.
when tears fall...
when the feeling of defeat overcomes...
when friends leave...
when emotions disperse undomesticated...
when life overwhelmes...
when family consumes your happiness...
when home no longer holds security...
when nature turns pale...
when music looses its esclusive comfort...
when your strength fails...
when boys abuse...
when your interests become counterfeit...
when laughing is forgotten...
when the weather thrives to bring you down...
when sleep produces nightmares...
when smiling is your frown...
when sparkles go dim...
when rain rubs dry...
when walls enclose...
when needed air only suffocates...
when clouds discolor...
when confidence shivers from vitality...
when sunlight wanes...
when you can no longer excel...
when your mind unfastens from cranial tension...
when pictures hold only poignance and odium...
when white repudiates its dance...
when the one you desire discounts you...
when vivacity tarnishes...
when summer is a drought...
when water declines you of hygeine...
when darkness trounces light...
when imagination fades into staple idealism...
when morning soly brings regret...
when your body carries no more potency for progress...
when energy diminishes...
when beauty is replaced with materialistic display...
when talent swims free...
when all your semblance of importance forgets itself...
and you begin to understand those who crave to take their own lives...
keep your heart beating,
and your eyes open.
Step forward.
.
4/29/10
4/27/10
The Pinecone
.
His lanky shoulders droup, and his smile is non-exsistent. Eyes sealed shut for eternity. His numerous fingers silken sharp by rough growth, the mean tips scuff fabric on contact. He's lonely, fallen from his origin of belonging, an outcast. No possession of vibrant colors that release breath from onlookers. No gentle whispen and frayed sheets folding from a rich center. His flattened feet are bland and unattractive. Sunken nose and smeared ears, no attention is paid to his originality. His daring spirit and longing eyes are unnoticed or simply breezed away by forgetfulness. His unique shade of skin blends with the background. His happiness is stolen by the unobservant...
.
His lanky shoulders droup, and his smile is non-exsistent. Eyes sealed shut for eternity. His numerous fingers silken sharp by rough growth, the mean tips scuff fabric on contact. He's lonely, fallen from his origin of belonging, an outcast. No possession of vibrant colors that release breath from onlookers. No gentle whispen and frayed sheets folding from a rich center. His flattened feet are bland and unattractive. Sunken nose and smeared ears, no attention is paid to his originality. His daring spirit and longing eyes are unnoticed or simply breezed away by forgetfulness. His unique shade of skin blends with the background. His happiness is stolen by the unobservant...
.
4/18/10
God.
.
Baby is uncomfortable, baby is restless
baby cries.
Mommy comes to feed crying baby
Baby refuses, baby won't eat
mommy persists,
"Here eat baby, food will help,
food will make it all better, eat baby."
Baby repudiates, baby is stubborn
baby cries.
Mommy tries to be an example,
"See watch, mommy eats, mommy is
all better now, food makes it all beter.
Please baby, eat."
Baby will not eat
baby still cries, baby is crying louder.
Mommy gets impatient,
"Eat baby, you'll starve, you'll die,
baby needs to eat."
Mommy forces food into baby's mouth
pushes down baby's throat.
"Eat baby!"
Baby chokes, baby won't eat
baby spits food out
baby screams, baby howls.
Mommy is exasperated.
Mommy sets food down, leaves baby.
Baby whimpers
baby settles.
Baby remembers mommy
mommy ate, mommy all better.
Baby eats
baby doesn't cry
baby sleeps.
.
Baby is uncomfortable, baby is restless
baby cries.
Mommy comes to feed crying baby
Baby refuses, baby won't eat
mommy persists,
"Here eat baby, food will help,
food will make it all better, eat baby."
Baby repudiates, baby is stubborn
baby cries.
Mommy tries to be an example,
"See watch, mommy eats, mommy is
all better now, food makes it all beter.
Please baby, eat."
Baby will not eat
baby still cries, baby is crying louder.
Mommy gets impatient,
"Eat baby, you'll starve, you'll die,
baby needs to eat."
Mommy forces food into baby's mouth
pushes down baby's throat.
"Eat baby!"
Baby chokes, baby won't eat
baby spits food out
baby screams, baby howls.
Mommy is exasperated.
Mommy sets food down, leaves baby.
Baby whimpers
baby settles.
Baby remembers mommy
mommy ate, mommy all better.
Baby eats
baby doesn't cry
baby sleeps.
.
