One day in the search of the elite clan, they find what they think may be their savior. Their last hope after their love's abandoned them and God has seemed to turn his cheek away. It's just a substance they almost innocently stumbled upon, if that's possible. Heroin was not the savior they expected but the easiest and most available. Heroin or Cocaine actually, either one. As long as it was shiny white or flat brown, dilutable and capable of being drawn through a syringe ... everyone had their drug of choice.
The serum was sucked from a soup spoon through a tiny cotton filter taken from a half smoked Camel. A needle then pierced the flesh, painlessly entering a warm waiting vein. A drawn plunger visibly mixed the serum with the victim's blood. The mixture was then injected ... slowly. To the victim's own surprise, they liked it; too much. The body gets a masochistic thrill the very moment skin breaks. Goosebumps become obviously evident. As the band releases and the serum is allowed to flow freely all pain and problems instantaneously disappear. Facial expressions transform immediately from disgust to pure relief. A warm feeling of ecstasy rushes through the veins and settles with warm comforting pleasure in the base of the neck. This terrible world wasn't so bad and the evils of people didn't matter much now. Pain became a thing to play with. The night was mystical and magical. Music became almost heavenly and the clan were so content that sex was unnecessary. Sex was just an extra pleasure they could add to the evening without distraction. The victim's became the vampire slaves to the new master that controlled them.
One of them (the lost one) sometimes felt like a caged zoo animal ... released. Unleashed from the prison forced upon him since childhood by a cruel inhumane society. He didn't just blame everyone else for his state of mind. He also blamed his own ignorance. For the time being, however; (purely instinct and reason to live upon) there was no room for thinking or man's so called logic. Man's logic is cold and unfeeling. The world became his den and his imagination the territory. The only limits or boundaries were those put up to safeguard himself.
He listened to Louis Armstrong, the great "Sachmo", sing 'What A Wonderful World' and realized at one time, it most likely was. His cat rests in his lap. Protecting him. Wild birds outside the window sang his song while he peacefully watched from the wooden windowsill. Paint peeled from the sill revealing wood with claw marks from a previous animal's attempted escape. No predator would harm him, only the "domestic people" were cruel enough to do that ... just not here in his domain.
Few escape this life of slavery. Bound to a needle that bring's them to their idea of normalcy. They become lost shells of human beings caught in a dimension of unrealistic escapism. The majority who live by the needle, die by it. A smaller minority are slaves to the needle until the day they die of another cause. Some beat their shiny enemy. Escaping their former master and manage to learn and live on their own. The luckiest survivors find themselves a relatively happy medium in life and realize there's much more to living than they ever imagined. The key is to see past the "domestics" and realize all people as individuals. Take them for who they are ... that's all.
Beautiful things are beautiful and cherished. Ugly is accepted as ugly and dealt with as appropriately as possible. Most important, everything is not always as it seems on the surface; making it necessary to delve deeper inside. True beauty is eternal. The world is a stubborn place and it cannot be changed, only interpreted.
All of those who beat the vampire king and evolve into better human beings know and accept one thing -- there's always a debt to pay.
That's it ...
December 8, 2010
December 7, 2010
Ask A Junkie Why -- Part 2
Your people have abandoned you and you are the outcast. Alone like "the old man and the sea." Unlike the old man, one finds himself a familiar. Once you see past the evils of the world and the lies and deceit of the people in it, you begin to visualize true beauty.
One of the most obvious beautiful things is the animal. It needs to be not only understood, but also accepted as fact, that animals do not think. They live purely on instinct and reason. Since they don't think, at least not what humans understand, they cannot lie. Honest and eternally faithful, for all eternity's worth, animals sense their master's pain and share in the hurting ... so long as their master is a loving one.
Animal instinct allows them to comfort their master while their love eases their master's sadness. Reason makes them more sensitive when a master is sad. As you are their master (if you know how to be) you too are their friend. If a master and the animal understand each other well enough they have no use for this human language. They share the most special thing of all; an unspoken friendship.
Another beautiful concept is the afterlife. The post death period where everything isn't so mundane. Just a pure eternal existence somewhere else where everything is beautiful and everyone is a star.
Or maybe there are many afterlives where you come back again and again as anything you want. It would be magical to soar the skies as an eagle where you would be untouchable to all and the envy of most. To run the Canada-Montana border as a grey wolf in a protected pack of ten escaping the human trappers. Or occasionally feed from their chicken coops in the camouflage of darkness.
But is this beautiful afterlife (that has been explained by generations of man, almost brainwashed to society through the teachings of religious history) really so guaranteed? Only to those so completely faithful, even infallible? To others less than perfect is it just a comforting fantasy? Though it may exist and it may not; they anticipate it surely does. That's all they have to look forward to. It helps them cope with everyday living and lifelong shortcomings. Nevertheless, they bide their time.
