From Within the Soul and Other Random Frivolities

Beauty,

there it is standing tall

and reed-like, swaying with

the wind. It is what’s good

in this world. It is what

we worship, we slave for. Love

is for the beautiful. Art

is of the beautiful.

If only I could become

part of their flock, welcomed

and loved by all. Instead I

contend myself with

mediocrity and search without

for my fix. If I cannot be

beauty,

I will create it, until I

myself become part of my

masterpiece.

Upon transformative ground

you stand, weary traveler,

each step undefined,

                unknown, until

dirt graces the sole. Maps are

but suggestions as the road behind you

shifts, covering new ground.

                              So they

become the pages of your

autobiography, written on

deep nights. Fingertips

         ink-soaked and aching

because of all the rewrites.

Nevertheless, your story shall be

written as human

                meets

                road,

                dreaming

of a broader horizon.

One morning I awoke to find ants, one by one, crawling along my windowsill. In a fit of territorial rage, I looked for a killing gas. I chose the one that smelled of a spring flavored candy. “At the very least, they would die with a comforting, sweet scent.”

But now there exists an association between that smell and death. How cruel is that? My windowsill became a funeral pyre. And I learned death is death, and all the tiny details don’t change that.

My tears run acid

that burns scars

down my cheek. I always

return to this position: cursing

god,

myself,

anyone within the scope of my vision.

“Why?”, I never seem to ask myself

this,

I just do. Actions

upon actions that just compound

until I cry,

hold my breath,

whine,

act like a child. To get away with it,

to hide behind the woodwork so

they wont notice. But in the long run

it’s just the repetition

of you and me bleeding reality. Making a dream

of the ins and outs, having your voice 

inside my head, with your picture quickly fading

and your existence brought

to question. Are you just an epic romance fantasy?
                   Or were you really here beside me?

Holding my hand, holding

me close, making me smile when most people choked. 

Then I’m back again, I

reset. I’m not

questioning if it’s right. If these words

hurt and sting

that’s not their true intent.

I’m just

questioning

whether this pain we feel will

ruin us in the end. 

The further I push           disturbing  

                                   you                 my reality
                          rise                               
                you                        down               

the higher                                                 
                                 

Instructions on how to read the above: The further I push you down, the higher you rise, disturbing my reality.

In the trees there are

soft greens that glow like

lazy lantern beams.

And near the roots,

moss-dark glitter

glows, the place

where faeries rove.

And in the concrete it

overgrows. A lost city

that’s bursting through

the grout, crackling its plane. Waiting

for a misplaced foot, a lapse of inattention,

to return you to the hearth

once more.

The word survivor is apt,

Coffee jitters
and
foot bounces,
annoying habits?
Nah that’s just the soul
trying to break free.
Skin bags filled with beauty
that’s what we are,
trapped on this lowly
Earth to learn.
Not too low though,
cause the smell of grass is divine
and crystal shapes float from the sky,
individualistic to the core.
Drown in the beauty!
A mix of heaven and hell,
imprisoned by imperfection
and one’s self loathing.
It shows in our expressions,
in our faces.
What are these animals
I speak of?
Humans…no that’s too bland.
I speak of artistic artists
who know no bounds
and who have traveled the land.