Old Records

Skin and hair and nails shedding, disposing of their past selves for the new and improved, But the brain and heart are much to prideful, Clinging to so much that does more damage than good. Storing the refuse of pain and betrayal, Hoarding insecurities, Collecting bad memories like old records that pop and crack and hiss. Playing those old worn out tunes that time has tried so desperately to fade. Though the song is garbled, we know it word by word and sing it much too often. An unconscious humming of self destruction. Each day life composes a symphony, yet we remain hooked on the ditties and dirges of days gone. Jingles are catchy but don't get caught. It time to sing the tunes that make your heart swell, the tunes of triumph, the movements that actually move us, and don't forget to dance.

Sleepless

When you count out the hours you have left to sleep, and you start to dwell on all the secrets you keep, all your moments of shame turn your face again red, or their crumpled up face from that thing that you said, All the promises broken too late for a cast, All the friends you once had that now live in your past, All the bills marked tomorrow or much further past due, all the things you've abandoned cause you've so much to do, Now there's no time for dreaming just lying awake, Besides what are dreams now but more promises to break

The Fruits of Rage

The welling eye, the bitten lip, A shudder that breaks just beneath the surface of the skin. A quake that engulfs the body as the red sear of emotion covers your skin. A mind rushes to violence, hands long to batter and choke, legs hungry to kick or stomp or at least stop running. Eyes hold a gaze packed with the tools of war. The body wants to collapse beneath the feeling of it but refuses to give satisfaction to anyone but itself. A ravenous appetite for justice. There will be an end to this be it brave, bloody, or both. There will be a change, the future reshapes itself at this moment. A course is set, a stand is taken, proclaimed as truth from this day forward.

Gift

Occluded memories waiting to become, The paper fastened tight to extend the suspense. An undeserved reverence given to spent money. A fixation that is misunderstood, misaligned from it's true meaning. A value internally split between money and soul. To be known is the true gift, to be called out, to have someone say I see you, I know you. From trinkets to treasure the truly cherished gifts will be the ones that affirm your soul is something they see a part of you that perhaps no one else has, that they have come to realize it is not only an essential part of you, but also essential to them. The joy that you have visited upon them, returned. A telling of the place you hold in their heart and a thanks giving for letting them into yours.

Blessing

Her hair fell to her shoulders, tangled yet silken. She wiped the sweat from her neck and left behind it a shimmering trail. The reddish hue her eyes had taken on only made the color of her iris' that much more brilliant. Her heaving chest still trying to recapture it's breath seemed to glow with a once hidden radiance. Her tears flowing happily from her eyes began to wash away the makeup, revealing it's true futility. Her cheeks still red from effort could not release the smile that held them high and proud. The sounds that came from her were a mixture of joy and elation, a sound I wished for her to express as often as possible from this day on. As the small, writhing, screaming child was lowered into her arms, he silenced and stared at her. He must've been sharing my awe. What a lucky child to see this on his arrival. Beauty more tangibly personified then ever before not even noticing herself for he, her son,was her true blessing.

Go with it

On the precipice of true loves kiss When the hard road has been won When your life no longer seems amiss and your drudgery is done In a reaching hand hoping it can help finally pulls you from the snare When your freedom comes through an open door and your skin feels sun and air When your well laid plans finally coalesce into triumph and relief When you go a day without shedding tears for an everlasting grief When you find yourself, or you lose yourself and the healing starts it work When you look around an you realize it's not you who is the jerk Call it affirmation, call it revelation or much more simply joy Now try your best to have a rest and not second guess life's ploy

History

So solid you once stood, crisp, tall and strong Unwavering in high winds Unstoppable with your determination You carried that weight like another spine like any other part of your body As if it were nothing It wasn't the blows of life that weakened you It was the weight that you added again and again defiantly refusing to crumple beneath even when you should have even when you could have You didn't believe you were enough that the burden represented your stature your status You had earned your respect by carrying that load silently When all we wanted was for you to put it down Trust your heart instead of your spine Trust your soul instead of your ability to hide it Trust that this movement of love included you that stature and status should be overshadowed by affection and compassion And now the load has broken you down and you are a statue from the past that we visit to give our respect with the appropriate distance for fear of crumbling you further.

Growth in Darkness

I grow in the darkness, I bloom in the black fed by my shortcomings, nourished by lack Rooted in dead earth, under the night Sustained not by love but the need to still fight Perhaps sunlights better the blindness it brings but the songs of the owls sound more like my spring The chill in the winter grows my stem that much stronger My buds could not hold out one season longer In darkness there is comfort, in the cold there is calm The snow and the ice to my wounds is a balm So give me the blustery magic of fall and the core chilling winter will help me grow tall

Royalty

A dance between ink and inspiration The frivolity flows with great consternation The music of thought and the rhythm of feeling The worlds you create when you stare at the ceiling The unchained emotions, the shackles of grammar Anger through whispers and joy as a hammer The mind chases thoughts as they hide and escape The pain as entity born from a scrape Some demons, some angels and all in between living fully fleshed lives with their artist as queen

The Stars

I miss the stars when I'm in the city replaced by the manmade, manpowered replicas Vainly removing the universe from our sight folding our minds into little boxes where we spend our days hoping for more, pleading for something bigger And so we receive it, as food, not for our minds but for our bellies, our girth As drinks, not for our thirst, but our depleted energy our bodies grow larger, Our needs grow larger The waxing desire to break free and the waning desire to release all we have accumulated Until we abandon it entirely, shutting ourselves away from the things that could free us from this cycle Only realizing at moments of extreme duress that we have accumulated the wrong things The things other have told us to. Just enough to leave us incomplete and wanting more Just enough for us to remain under the false stars I miss the stars when I'm in the city. Do you?