Sadly, a beautiful afterlife is not guaranteed. As for those beautiful animals, it would be ignorant to think that animals could be a complete human contact substitute. They are the innocent friends of yours but you need more than that sometimes. For you are not an animal, though you may like to be. You need the people who have forsaken you. So you cry out to the population for help and acceptance.
In your calls for help from the unknown emptiness destroying you, your desperate search for a little more of something beautiful, your last stand ... cries go unheard.
Unanswered cries in a search for peace allowed you to hear other people's cries. Others like you; hurt and abandoned by the ones they loved. You and your new found friends are all unique people in your own ways but you all share a very similar terrifying pain. For the time being, an inseparable elite clan is formed. Though you cannot help to ease each other's pain, you can understand it, share it, so you search for an answer together. Trial and error fail you and the clan grows increasingly more disgusted with the evils of such a physical world.
It became the "understood population" verses the "misunderstood minority". School and church history rage in your ears like old cliche's nearly driving you insane. Thoughts of the Salem Witch Trials, Cowboys and Indians, Samson and Delilah and Cain and Abel danced in your head; hand feeding you guilt while they weakened your will to survive. Were you the good guy or the bad and who was the actual good guy anyway? It seems the answer is neither. It's simple actually, you became the desperado. The "Thelma and Louise".
One of the most obvious beautiful things is the animal. It needs to be not only understood, but also accepted as fact, that animals do not think. They live purely on instinct and reason. Since they don't think, at least not what humans understand, they cannot lie. Honest and eternally faithful, for all eternity's worth, animals sense their master's pain and share in the hurting ... so long as their master is a loving one.
Animal instinct allows them to comfort their master while their love eases their master's sadness. Reason makes them more sensitive when a master is sad. As you are their master (if you know how to be) you too are their friend. If a master and the animal understand each other well enough they have no use for this human language. They share the most special thing of all; an unspoken friendship.
Another beautiful concept is the afterlife. The post death period where everything isn't so mundane. Just a pure eternal existence somewhere else where everything is beautiful and everyone is a star.
Or maybe there are many afterlives where you come back again and again as anything you want. It would be magical to soar the skies as an eagle where you would be untouchable to all and the envy of most. To run the Canada-Montana border as a grey wolf in a protected pack of ten escaping the human trappers. Or occasionally feed from their chicken coops in the camouflage of darkness.
But is this beautiful afterlife (that has been explained by generations of man, almost brainwashed to society through the teachings of religious history) really so guaranteed? Only to those so completely faithful, even infallible? To others less than perfect is it just a comforting fantasy? Though it may exist and it may not; they anticipate it surely does. That's all they have to look forward to. It helps them cope with everyday living and lifelong shortcomings. Nevertheless, they bide their time.
Sadly, a beautiful afterlife is not guaranteed. As for those beautiful animals, it would be ignorant to think that animals could be a complete human contact substitute. They are the innocent friends of yours but you need more than that sometimes. For you are not an animal, though you may like to be. You need the people who have forsaken you. So you cry out to the population for help and acceptance.
In your calls for help from the unknown emptiness destroying you, your desperate search for a little more of something beautiful, your last stand ... cries go unheard.
Unanswered cries in a search for peace allowed you to hear other people's cries. Others like you; hurt and abandoned by the ones they loved. You and your new found friends are all unique people in your own ways but you all share a very similar terrifying pain. For the time being, an inseparable elite clan is formed. Though you cannot help to ease each other's pain, you can understand it, share it, so you search for an answer together. Trial and error fail you and the clan grows increasingly more disgusted with the evils of such a physical world.
It became the "understood population" verses the "misunderstood minority". School and church history rage in your ears like old cliche's nearly driving you insane. Thoughts of the Salem Witch Trials, Cowboys and Indians, Samson and Delilah and Cain and Abel danced in your head; hand feeding you guilt while they weakened your will to survive. Were you the good guy or the bad and who was the actual good guy anyway? It seems the answer is neither. It's simple actually, you became the desperado. The "Thelma and Louise".
December 6, 2010
Ask A Junkie Why -- Part 1
It's not the red in your eyes or the fact that you've lost twenty pounds. No. You don't become too antisocial to your family and good old pals. Pals. An emotional stare of dying pain in your eyes is well hidden to most, ignored by others; confronted by few (if any).You cry while alone or with one of your clan who is living the same hell. No one else sees you, an invisible soul bleeding in the shadows; hidden by society. Nobody you know can even begin to try and understand the thoughts you think and the way you feel. At least some admit they can't. Neverless, you're misunderstood.
Why, it's not that you don't want to do good for yourself -- you've tried. It just seems you can't and now, you couldn't even fathom how. I ask you, does it make you a bad person when you grow indifferent to your own death and suffering? To become a numb being whose learned to inflict hurt upon yourself because that's all that takes the pain away. The pain that they have inflicted upon you. See, people hurt you repeatedly and never even so much as apologized. They just don't seem to care. It's not the pain that hurts so bad ... but other's indifference.
