Cliche

Here I sit
all broken hearted.
This is cliche,
but I've already started.

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
And here I am,
plagued by you.

Jack and Jill
went up the hill
Alas for poor Jack,
he's up their still.

Insomniac

I wish I could sleep

so soundly that I

never wake. Trap myself

in dreams I'm only

to forget. Lucid and

free I roam, pursuing

my hopes, my aspirations.

I wish I could sleep.

Not stare into my

ceiling, an open door

to and empty place.

The walls only show

the same, an endless

maze, tormenting me.

I wish I could sleep

through the ambiance

screaming out at me.

Dead lights, flickering.

Silent phone, ringing.

Knocks at my door

and a whisper in my ear.

I wish I could sleep.

My eyes shut hard.

Ears straining to close.

Pillows strewn about me.

Blankets in a pile.

Tossing, turning, eyes pried open.

The sun, rises again.

Excercise from class.

Shannon woke sharply. Glaring at the chandelier on the ceiling, contemplating what woke her. A noise, perhaps, something not normal in the night. Her legs becoming as restless as her mind. Slowly lifting the covers, Shannon slid out onto the marble floor. She drew quick breaths as each step embraced the frigid stone. Upon reaching the door, she appeared to stop breathing. Gripping the doorknob, she turned it slowly. The hinges creaked.

Untitled

Carefree days of high-school

hallways and crowded cafeterias.

The clusterfuck of concert band.

Glances back and forth in

a silent English classroom.

I was fourteen, you had my eye.

Slow paced walks from classes,

lunchtime shared day after day.

Smiles, laughter and conversation.

A realization of never to be,

what I hoped for pathetically.

I was fourteen, you were my broken heart.

An attempt to forget you,

a girl left forgotten to me.

A reconciliation, acceptance. Friends.

Carrying on the hope, a distant dream.

Praying for persistence to prevail.

I was fourteen, you captured my being.

Sacrifices of my persona.

Changes made to please you.

Awkward hugs, uncomfortable words.

My heart on my sleeve,

my true intentions shown.

I was fourteen, you were my downfall.

Countless hours spent by

your warm, caring side.

Countless moments felt

as if frozen in time.

Countless time, now wasted.

I was fifteen, you were never mine.

An unexpected breakdown.

No longer can I stand

as only a friend. You

stared into me as I

revealed my everything, my all.

I was fifteen, you finally understood.

Two hands grasped, finally.

A burden gone, heart now beating.

A kiss forged in secrecy.

Romance trapped in shadow.

My burden gone, yours firmly placed.

I was fifteen, you gave me a chance.

An awkward conversation.

Parental interrogation in full swing.

Discussion of your feelings,

Hiroshima hitting my heart.

Your choice or not, it wasn't to be.

I was sixteen, you were love at first sight.

Seasons

Winter wind, a frozen face.
Another blows behind, forcing a pace.
Rainfall receding, landscapes rinsed clean.
Clouds conceding. The sun gold and pristine.
Heat hammering down, humidity holds tight.
Bright light blinding, cool air takes flight.
Dense fog falls, hills grow obscured.
From fog to frost, winter's grasp assured.
Snowfall saunters down, lakes become ice.
Eternally entwined, in nature's fickle vice.

Experiement from class

I did it out of necessity.
The air was gritty on my lungs,
the rain rattled at my ceiling.
There was no one, not even me.
I did it out of fear.
A promise of hope.
Again and again I try.
I did it out of solidarity,
I did it for me.

The Chair

This chair, built for one.

Lacquered with time

and deep mahogany.

Memories in the knicks,

refinished to feel new.

Glue and screws hold

the old, loose joints.

Dust gathers where

the eye cannot find.

This chair, once sturdy,

now weakened and frail.

Carrying a load that

once was light.

Marks forever left

in the carpet below,

never to be seen.

For this chair,

was not built for two.

Audience

Reverberations off the wall,

the ceiling echoes the same.

An uproar rises from the floor.

The heat builds and builds,

only water keeps them sane.

Ego beams out into the vacancy,

absorbed by everything near.

Like threads on a rug,

the floor becomes crowded.

so neat, so uniform.

Nothing can move,

except for one thing.

The object that the walls,

the ceiling and the floor

can do nothing but stare at.

The overwhelming satisfaction,

felt as if everlasting.

Beautiful Dissipation

Elation, inspiration,

a homegrown,

proud infatuation.

Looking through

my ocean blues

with an uncanny new

and clear concentration.

A profound lyrical,

genuinely musical,

form of adoration.

