Watercolor Imagination
The sky turns pink sometimes.
It’s because they know we’re feeling a bit blue too.
So they shake things up a little
just to show they can sometimes loose the truth.
Like as humans we sometimes do.
But hanging all their colors out to dry is so rude…
The sun blushes red.
like us humans, when we’re shown the truth.
I bet you think this is about you.
Two moons rising at once
I am at my wits end. All of this has got to come to some kind of conclusion. I don’t even know if it will help, but every day I don’t sleep is one more that I regret. So much regret pilled upon the sleeping agony is just going to awake a more disturbing, disgusting being than anything I have been able to describe thus far. I am sick of it. It’s making me sick. It feels like something has to be destroyed in order for the beauty we all once shone to come back to us again. It just feels like something has to break.
but
I’m probably the only one feeling the tension. In which case, I’m the one whose going to have to shatter.
I’ve read so many letters
that tell me I’ve got no clue
how do gray skies become blue?
can I draw a pastel night
paint a constellation right there
in plain sight?
Could we compare the epic feeling
to clawing the thin ice?
One of these days
It’s going to be true
I’m going to cut right through
explode into a billion tiny pieces
bend backward against all the creases
show you it’s not so blue
and when the sky becomes blood
you’ll see me come crashing down around you
so many parts of this puzzle
the jagged edges of truth
are going to stab right through.
Six months worth of advice could be summed up into a footnote with only one phrase. That text is what I want engraved on my tombstone, my epitaph. It would be my final bow to the power of the creative womb that we all find ourselves yearning for when we’re feeling so poor. But I would like to be buried facing west, so that if I’m dead when the final sun sets, perhaps I could have a view. I’m sure it would be beautiful.
I believe god
oddly enough, in love
and doves of beasts
as beautiful releases.
But adorn the sky
the color of lust
red on black
I saw jesus.
Leaves us behind
instead, loves some kind..
of monster that’s craving,
starving for flowers
to devour.
So confusing
I could care
but it’s so much less.
All I want
singing soft lullaby’s
so I can rest
to dream of it all
in jest.
It’s just hard for me to see. Someone should tell me. Maybe it’s not so difficult, maybe I’m just being ridiculous. But for ever contradiction, there’s a man waiting in an unemployment line. A boy outside an office waiting for his mother. A nervous teenage girl driving to the doctor. A middle aged woman declining slowly into insanity, and a father hiding from his ghosts. Karma has us all by the throat.
I don’t know.
Every single letter you utter turns a hellish red.
Mainstream tides collide with massive minds.
They call this the end with a soft beginning.
They say you should travel, and see what’s to be said.
Softer than a feather the streamline train
caries your thoughts far far away.
To a place I call home
and just for now, I’m all alone.
I call it the reckoning,
of all there is today.
Softer than a feather
my mellow heart beats.
The strum of an acoustic
aristocrats autistic.
A genius in disguise
questions just whats behind those
deep blue eyes.
Although I rarely understand,
I can tell you what they see.
in the dark black sea
where the imagination is scared to be
the mothers child awakes
and sings cryptophic keys.
bellowing from the depth
the beginning of an aftermath
vibrating psychopaths
are born to ground the seeds
of another apple tree.
our minds hard fought thoughts
are fighting toward the surface
searching for an escape
to begin their midnight tare.
we try to scour away
but it’s always in vain.
They are always our shadow
grasping our lungs for air.
and even though we sometimes fight,
Our breath always becomes theirs.
Amazing pictographs
of a world not so plain to see
is what lies behind these
deep blue seas.
Scary thoughts of disgusting imagery.
They are what we think
when the sound you make
doesn’t match the worlds beautiful landscape.
Packaging material
I haven’t been able to pull on a lot to be happy about. With every small or large purchase I make in the search of happiness, I only close another door of opportunity. I AM aware that money is only a bandage, is only a bridge made of kindling, is only a paper blanket. But just as many of you were raised under a flag of color, mine was green.
Being brought up to embrace patience and tact for what it’s potential energy could fathom, I have known for a lifetime that I posses the necessary abilities to propel me into a lavish world of neon and expense. Unfortunately, confusion is also and has always been riding my co tales. Dad a pillar of control, and mother a device of love, my life has never been centered. It’s actually very uncertain and really harnesses the energy of a once galloping horse gone mad.
The long dirt road to becoming a beautiful and unique human being is one that bares the prints of all our ancestors, our parents, our friends. The sound of your voice, the stride in your walk, the opaque mannerisms, the way you greet the waking hour with a yawn or a cough or a scratch. These amazing gifts of awe and wonder, the things we fall in love with. Like the professor lectures because he’s been trampled, the dirt teaches us. The point is staying on track, organized and steady in your route. Those that stray from a learning curve will only experience confusion; this in itself is a lesson learned in life. The lesson that makes you, you. That need to discover your way point is what will define your strengths and weaknesses and all of your potential energy.
Like a balloon untethered, I sometimes feel like the unfortunate that surrounds me is out of control and soaring into oblivion. And I know, that it’s one thing to say the above, quite another to live by it. I know all too well. But as a friend once put it, embrace the bullshit.
to be continued…
To die warm
When the power goes out
candle light will provide.
From the moon all is bright,
the earth will be on fire.
The mother will cry out
for her sons daughters to all die out.
From deep space comes our inevitable fate
hurdling towards us at an unfathomable rate.
Gods only tear will be because he waited.
Our mother will hurt but she will survive.
She will thrive.
If our sole is anything more than a dirty whore,
we might see one more sunrise
before the clouds cave in.
In the moments before,
You will not ponder.
You will not wonder.
you will not wish,
or become lost.
You will not care.
You will not fight.
You will hold her tight.
You will love her
one last time
and laugh at the world
one last time
before the hammer comes down,
and the trees become free.
You will find an open space
with the beauty that almost matches her eyes,
you will lay down
and stare at the sky
as if it’s nothing larger
like it’s only a soft blanket
keeping us all warm while we’re sick
you pull it up over your heads..
but it’s torn away.
You’re exposed.
You’re still holding her,
you’re alive.
for one last picture.
The flash,
the moment,
it’s the last.
You capture her smile
and you’re happy.
If it were a dream
would you miss the point?
Life is for love
to be happy, is to love
is to be loved
and is to be in love.
you cannot have love
and be unhappy.