Never, never had you cast the first stone or tried to hurt. Many times, however; you were the receiver of painful injustice. You couldn't just let it go -- let it be. Then one day you make them realize what they've done; when they never forget the UNEASY look in your eyes after the first time you hurt yourself. It's not the scratches on your arms that run so deep but ...
Things lead up to it ya know, events (of a sort). You don't DECIDE. Just wake up on a sunny spring day to singing sparrows and decide to sink a shining spike into a warm waiting vein while listening to Hendrix. Shoot some of that dope and decipher Louis Armstrong's philosophies of beautiful girls, a beautiful world, birds, trees, children and momma's good home creole cooking.
NOPE, it's not that simple or so sweet. Most of you come from screwed up households in one way or another. Fighting, abuse, divorce, neglect, lies and usually very inherent previous family substance abuse are some possible involving factors.
You're probably a bit more sensitive than others, you know, and that bothers them. You're intelligent, deep and sometimes poetic in many ways. Others see you quite differently, you're weird to them ... foreign. Like anything else to them that they're unfamiliar with or uneducated about. Labeled as bad by them because they don't know how to begin to know you. Do they want to know you? To them, you become looked upon as a savage.
Eventually you allow the 'commoners' to take all from you. They win the battle ... your struggle. Love is taken from you first and pride is stolen simultaneously. Beauty betrays and kills your soul. A lock of hair is cut and saved for a memory of what you once were. Pain inside aches and hurts the bones. The heart and your faith become worn and beaten. You ask God where He's been. Finally, you're left alone.
Why, it's not that you don't want to do good for yourself -- you've tried. It just seems you can't and now, you couldn't even fathom how. I ask you, does it make you a bad person when you grow indifferent to your own death and suffering? To become a numb being whose learned to inflict hurt upon yourself because that's all that takes the pain away. The pain that they have inflicted upon you. See, people hurt you repeatedly and never even so much as apologized. They just don't seem to care. It's not the pain that hurts so bad ... but other's indifference.
Never, never had you cast the first stone or tried to hurt. Many times, however; you were the receiver of painful injustice. You couldn't just let it go -- let it be. Then one day you make them realize what they've done; when they never forget the UNEASY look in your eyes after the first time you hurt yourself. It's not the scratches on your arms that run so deep but ...
Things lead up to it ya know, events (of a sort). You don't DECIDE. Just wake up on a sunny spring day to singing sparrows and decide to sink a shining spike into a warm waiting vein while listening to Hendrix. Shoot some of that dope and decipher Louis Armstrong's philosophies of beautiful girls, a beautiful world, birds, trees, children and momma's good home creole cooking.
NOPE, it's not that simple or so sweet. Most of you come from screwed up households in one way or another. Fighting, abuse, divorce, neglect, lies and usually very inherent previous family substance abuse are some possible involving factors.
You're probably a bit more sensitive than others, you know, and that bothers them. You're intelligent, deep and sometimes poetic in many ways. Others see you quite differently, you're weird to them ... foreign. Like anything else to them that they're unfamiliar with or uneducated about. Labeled as bad by them because they don't know how to begin to know you. Do they want to know you? To them, you become looked upon as a savage.
Eventually you allow the 'commoners' to take all from you. They win the battle ... your struggle. Love is taken from you first and pride is stolen simultaneously. Beauty betrays and kills your soul. A lock of hair is cut and saved for a memory of what you once were. Pain inside aches and hurts the bones. The heart and your faith become worn and beaten. You ask God where He's been. Finally, you're left alone.
December 5, 2010
The Beautiful Girl
The day is bright with violets and maroons and oranges.
A sky, power blue with soft white roaming clouds
gives the perfect cover to open fields of daffodils
laying massively on the earth
where the horizon meets infinity
A beautiful girl stands divinely
She wears a translucent floral sundress
fitting firmly about her waist
Brown suede sandals worn and beaten with age
dance through the mud to the daffodil field
She begins to roll through the flowers
as she touches and bends vivid colors in the sky
Childishly she laughs and sings while she plays ... alone
She motions to a tiny awkward bird
she mimics the way he walks
Rolling through the daffodils and the dirt
the flowers hug the beautiful girl's body
like a soft flannel comforter on a round plush bed
Her long brown hair falls beautifully
past her breasts and lays upon her magnificent body
This beautiful woman now tiring from her play
smells the one violet daisy
She grows to a comfortable exhaustion
and lays to down to sleep in the flower bed
In her rest she is joined by beautiful wolves
his friends of gray
They protect her while she sleeps
Staying through her rest
They guard her so she may safely wake and go to him
the wolves keeper ...
December 4, 2010
Mime
Do you listen to the French?
That you can't understand?
Do you play your part
That they can't comprehend?
You never do act, you merely mastered reality
Did it shoot you in the head?
You play Mozart on the piano
You never took a lesson?
Is the green orb a dream?
You scare their attention, they walk away from the mime
So why does he stay?
Have you mastered the subconscious?
