Home » Posts tagged 'time' (Page 17)
You can sense it you know,
yourself shutting down—again
with the change of scenery, again
with the change of heart.
It’s like trying to stop a freight train
running yourself empty, till
all there is is but to explode.
It’s a very empty place to be living.
It’s a very empty place to be born.
It’s a beautiful fall day, though, isn’t it?
Isn’t it beautiful, this
in depth exhibition of yourself—
without the guts, with all the answers
and nothing all that good say.
There’s a sewer pipe
in the dark, by the L.A. river
like a grave in the ground
where people sleep
by the highway, by the neighborhood
where pumpkins soon
will be replaced by
feasts of Turkey, stuffing, corn
and carefully locked doors,
then to be replaced by balsams and fern
white lights and tender eyes
of Christmas morning,
regardless of the hole by the L.A. river
where people sleep
live, and love—and pray, regardless
of the election, regardless
of the president
I still weep.
Do you?
Probably the hardest lesson
to learn is that, in life
you can do everything right,
and still get it wrong.
But there are no victims here,
just prisoners of choice,
who wear recycled smiles,
and boil inside.
It is as cold
as a steel locket,
isolation
loosely hangs
two chains from a collar,
white as bone, worn
from the hours, of nuance
carefully placed by the bedside,
waiting to be opened
polished and willing
as obligatory as peace
before, the inevitable dawn
which beckons us to
repeat, our autumnal fall
from the burdens we carry.
Being sober’s
as overrated
as being drunk—
nobody wins.
You just have to live.
The Devil to one
is God to another.
It’s a cycle continued
that is, until
we stop looking to the sky,
stop burying our trauma,
and look our neighbor
dead in the eye,
without retaliation or judgement
and listen, to one another’s heart
which beats to the same rhythm
as a newborn babe
that is, until
birth begins
its earthly decay.
Whatever you decide, do it without the need for validation.
To seek validity is but a farce. It’s like aiming to make a splash in a rain puddle.
A child learns early on whether they care to admit it or not, that their choice is theirs and theirs alone. Nobody really cares more than it takes them to realize, eventually with age, that nobody really cares.
Sure, a mother cares deeply, but only as far as it interrupts her well being.
A father can break his back many times, but only as many times as it serves his cause.
Progression doesn’t come from an audience. Progression comes from within.
Progression comes from love, awareness, and nurture.
And although social media tells a different story from reality, we seek it, crave it, we often need it, but do we really?
Perhaps the greatest lesson we can learn from posting our day to day lives, morality, and hardships is that we are all equally as alone as we are the same—myself included.
Not too long ago, there was a time, it seemed, the world was much larger than we could ever imagine.
Driving cross country felt then like an achievement whereas now—after doing it more than a dozen times—it feels more like a routine I’d rather not admit.
Mostly it’s this that scares me.
Desensitization. It’s this that makes me wonder.
What’s the point?
The point is to treat yourself with the same dignity you would a stranger—a child.
The point is to look beyond life’s blessings, with eyes wide shut, and understand that all will be regardless of whatever validation you seek.
We can learn this by simply looking at a flower bloom. We can understand this by accepting that although, it may seem, the flower dies, another will take its place, as equally and wholly as beautiful as its former.
So whatever you decide, decide knowing, you aren’t as separate as you feel—we are all one.
Looking at the LA river
now, smelling it
more than I can see it.
There’s a pigeon
down there, drinking
down there, bathing itself
in whiskey and piss—
probably blood even.
Who knows really?
It could be the purest water
in the world, but I guess
only a choice few
will get the opportunity.
While the rest of us
get coffee, Dasani
and whatever else
man feeds the birds.
Her love
was his compass,
her blessing
his disguise,
in the pale blue light
of moon and
mother night,
her arms, his refuge
from the stormy sky
she spoke to him
like stars,
light years from afar
she held him
as the cosmos
were destined to align
Words Of An Average White Male 