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A one-sided conversation I had with my dog. (He's shy about his lisp. I don't know why. I think its fuckin adorable. He's so self conscious sometimes. Is this title getting too long? I feel like its getting way too long... nah its fine.)
What are we?
The children of the bleeding sky
The lost generation
condemned at birth
The band-aid generation
Get you from “a” to “b”
“z” is out of the fucking question
never a fix
never a cure
don’t look up
at the bleeding sky
don’t look down
at the burning ground
eyes on the prize
shiny objects of obsession
affirming self worth.
Worship not for contribution to humanity
but to the measure of waist-line
slant of jaw
measure of bicep
What the fuck are we.
Es stehen keine Sterne
und für mich
stehen keine Sterne.
Wir sind zukunftslos geboren.
Wir sind ruhelose Romantiker auf einer Rundreise durch die Realität.
Wir sind hoffnungslose Hinterwäldler, taumelnde Traumtänzer, schwebende Schlafwandler.
Wir sind Maturanten mit einem Master in Melancholie.
Unser Gesang ist Schall und Rauch.
Unser Blick geht durch Wände und Himmel
an den Rand unendlicher Sphären
und durch uns
geht jeder Blick.
Morgen formten wir die Geburt allen Seins in unseren Händen
und gestern werden wir die Apokalypse verschlafen.
Wenn Weltliche aus Anzugsärmeln zu uns sprechen,
sagen sie, aus uns würde nichts.
Doch wir sind schon Nichts
und wir öffnen unsere Ohren für nichts als Sternengesang
und gehen, körperlos, durch ihre Edelstahlhäupter hindurch.
Auf dieser Welt stehen keine Sterne
und für mich
stehen auf dieser Welt keine Sterne.
Da haben sie recht.
Aber sie missverstehen dabei:
Es stehen Sterne
hört der Himmel nicht mehr auf zu leuchten.
Es stehen alle Sterne für uns.
The April Chronicles: April 3rd, "History"
I rendered myself unconscious for the early hours of the morning. Ridden of plans or purpose, I couldn’t see a reason why not to. Everything went about as smooth as it always did: Wake up a second time at noon, shower till’ 1:00, eat until 2:00. I learn more often than not that my quirks tend to haunt me. I am a creature of habit. Ritual and repetition rule my days. And like all unfortunate humans in life, I have become the one thing that deteriorates and voids life of meaning: I have gotten comfortable.
I would dream continuously, both during slumber and in broad daylight. I dreamt of opportunity, of a journey of passion, striding towards something of purpose. I would conjure treks across the European countries. I would fantasize circumstances aligning accordingly for meeting a woman I could call my own. And while reality is the motive for continuous dream catching, I often find myself diluted in frustration; too annoyed with my current predicaments to broaden my horizon of opportunity. I shall overcome these ferocious habituals, and I plan on this realm of real meshing with my thoughts of perfection. Someday, I will be bold enough to attain life by the horns and direct it toward my rightful destination. But as I slip into softer clothing and flip the channel back to my nightly programs, I realize amidst the bite of my usual turkey and mustard, that today would not be that day.
The leaves abandon their homes
torn away by the wind
never to return.
They are trampled by children
and crushed under snow
dying again each day.
In the spring there will be new ones
fresh and new.
It will be green again.
The old ones still will wither.
The trees will forget them,
in favour of their new children.
The manipulation of words is the foundation of the emotions that drive our lives. We personify the dead characters into live figures that inspire some of the most influential moments in our days.
We move mountains for the idols painted in the lines we can only distinguish. We place Fate and Destiny in the fiction category for the self-propelled sense of immortality. Only then does Death come as a surprise.
However the truth is much simpler than the complex poems lovers create in the cloud of emotions that circle their hearts. For after all a simple kiss could speak volumes that man would never write. A simple look in the eye could be louder than the melody sung on the cold night to wrap your heart in protection from the isolation.
The truth just as real as the breath we breathe, yet just as transparent. We may not always lay a witness to it, but it is simply there. Only the lies we feed ourselves leave us hungry for more.
Thus what antagonizes our thirst when we have distinguished the source of our hunger? Our thirst is born from the isolation we feel once clarity is brighter than the light we use to illuminate the theme.
The arid nature of the unclear leaves us searching for something greater than ourselves. Only after we have once believed that we are the great that others seek. Once we ground ourselves to the mother that gave us life, do we begin the journey.