The conscious he can tap and he speaks with the animals
He speaks to some ghosts who tell him the future
He feels the spirits smile upon him, while he dreams of tomorrow, tonight
They think the mime's freaky
Yes, he's so very strange
They don't understand him, his show really haunts them in a peculiar, good way
As he lives in emotion ...
The mime is so loud though he never really speaks
He has so many memories which show in his face
He sees the wolves of his life last and next
They are so beautiful
Sad pictures remain while a garden slowly fades away
Even when he's happy, he's so very far away
He may have seen the other worlds but he's still society's stray
He is forever, very dark gray
That you can't understand?
Do you play your part
That they can't comprehend?
You never do act, you merely mastered reality
Did it shoot you in the head?
You play Mozart on the piano
You never took a lesson?
Is the green orb a dream?
You scare their attention, they walk away from the mime
So why does he stay?
Have you mastered the subconscious?
The conscious he can tap and he speaks with the animals
He speaks to some ghosts who tell him the future
He feels the spirits smile upon him, while he dreams of tomorrow, tonight
They think the mime's freaky
Yes, he's so very strange
They don't understand him, his show really haunts them in a peculiar, good way
As he lives in emotion ...
The mime is so loud though he never really speaks
He has so many memories which show in his face
He sees the wolves of his life last and next
They are so beautiful
Sad pictures remain while a garden slowly fades away
Even when he's happy, he's so very far away
He may have seen the other worlds but he's still society's stray
He is forever, very dark gray
December 3, 2010
Hunted
The small empty Long Island home; a radio still plays "Jane Says"; tape stuck on repeat
Black and white photos of the old band
Beautiful girls and a fiance; family and one best friend
Hundreds of CDs piled in dismay
Half burned candles in silver holders; half smoked cigarettes in the Gothic ashtray
The phone doesn't ring, they await ...
Does it call his name?
Second between A and B
just off Houston in Alphabet City
Demons chase like unrelenting bounty hunters
While prayers are said by father and mother
Tears are shed by sister and brother
and the one removed best friend becomes numb
Where is that boy, is he too weak to escape, or strong enough to survive?
December 2, 2010
Visitor
Sleepy baby, sleepy son
The buzzing sound, so silent to everyone
Sleepy child could hear the noise; sounds unlike any of his toys
Big brown eyes, now closed with a tired tear
Eyes burst open to a green floating sphere
Startled baby fearing the unknown
Escapes to his crib, to the safety of his home
Baby's crying rage makes mother come to say,
"You're dreaming sweet child, everything's okay."
Returning to his crib, baby finds peace in the idea
That his green glowing sphere decided to come here
December 1, 2010
The Rose
Beautiful in its ways
Perfect petals, perfect leaves
Heavenly smell
Pretty stem with powerful thorns
Picturesque
There's a sadness about it though
An emptiness
With all its beauty, its still typical
The rose ...
I'll never give you one
November 30, 2010
Circle Bond
A world so translucent makes us want to close our eyes
We try so hard to let the pain subside
Sitting in our circle we have built a bonding trust
When our lives have turned to ashes and our loves have turned to dust
With a call we'll drop it all and we'll always be around
Time so hard with our souls so scarred, we won't let our friends go down
Will you hold me brother and hold me tight
This eternal cold world we must together fight
If you need a hand I have two to lend
And if we stay together we'll help each other mend.
November 29, 2010
Veins
Outward from a place with a grin
Hosted much, from deep within
A long time past seen as a glimpse
A glimpse which is not to be ignored
Should I apologize, he said, "for the unknown and unseen?"
Is there reckoning with thyself?
So alive and yet so far away
Many times removed
A separation line grows frail
So far away; astray without dismay in the fields of in-between play
Shed the fears for it's not so scary; growing weary
Just a glimpse, to a babe is eternity
Blink and the glimpse is dead
To kill a man's insanity, tear away the very black hole that built him
Far away, far astray
Drifting weightlessly throughout the darkest space
The mind is such a different place with a peaceful looking pain worn face
A glimpse, a bad memory, just yesterday, so far away; made love to me
Hosted much, from deep within
A long time past seen as a glimpse
A glimpse which is not to be ignored
Should I apologize, he said, "for the unknown and unseen?"
Is there reckoning with thyself?
So alive and yet so far away
Many times removed
A separation line grows frail
So far away; astray without dismay in the fields of in-between play
Shed the fears for it's not so scary; growing weary
Just a glimpse, to a babe is eternity
Blink and the glimpse is dead
To kill a man's insanity, tear away the very black hole that built him
Far away, far astray
Drifting weightlessly throughout the darkest space
The mind is such a different place with a peaceful looking pain worn face
A glimpse, a bad memory, just yesterday, so far away; made love to me
November 28, 2010
Alleyway
"Sleep young boy, sleep. Please sleep peacefully. Free your mind of worldly disarray for you are but a young boy. Children should be carefree, untainted, innocently ignorant. Do not fret beautiful son; by our power it falls night and children must rest. Clear your mind," pleaded the gods of good dreams to the young boy below.