4/15/10
Run or Mark
.
Much of my years he ducked his lip.
Then hesitantly he seemed shaken,
face blanched, when I think of it now,
he was gentle. I don't mind his lilting
brogue; you feel to much. That flirting
with a sense of nerves, fighting back
fear. Years ago, now part of history.
Translated from talked passion about
suggested truths. If only the images
evoked deep, uncontaminated reason. Such
devotion to speech still holds deep power.
But it ignores the most wanted private
thoughts and feelings.
Anxiety in his abyss, registering
determined obscurity, masquerading the
abyss. Naive might be expressed for
conviction that didn't close into stylistic
quality. Proof vaguely became subsumed
by the surrealism that smacked imagery
drawn from ice.
Being inoculated with concerns, he gave
a different kind of sort you would expect
from his humor; combined with abstractions
and ideas. Yet many of his intense
struggles invited language to help create
experience. That can be spoken of in the
same breath. Deep image taken merely from
the individual circumstances.
Popular is not an indication of quality.
It seems ironic which criticism is
addressing the individual art. The nature
of criticism is the line between traditional
imagination and the understanding of
unvoiced capacity from experience.
His advances had accelerated deep anxiety
and interest; filtered through a sense of
inwardness that desensitized shock. The
problem with our relationship was
mannerisms, especially the knowledge that
structures differ. To hear formal
literature, to know when to deliberate the
self-generating quality.
His mental tone of seriousness-a doctrine
of composition-gave different concerns: in
order to continue with life we must be
willing to enter into unique texture and
feel deep image.
.
Much of my years he ducked his lip.
Then hesitantly he seemed shaken,
face blanched, when I think of it now,
he was gentle. I don't mind his lilting
brogue; you feel to much. That flirting
with a sense of nerves, fighting back
fear. Years ago, now part of history.
Translated from talked passion about
suggested truths. If only the images
evoked deep, uncontaminated reason. Such
devotion to speech still holds deep power.
But it ignores the most wanted private
thoughts and feelings.
Anxiety in his abyss, registering
determined obscurity, masquerading the
abyss. Naive might be expressed for
conviction that didn't close into stylistic
quality. Proof vaguely became subsumed
by the surrealism that smacked imagery
drawn from ice.
Being inoculated with concerns, he gave
a different kind of sort you would expect
from his humor; combined with abstractions
and ideas. Yet many of his intense
struggles invited language to help create
experience. That can be spoken of in the
same breath. Deep image taken merely from
the individual circumstances.
Popular is not an indication of quality.
It seems ironic which criticism is
addressing the individual art. The nature
of criticism is the line between traditional
imagination and the understanding of
unvoiced capacity from experience.
His advances had accelerated deep anxiety
and interest; filtered through a sense of
inwardness that desensitized shock. The
problem with our relationship was
mannerisms, especially the knowledge that
structures differ. To hear formal
literature, to know when to deliberate the
self-generating quality.
His mental tone of seriousness-a doctrine
of composition-gave different concerns: in
order to continue with life we must be
willing to enter into unique texture and
feel deep image.
.
4/14/10
Concentration
.
Pencils scribble across frail paper.
She swivels her pen,
he nervously plays with his clammy hands.
She clicks away at her worn keyboard;
removing rumage from her brimming head
into patterns on her screen.
Erasing, rubbing, writing, ringing, tearing, grabbing, whispering, snickering, thinking, thumping, wiping, daring, trying, dusting, swiping, sniffling, humming, whistling, coughing, turning, scribbling, wondering, tapping, settling, switching, biting, thinking (cough)..thinking, writing, thinking (cough)..flipping, sighing, playing (cough)..resting, tempting, prying (cough)..grasping (cough)..unwinding (cough) (cough) (cough)
God! Shutup!
.
Pencils scribble across frail paper.
She swivels her pen,
he nervously plays with his clammy hands.
She clicks away at her worn keyboard;
removing rumage from her brimming head
into patterns on her screen.
Erasing, rubbing, writing, ringing, tearing, grabbing, whispering, snickering, thinking, thumping, wiping, daring, trying, dusting, swiping, sniffling, humming, whistling, coughing, turning, scribbling, wondering, tapping, settling, switching, biting, thinking (cough)..thinking, writing, thinking (cough)..flipping, sighing, playing (cough)..resting, tempting, prying (cough)..grasping (cough)..unwinding (cough) (cough) (cough)
God! Shutup!
