thing in those skies are fairy tales

But she was made above this
Lovely, unhuman attributes
Better than hope, aligned with seasons

She, has had it all
Came back here
And it was different
Transitory living, being.
Where, is the wanting, more?

Dreams

Prepares for the impact
Every morning, he prepares
Falling away
Hard time deciding whether he should
A- enjoy the levity
Or B – get ready for the rock bottom of it all
Pain, is a feeling he cannot get use to
Knows it, has been its pupil
Wants to learn something else, for a change
But knows the lesson, through repetition, awaits his first step
So he: prepares

The cocoon that wraps him now, is warm
Like former winter nights, made possible by his mother
She, is not a factor, anymore
So he waits, wishing he could bring this with him
Like his barricade, as his protection
His armor guarding against inflictions
Or even just an explanation
To himself
“The process is necessary
Look at us, we are growing
Be proud of the ending yet to come”

But the waking sounds bring naked
Feet, against bitter, concrete
No buffers, no ifs, no buts
All those struck down by reality
So he prepares

This cocoon might hatch one day, he thinks
If he gave it more time
But he doesn’t, has never had, more time
Can’t take that chance like the next step is forgiving

Loves this place
But home leaves every time it sees the sun
One day, he will lay here forever, he promises
He promises, that one day, he will leave
When it does

5am Mass

Heat, sometimes
Head pulsates the heartbeat
Heavy, in other moments
The thoughts are not intangible
Anchored – I feel them

My clock is realistic, runs in cycles
And dawns only come once a day
The effects, not lasting
But the moment, was right

That’s hope
That it will come each day
Once