The boy, lets call him Bobby, fought with the frayed floral sheets and wrestled his 'hand-me-down' pillow to-and-fro in desperate attempts to fall asleep. His face was repeatedly irritated by a damn cigarette burn left on the top sheet by grandpa before he died.
"Why, for Heaven's sake doesn't mommy buy me some new sheets? Then maybe I would sleep better," thought Bobby as he wrenched himself into a corner.
Bobby wasn't really bothered by the sheets, at least that's not why he lost sleep. Faces connected with voices haunted the boundaries of his decade old mind. Symbolism of that insidious Shakespeare sonnet. Everyone he knew in this world was angry. Angry at someone or something usually for no apparent reason. "Why are all the grown ups so mad, did I do something wrong?", pondered the sad boy.
(The gods congregated at a designated spot on the sun. They discussed the boy's problem.)
"If this boy continues to feel the pain and anger of the problems of people much older than he; problems that are not meant for him, it may not only affect his sleep but his future mental and physical well being may be in great jeopardy."
"I agree, said the other god, "it's not fair that an innocent child, such a sweet soul, should have such emotional unrest for other mortal's misdirected anger and ignorant hatred ... it may one day destroy him."
"Yes, but,"
"Quiet!", interrupted another god, "are you all to be so foolish? Humans and gods may not interact for any purpose. We may send signs at most, but to interact physically or mentally would be more devastating than letting human nature takes its course on the boy.
"Fair or not. He does seem a bit more remarkable than the average mortal I agree. However, time and pain and experience may weather his physical self but it will expand his wisdom and give him a bit of character. This boy will rightfully earn his. This I guarantee."
The boy, lets call him Bobby, fought with the frayed floral sheets and wrestled his 'hand-me-down' pillow to-and-fro in desperate attempts to fall asleep. His face was repeatedly irritated by a damn cigarette burn left on the top sheet by grandpa before he died.
"Why, for Heaven's sake doesn't mommy buy me some new sheets? Then maybe I would sleep better," thought Bobby as he wrenched himself into a corner.
Bobby wasn't really bothered by the sheets, at least that's not why he lost sleep. Faces connected with voices haunted the boundaries of his decade old mind. Symbolism of that insidious Shakespeare sonnet. Everyone he knew in this world was angry. Angry at someone or something usually for no apparent reason. "Why are all the grown ups so mad, did I do something wrong?", pondered the sad boy.
(The gods congregated at a designated spot on the sun. They discussed the boy's problem.)
"If this boy continues to feel the pain and anger of the problems of people much older than he; problems that are not meant for him, it may not only affect his sleep but his future mental and physical well being may be in great jeopardy."
"I agree, said the other god, "it's not fair that an innocent child, such a sweet soul, should have such emotional unrest for other mortal's misdirected anger and ignorant hatred ... it may one day destroy him."
"Yes, but,"
"Quiet!", interrupted another god, "are you all to be so foolish? Humans and gods may not interact for any purpose. We may send signs at most, but to interact physically or mentally would be more devastating than letting human nature takes its course on the boy.
"Fair or not. He does seem a bit more remarkable than the average mortal I agree. However, time and pain and experience may weather his physical self but it will expand his wisdom and give him a bit of character. This boy will rightfully earn his. This I guarantee."
November 27, 2010
America The Beautiful
Mr. Stiller sits alone in his chair of plaid
He doesn't realize or seem to care that he's very sad
Mad at his parents for the things he never had
Chad, his son ... a son of a gun
A gun, his son points at everyone
Pulls the trigger, he figures, in "innocent" fun
Monday, the daughter sells her body for nearly nothing
With nothing, someday, Monday thinks she'll get something
She hasn't realized that she can't get something for nothing
Mrs. Stiller, now gone, disappeared in the 60's
The 60's, a hippie with too many "trips"
Mr. Stiller swears he didn't kill her then tightens his lips
Tightened lips, too many "trips", a son of a gun,
a daughter with whoredom thinks she'll sail in the sun
Sadly, in the end they will all be left without anyone
He doesn't realize or seem to care that he's very sad
Mad at his parents for the things he never had
Chad, his son ... a son of a gun
A gun, his son points at everyone
Pulls the trigger, he figures, in "innocent" fun
Monday, the daughter sells her body for nearly nothing
With nothing, someday, Monday thinks she'll get something
She hasn't realized that she can't get something for nothing
Mrs. Stiller, now gone, disappeared in the 60's
The 60's, a hippie with too many "trips"
Mr. Stiller swears he didn't kill her then tightens his lips
Tightened lips, too many "trips", a son of a gun,
a daughter with whoredom thinks she'll sail in the sun
Sadly, in the end they will all be left without anyone
November 26, 2010
Gray Poet
Gray, not as in dark
Gray, not always gloomy
Gray, never wicked
Gray is just a very deep shade
Deeper than some may fathom
The poet, the stories, the defense
No escape to the shadows of poetry
Never fake, maybe weird or invisible
Blindness
Suggestions
Will they miss the gray when he goes to play?