We search high and low, create and destroy, only to name something that has no face. We conquer and face defeat in the same moment of our humility. Never do we realize it was never about the object sought, but the epic written in search of it. Our ignorance leaves us empty.
The emptiness of the chilled space may appear to be lonely, yet something lives near that keeps us company. Though we may not know it by name, the presence is felt in the fibers of our being. The alien becomes the brother, no different to the core from yourself, yet the light falls differently on its face.
Reality transforms itself into a fictional concept and distinctions become the manifestation of fiction. The lines we drew no longer exist for we have removed the pen and the paper on which we drew on.
No longer can we abide by bearings, but live by the words our souls speak. No longer do limits have a place in our homes for they are only set by our minds. To free one’s mind, is to travel past the corners of the universe and only there be able to create with the clay that was left from the beginning.
At times we feel desolate and directionless. Don’t let Fear cloud the sight you have now acquired and begin to understand. Understand with all that is true to you, that you are not lost, but misplaced. A displacement in the form of a tree, like all others it had a birth.
From the seeds it came to be what it is now. The same seeds that were abandoned by the creation of the idols, the leftovers of the words that never asked for life. The roots that could never cross the planes, left the essence fall between the lines of translation in the final thesis of what it is to be human.
Misguided for alternative means, we believe all that is labeled divine. Like sheep with our eyes left in the caves of the ground, we follow the leader to a promise land that never existed. Time is all that we ever had and we waste it looking to stop it.
Not even the prayers that race light between the seconds on the clock have a chance to live. Fantasy became Faith and Faith became Truth. Fiction disguised as Reality our lives became wasted.
Only when we truly create with the raw materials we harbor deep within could we be set free. To take what is given to us, pair it with what we have learned and use the tool to cut the chains. Once every bond is broken, do we begin to chop that tree. And once it had fallen, can we see the glow from the sun.
No longer shall we live in the darkness, but decide to use the light to find our own. For to truly be a human, is to be your own.
A Sample Into My Mind
sky so bright, i love the burn
mmm that sweet sweet burn of the sun
making my back sweat
making my skin too hot to touch
i wish someone would touch
touch and not judge
feel and not run
take the moment to appreciate the burn
don’t fear the burn…don’t fear me
we’re all imperfect
thats the reality
why do you think I’m more imperfect than you
why do you look at me with such disgust, but then… with so much lust
hold my hand
not like a child… go away
hold my hand hard… interlock your fingers
interlock our arms
no. don’t kiss me. don’t ruin it… I always ruin it
but to not ruin… just once… once… one
one wish… one wish upon a star
it’s too bright to see the stars
oh so bright, how good that sun feels
oh sun you always make me feel so good
you don’t judge me, you just burn me like everyone else
what a good burn…
Idk a stupid poem I wrote
I stare in to the mirror
I see myself
I stare at my eyes
And see myself starring back
I can see what I look like
I see how tall I am
I can see what race I am
I can see what I am
I can see my hair
I can see my face
I can see the smallest of a white dot in the corner of my right eye
But There’s something thing I can’t see
I can’t see me
I can’t see who I am
I can’t see the years of crying and laughing that I had in my life
I can’t see anything I’ve been through
I can’t see what I am to people
I can’t see who I am to people
I can’t see my personality
I can see me but I can’t see me
Sometimes a mirror isn’t as important as you may think it is
Teachings passed down.
Through fluential philosophy I’ve learned few things,
Cept’ how to live a rich life,
But I still live a way others don’t,
A simple life, better life.
I try to pass these teachings unto my sons,
My firstborn was always so quick to learn,
His behavours are mirrored actions of mine.
My second son tends to rebel,
He’s actions are immorally wrong,
And cause me great strees.
My third and final son,
Is still a newborn,
Though seeing as I am leaving for war,
He will have to learn from his brother,
While I am away.
I can’t wait to see the gentleman he becomes,
For he’s the only thing I fight for.
I can feel summer creepin in
In the marrow of my bones
Longer days, shorter nights
Whiskey nights around a fire
The wind warm and whipping
Slow like molasses
Wrapped in nothing but a sheet
In an el Camino
To watch meteor showers
I can feel summer
Creeping back into my bones
To me it always was
More of a feeling than a season