Self Portrait

Born of the sun not the moon as expected Nowhere near perfect yet somehow perfected Strength of an ox but just in the heart Still my arms are strong enough to tear some things apart Backbone intact despite many mistakes A soul who likes giving more than it takes My mind thinks it's thoughts openly and so random My mouth and my face seem to act with abandon I've known cruelty and malice, sad to say, from both sides but I've learned and I've grown and my hope still abides My eyes weep for many, my words fight for all My knees have grown tough and refuse now to crawl My words cover all things from blessings to violence my voice is my power, in sound and in silence My body is mine though it's housed joy and pain My spirit is the gold that runs through these veins

No Survivors

A freshly moistened lip a dilated pupil A slightly squinting yet still sparkling eye A firm hand on a soft form Curves traced with care, with wanting The memorization of skin The bumps, the scars cradled, caressed, worshipped Devoted to the moment, present for this love alone The drinking in and pouring out The emptying, the filling The bursting, the gushing When noses, eyes, mouths and ears all make way for the skin When the world ends and begins again and there are no survivors

The Creaking Wheel

What once churned was now stagnant. It's rusted facade hinted at the decrepit innards it magnitude kept hidden. Even a torrential wind could not move the wheel. Giant and rotting it was a representation of the life that it once supported. A thriving town, full of young hopeful minds and strong breakable bodies. The mill that pumped the blood of the town turning it from a shell of dried skin to something viable and supple. The wheel turned, the town prospered. It was a simple metaphor much like life in this young town. The mill seemed to provide them all they needed, food, water, money, even energy to run the things in the town that needed running. Families came and grew and lived happily in proximity of the great wheel. 

A dark secret would soon rumble within the town however. The men who were in charge of the wheel had always seemed kind and fatherly. They loved the town and were happy that their wheel had brought them so much success at the good life. The town had schools, doctors, markets, churches and even a hall where they would hold great dances and socials for the townsfolk. It was a tight knit community and the men and woman of the town would defend it to the death. The men who owned the wheel knew this and at first felt a sense of fatherly pride for the townsfolk and their loyalty. Being a great success and supporting so many with their wheel began to tax them greatly. The responsibility like an anchor around their necks. Soon they began to make mistakes and these mistakes would prove to be deadly. 

A young man had come up in the ranks as a wheel worker and showed great promise. He was a fast worker and a hard worker. One of the wheelmen thought him a good chap so he introduced him to his daughter. He had never had a son and was looking for someone to take his place as a wheelman when he became too old. The daughter seemed to fancy the young man and soon it was set. They would be married and he would begin training the young man for the wheelman job he may soon possess. There were many men however who had worked the wheel for much longer and were unhappy that they were not chosen to take his place.

An unrest spread among the masses of men around the town. The wheelmen were dismayed that so many were unhappy and tried to think of a solution. They held a townhall meeting in which every man would have a chance to voice his concerns about the recent turn of events. The young man however was upset that so many were questioning his abilities for as far as he could tell he was the best man for the job. The wheelmen wanted to appease the people of the town before it became heated so they held the meeting. The young man entered last with his wife and  they stood next to his father-in-law rather then being seated with the other townsfolk. The resentment sprung from the crowd quickly and voices rattled the hall. 

The wheelmen raised their hands up to quell the raucous noise that emanated from the crowd. The wheelman whose daughter was in attendance told the crowd that if they were in his shoes they would do the same thing to make sure the wheel would keep going, and that they town would keep going. The taste for power however had been tempted in the men and they rose their voices once more. A shrill word silenced the men in the room. The daughter of the wheelman looked out onto the crowd and announced that rather then her husband taking over it would be she that would take over. There were immediate murmurs of disagreement but noone would come forth to challenge it for they knew the meaning of family and tradition.

So it stood, tommorrow the wheelman's daughter would learn how to work the wheel.

To Be Continued... 

Prolonging resolution

Why do we draw out resolution? is it because we enjoy the pain? Do we need those shameful moments to feel anything at all? The present is where we are and yet we always reach back Always cling to the moments that could have been glorious if I had just said this, if I had just done that Why not aspire to new glory? Because we feel misguidedly that we can fix the past make history right and good. We aren't afraid of what we have already survived let's admit that it feels good to probe that wound, reliving those moments in new ways so that we can fix it this time. Repeat the pattern so this time we will say the thing we should have said, do the thing we should have done. Many use repetition to learn but don't sell yourself short perhaps the lesson is learned, There is no need to repeat it because it will not erase the past it will not improve your future it will hold you a prisoner to that moment that has haunted you the one you can never change no matter how hard you try. Forge on! Correct the past with the present and the future for what is done is done and it's lesson is inside you to carry you forward.