Rarely are we lent a hand
Our teachers teach ignorance
There is no such thing in the gray area
Only true gray stories; sometimes hard to grasp
Whatever, today ... what?
A story
Was there ever a yesterday?
November 25, 2010
Yesterdays
Tranquil mornings breath breathes above the million blades of grass with a frosty aftermath
The meadows roll almost to eternity where they finally reach the pink sunset
I passed these fields only yesterday taking no notice of their beauty, only thought of where I'd be next
Now I lay in my unsuspecting, most unfortunate destination
Dreaming of these fields and meadows
I can appreciate them now.
Hallucinating ghosts of yesterdays visit me:
There the pack of wolves running against the dense forest; they protect me in the prairie
Stampeding mustangs on the barren cold field as my life slips away and blood seeps from my chest
Squirrels and rabbits under the bed; I can't see
The three dead prophets who tell me I'll be okay.
November 24, 2010
A Warrior's Soul
A lust for life will keep him alive and make him eternal, regardless of the blows from the drifting pain inside. The boy he was, was misunderstood, while the philosophical old man is only ignored. Skeletons will attack with many different masks as ignorance defends the sheltered. They wallow in their shelters.
Yesterday, one warrior wore long hair. A dinner's table reflection assured him he would have it again. The provider, a kind and simple man asks, "Why would you choose to be perceived (by these looks), a space cadet?"
"I just want to be me, as I wish to be free," he answered honestly, knowing he is already a real space man.
Before he was infected with his cancer he fought for his rights. Fought for himself. Fought in the shadows. Beating the infection has earned him his right; without need for justification.
Born and bred a warrior's soul, he had no choice but to take the beatings of life and pacify a bleeding heart. Forever, he bears the war band upon his arm, it is uneraseable. It brought him through the battles that he fought in his name. He wore the warrior's Mohawk ponytail, sides shaved like a bald eagle. Scalped in the life threatening battles; he still remains.
A child warrior never understood the fight but he fought for the father. Warrior children sometimes have clouded visions. Rage helped him survive when nothing else was there. The same rage he runs from; the young boy was scared. When the child warrior fought, they called him a savage. They never saw the reflection of themselves or the need for attention. He was the invisible warrior hiding amongst the other gray shadows.
He is the spaceman; Warrior Soul. He can't find his space of the ship. No more drifting, he doesn't wish to get lost. Still invisible, he is hurting. Still the same, he is different. Walking by the tides he feels the yesterdays remain. In love with the sea, the rush of the ride. He loves the beauty and respects the innocent. The ignorant still attack, however; he grows tired. So he's alone, better than being another clone; he is his home. They will never beat him, even if they kill, he has the warrior's soul.
There is now the warrior man. Scalped, he wears the warrior's head band. Once looked upon as the savage, now perceived as the spaceman. He doesn't need any fans. They are the clones, he is his own man. A warrior must be alone, he would be killed if they were let inside. His weapon is suggestion, reading between the lines teaches a valuable lesson.
Alone, he travels down the path barefoot, friend to the animals also ignored. Looking at the tides, he passes the wolves who howl in respect. He sheds a tear, the warrior soul ... a breed of depth diminishing rapidly. Wolves, dying in pacts, are selfishly murdered by the sheltered society.
True warriors avoid battles if they can. They never start the fight and usually take unnecessary blows. Even when they've lost, they remain standing with their pride. The warrior can only ensure so much, so stop fighting. He can only listen to so much, so stop lying. The warrior cannot be a clone, so let him be himself. Stop holding his head below the water, he'll drown himself before too long. Stop telling him how to live his life, he's never hurt you. He knows far more than you will ever learn, stop teaching him to be narrow minded. Don't ever say you understand; you've never seen his moccasins, so it's impossible to imagine walking in them. Realize the boundaries; admit you know nothing. Get glasses if you're frigging blind. You're pathetic if you hurt him, the warrior only defends himself. He is only himself - that's all he know how to be; he's all he's got. He is the spaceman because there is so much depth.
Decadence with the sheltered predators will eventually kill the warrior man. However the warrior's soul will always live. The day a warrior dies and his soul isn't passed on; is the eve of destruction. A day. Armageddon will devour the world if the soul is lost.
Yesterday, one warrior wore long hair. A dinner's table reflection assured him he would have it again. The provider, a kind and simple man asks, "Why would you choose to be perceived (by these looks), a space cadet?"
"I just want to be me, as I wish to be free," he answered honestly, knowing he is already a real space man.
Before he was infected with his cancer he fought for his rights. Fought for himself. Fought in the shadows. Beating the infection has earned him his right; without need for justification.