.
4/12/10
friends.
Those with the ability to connect, relate, and inspire
despite the difference of opinion, or religion.
To not only forgive and forget; but learn, listen, and love
no matter their abnormality of styles or trials.
The ones that, when really needed,
wont be standing by your side
but holding your hand, and leading the way.
.
.
.
.
- inspiration from my brother and closest friends
.
.
despite the difference of opinion, or religion.
To not only forgive and forget; but learn, listen, and love
no matter their abnormality of styles or trials.
The ones that, when really needed,
wont be standing by your side
but holding your hand, and leading the way.
.
.
.
.
- inspiration from my brother and closest friends
.
.
4/7/10
Value
.
She slowley walks down Florence streets, her red velvet skirt sways with every young, easy step she takes. She breaths in the aroma of the flora grown from gnarled burgundy clay pots, mounted on withering stone walls in the sills of empty windows. She wears a silken ginger blouse and worn in coffee sandals that expose her delicate toes painted in dehydrated dirt. Fragile rock crumbs dust beneath her steps, and she languidly chafes her bony fingers across the stone walls that incarcerate her in five feet of freedom. With her threadbare basket in the crook of her bronzed arm she exits into the busy market.
Approaching the booth satiated with myriads of rows bursting with flowers, she pays each one gentle attention. She tickles them with her nose, breathing them in as memories. Placidly placing her favorites in her vat, she feels a tender hand entertain the small of her back. A smile pierces her lips as a familiar friendly nose nuzzles behind her ear and inhales avidly. Strong arms swallow her slender waist and lips amuse her bare neck. She weaves free and continues to mill over to the fresh produce, he trails closely behind and observes her fastidious shopping. Several sincere compliments fall from his sensitive mouth, deserving the hidden smirks she hastily ingests. Assembling the last of what she came for, she pivots to his grin, his hungry russet hands reach out to her. She reflexively twists the simple gold band on her finger; his genuine empathetic eyes breed serious, pain. Turning regrettably she flees, parting him with wasted compassion.
She strides to her petite, humbly weather worn, and undemanding stone abode. Releasing her recently purchased goods from her basket she proceeds to mince, merge, shred and saute.
Her hefty physiqued husband enters, and without a gentle touch, grumbles of overgrown shrubbery littering the terrace. She patiently places his food in front of his voracious fingers. Deviod of a thank you, he hastily consumes and critizies the insipidness. She sits and ignores his "Hmpf," directed at her disheveled hair, and thinks of a man... miles from this occupied, hand-crafted chair.
.
She slowley walks down Florence streets, her red velvet skirt sways with every young, easy step she takes. She breaths in the aroma of the flora grown from gnarled burgundy clay pots, mounted on withering stone walls in the sills of empty windows. She wears a silken ginger blouse and worn in coffee sandals that expose her delicate toes painted in dehydrated dirt. Fragile rock crumbs dust beneath her steps, and she languidly chafes her bony fingers across the stone walls that incarcerate her in five feet of freedom. With her threadbare basket in the crook of her bronzed arm she exits into the busy market.
Approaching the booth satiated with myriads of rows bursting with flowers, she pays each one gentle attention. She tickles them with her nose, breathing them in as memories. Placidly placing her favorites in her vat, she feels a tender hand entertain the small of her back. A smile pierces her lips as a familiar friendly nose nuzzles behind her ear and inhales avidly. Strong arms swallow her slender waist and lips amuse her bare neck. She weaves free and continues to mill over to the fresh produce, he trails closely behind and observes her fastidious shopping. Several sincere compliments fall from his sensitive mouth, deserving the hidden smirks she hastily ingests. Assembling the last of what she came for, she pivots to his grin, his hungry russet hands reach out to her. She reflexively twists the simple gold band on her finger; his genuine empathetic eyes breed serious, pain. Turning regrettably she flees, parting him with wasted compassion.
She strides to her petite, humbly weather worn, and undemanding stone abode. Releasing her recently purchased goods from her basket she proceeds to mince, merge, shred and saute.
Her hefty physiqued husband enters, and without a gentle touch, grumbles of overgrown shrubbery littering the terrace. She patiently places his food in front of his voracious fingers. Deviod of a thank you, he hastily consumes and critizies the insipidness. She sits and ignores his "Hmpf," directed at her disheveled hair, and thinks of a man... miles from this occupied, hand-crafted chair.
.
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