A break in the weather,

floating like a feather.

A free flying, weightless,

and no rules sensation.

For my life is a gas,

straight from sublimation.

All it needs now

is some lighthearted,

beautiful dissipation.

Experiement

Floating like a Maximum Balloon,

searching for my Muse.

Scouring the Bloc Party,

hoping to be Keane.

Nothing but TV on the Radio,

a vivid Social Distortion.

Nothing but The Clash

of sounds in my Radiohead.

Like rusty Broken Bells,

a painful Metallica sound.

With a driving Dragonforce,

I scour for my slice of Cake.

Life's a Gas.

“Life's a gas”. I never understood that saying until recently. I've been able to feel myself dissipating into the o-zone, praying on my fading knees that someone will come light the spark that will ignite whatever is left of me into a brilliant blue flame. With my limbs slowly fading, hope for that spark wanes, as I slowly sublimate into an uncontrollable weightlessness in which I have no control over my own direction.

It's hard to pinpoint when I first realized what was happening to me. I'm quite certain it predates the moment I felt I could give an accurate description of the feeling, but certainty is something I'm seriously lacking in this moment. 

Safety in numbers? Bullshit. Numbers have only created problems in life; socially, economically, mentally, pick your poison. Clearly the statement needs to be revised, perhaps “Safety in solitude”? Aside from the obvious aesthetic pleasures of the consonant “s” sounds in the phrase, logically it just makes more sense. Numbers do nothing but falsely elevate ones true sense of self, money doesn't buy happiness right? Surrounding yourself with friends doesn't make you anything but a face in a crowd. It works inversely as well. Having little or no money, leaves you wanting more. Having little or no friends isolates you. 

This is where the safety in solitude comes in. If you cannot accomplish a degree of self satisfaction in whatever you seek, then you just forever spiral into a materially abundant apocalypse of dollar signs(Or lack thereof) and the people passed out on your floor after a crazy night.

Yes, I had some idea of these notions ticking away in my synapses, but of course being blinded by the grandeur of life as others saw it, my world was clouded. Corrupt with indecision and unease at every corner.

Thinking about situations, acting on situations and reacting to situations, I have learned, create a stability in life as it is. Caution is well advised though, for those three things must be done in that exact order. Enough people in the world act without thinking, and never react correctly afterwords. People seem to have gotten used to that mindset, for I've decided to a degree, it's what powers the minds of your everyday person. 

I come from the other angle of the spectrum, thinking without acting and without acting there is no reacting (at least in the way it should be). Go figure I've beat my head against a wall on this one. At first glance it seems so simple. “All you have to do is say this and everything will work out”. God damned story of my life. If I'm going to look before I leap, you're damned right I'm not going to leap if there's reasonable doubt in my mind that I'm going to fall. Call that philosophy whatever you please, to each their own. 

All of this, continuing on for years upon years has finally brought me to the knowledge of my own dissipation into nothingness. Emotacular? Depressing? Cold, bitter realism? Who knows. All I know is that as hard as I try to communicate, I'm left with only one outlet. Pen and paper. Or in this case virtual ink on virtual canvas. My apparent life force. Nights spent basking in artificial light, the background pulsations of music within my eardrums, an emotional and intellectual separation from the world around me. Freedom. 

I'm not even sure where I’m beginning to go with this. Maybe I'll step inside the mystical closet to Narnia and tell you how I saved the say by feeding the poor. Or maybe I'll decide to go back to the very early days of my collaborative existence in hopes you'll find my life interesting. Maybe I'll just decide I don't give a shit and stop here.

Guess you'll just have to wait and see.

The Night

A burden lifted,

yet wounds remain.

Weightless shoulders,

with scars to hide.

Seemingly unhindered,

yet slowed by it all.

Pacing behind doors

of equivocation,

the truth runs circles.

Searching for a way

out of the night.

Midnight stands still,

as if daybreak was

never to come again.

A Winter Storm

Storm clouds gather.

Violent winds carry
rain and snow away
from their typical path.
Rain hitting at an
unspeakable geometric angle.
Snow flipping, turning,
indecisive on where to land.
A man stands with
nothing but a thin
coat separating him
from the harsh elements.
A shiver rolls through
him like the thunder
piercing his ears.
His eyes, livid with a
determination unseen in most.
Around him the rain
and snow fall relentlessly.
Above him thunder
and lightning pound
away at the sky.
The man trudges onward,
through the inclement
weather, pressing forth
to the faint glimpse
of yellow in his path.