Born and bred a warrior's soul, he had no choice but to take the beatings of life and pacify a bleeding heart. Forever, he bears the war band upon his arm, it is uneraseable. It brought him through the battles that he fought in his name. He wore the warrior's Mohawk ponytail, sides shaved like a bald eagle. Scalped in the life threatening battles; he still remains.
A child warrior never understood the fight but he fought for the father. Warrior children sometimes have clouded visions. Rage helped him survive when nothing else was there. The same rage he runs from; the young boy was scared. When the child warrior fought, they called him a savage. They never saw the reflection of themselves or the need for attention. He was the invisible warrior hiding amongst the other gray shadows.
He is the spaceman; Warrior Soul. He can't find his space of the ship. No more drifting, he doesn't wish to get lost. Still invisible, he is hurting. Still the same, he is different. Walking by the tides he feels the yesterdays remain. In love with the sea, the rush of the ride. He loves the beauty and respects the innocent. The ignorant still attack, however; he grows tired. So he's alone, better than being another clone; he is his home. They will never beat him, even if they kill, he has the warrior's soul.
There is now the warrior man. Scalped, he wears the warrior's head band. Once looked upon as the savage, now perceived as the spaceman. He doesn't need any fans. They are the clones, he is his own man. A warrior must be alone, he would be killed if they were let inside. His weapon is suggestion, reading between the lines teaches a valuable lesson.
Alone, he travels down the path barefoot, friend to the animals also ignored. Looking at the tides, he passes the wolves who howl in respect. He sheds a tear, the warrior soul ... a breed of depth diminishing rapidly. Wolves, dying in pacts, are selfishly murdered by the sheltered society.
True warriors avoid battles if they can. They never start the fight and usually take unnecessary blows. Even when they've lost, they remain standing with their pride. The warrior can only ensure so much, so stop fighting. He can only listen to so much, so stop lying. The warrior cannot be a clone, so let him be himself. Stop holding his head below the water, he'll drown himself before too long. Stop telling him how to live his life, he's never hurt you. He knows far more than you will ever learn, stop teaching him to be narrow minded. Don't ever say you understand; you've never seen his moccasins, so it's impossible to imagine walking in them. Realize the boundaries; admit you know nothing. Get glasses if you're frigging blind. You're pathetic if you hurt him, the warrior only defends himself. He is only himself - that's all he know how to be; he's all he's got. He is the spaceman because there is so much depth.
Decadence with the sheltered predators will eventually kill the warrior man. However the warrior's soul will always live. The day a warrior dies and his soul isn't passed on; is the eve of destruction. A day. Armageddon will devour the world if the soul is lost.
November 23, 2010
Dream
I traveled the world in my mind tonight
Must have searched a million skies
Searched for my soul throughout eternity
there was just something I couldn't find.
Close my eyes to sleep at night
But her face haunts my dreams
Pray I never wake ... sometimes
I don't want to feel the morning's screams.
She killed me but it made her happy
She imprisoned me to set herself free
She scarred me because I loved her
and now she lets me be.
November 22, 2010
Lost Religion
God, do you know me?
I question if I know myself
Lord, will you take me when my time is done?
So many circumstances bring me so far down
I hate to say my faith fades away
I know you're there, however; You have to be
I still believe in You
Do you still believe in me?
I've done much wrong in year's gone by
Especially recently and I'm sorry
I think I've gone too far
It may be too late for me
If my lifeline fades away and my garden turns to black
I just want You to accept me and pray they won't forget me
November 21, 2010
Tides
Battering waves crash at the boy's feet soaking his jeans; wind messing his hair. His lean body is displayed by moonlight, outlining his arched back, arms raised gripping his hair. Though the boy is not particularly large in stature there is a sort of silent, unnerving vehement air about him. Widened eyes are filled with pain, emotional unrest, desperation and rage. Loneliness envelopes his spirit like a black hole sucking light from empty space. An eighteen year old space traveller exploring a million year old space. He wasn't ready for the trip.
The crescent moon spoke to the stars; the suns of yesterdays forgotten. He loved the summer night's early morning alone on the beach. Waves, moon, sand, a fire and bare feet. Currents and tides crashing and twisting his thoughts as he pulls a thorn from his bleeding side. He touches the wound then licks his hand, tasting the salty sweetness of the blood.
The boy turns his back to the Atlantic to walk to the rocks on the beach. He always lit a fire in between the rocks of the jetty to keep himself warm while he slept. Now he sits by the fire smoking a joint he rolled in the car on the trip over; mom threw him out again. A joint always relaxed him at the beach. He would sit facing the ocean getting nice and high, a big grin appeared on his face, the pain in his eyes turned to indifference. Mom and dad's yelling became unreal, like a bad rerun on TV, a hazy station he could tune out. It doesn't matter for a while that he is misunderstood by everyone. At least he doesn't think so. He was happy stoned. The waves sound so good and cupcakes and YooHoo were never better. "I'm a king," he'd whisper, "the unknown king."
A fading sound of distant cars is replaced by the words in his ears. "Before you slip into unconsciousness, I'd like to have another kiss. Another flashing chance at bliss, another kiss, another kiss" ... coming from his beach radio.
"A flashing chance at bliss," he smiled. The boy always brought Jimmy to the beach at night. Sometimes it would be Lennon and his Beatles and occasionally the late great Bob Marley. Morrison was always there with his Doors. He laid back, the back of his head cupped in his hands, hair in the sand. "What's better than some good herbs, Jimmy Morrison's melodic philosophies and closing my eyes picturing a naked Winona Ryder wanting nothing but me?" he laughed sincerely. "To have her here would slightly improve the evening", he thought. He figured it was better to have a vivid imagination and a few quality dreams than nothing.
Digging deep beneath the sand his hands push away some trash left by some littering slob. The kid always got enraged at trash on his beach. His frigging beach! Pitted, scarred hands were living evidence of his battles fought and lost. His heart is losing a cause to keep fighting for.
"What was the use? Nobody sees me; the pain I'm in. They only see themselves and use me as their scapegoat. I'm nothing to them, so if they don't care why should I give two shits. Screw them all! Screw them! I don't need anyone ... and the one that left me after all I've done for her ..."
"Nothing again!" he yells out loud. He looks into the hole he dug. Empty space. He's searching for something, something golden or beautiful. A plane ticket to Australia, three million cash, a fortune cookie with the answer to life, anything. There is nothing there as usual, but then, that's exactly what he expected to find.
He's become quite used to nothing. It's all he knows. To give and give and give and give ... but never receive. He needed a little something more. Things didn't feel right.
Black, matted hair parts around his eyes, wet against his face; falling inches below his chin. His eyes veiled in sorrow. An empty heart. A mind in disbelief at an unfeeling superficial society.
Hanging from a silver link chain cradled between his chest is a silver cross. The chain worn about his neck is now unclasped. It's held above the hole he's dug. Sparkling by pale moonlight. Waves crash on the rocks, screaming in anger. Gray clouds begin to fill the once clear sky. The boy is upon one knee, cross dangling and chain wrapped around a clenched fist. Rain begins to pour as the heavens open and thunder crashes with lightning. Above the radio, above the waves and the thunder, the boy is yelling.
"God!", he screamed, "I bury this cross in this hole. I don't blame You, You gave them free will to act as they would."
Who would have ever thought? I'm leaving this cross for the next guy. The next broken man, so he'll find something in his search, ya know? There's nothing here for me. This will be a symbol of hope, or something at least. Because there's got to be something more out there. Right?
Jim Morrison comes back to the boy's ears as the heavens ease their thunder. Small pools of tears form in his eyes as he buries the cross in the hole.
The kid took shelter under a large "No Trespassing" sign that he broke to build his no budget lean-to. He lit a cigarette and enjoys it regardless of the rain. He smiles. Thoughts of dancing with Winona on his rainy beach to the poetic Jim Morrison supply him with a bit of happiness. He'd love to have the bare footed princess soaking wet wearing a sundress and smelling as beautiful as she always looks on the big screen. Temporarily indifferent to the outside world, he rules this world.
For now, that's all that matters.
November 20, 2010
Alone
Promises of forever
Eyes of resentment
My mind is much too clever
My soul is now dormant
I've given all my love
None left to be had
She's taken all my love
And now her heart's gone bad
Sadistic circumstance with untriumphed feats
Similar to a psychopath that I've gone mad
I hide beneath my flannel sheets
Scarring soul, a broken heart that's sad
Power to overcome, at peace with myself
I only have myself to trust
A soul, a heart, love's on the shelf
All to live for turned to dust
Dust that flows with each ocean's tide
I lie upon this frozen stone
When there's no more places for me to hide
Alone ...
November 19, 2010
Wolf Child
Crouched on all fours, blades of grass rip past his ears as he runs to the meadow. Sun above is so steaming hot. He licks himself clean. He doesn't seem so mean. They are scared away by vehemence. NO, NO, it's only dismay.
There are so many vicious hunters, prodding at him with their guns. He resists. Growling fiercely, he tries to scare them away. He's not hungry with anger; only desire. Those sounds from that thing he doesn't understand sound beautiful. He dreamt of a stray peer and spoke to him. Dreaming tomorrow's reality, he sees today's victims and runs to them. They don't have to feel so alone. They can make a pack.
Running in the high grass hills, they chase him. He is almost untouchable. Autistic scary. Beautiful. Defensive. The wolf will not attack unless necessary. He shares with his brothers. He loves his beautiful female wolves but he may never stay. Here tomorrow, gone today.
Leave him alone, better off alone. The wolf is so real they can't understand him. He's so unapproachable if you don't come as a friend. It could almost be the end. So many wounds need time to mend.
The wolf. The wolf. The wolf. Howls at the moon in sadness, having such confidence. Howls in anger, never took a bite?
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