The Downfall of Self

The Specks of Imagination

The Old Mans Monologue

I am a child at heart.  I REALLY am.  I lost my arm doing childish things.
Immature acts of thought-less revelations.  Ones were i would never could
of acknowledged the future representations of such deeds.  If an adult
tells you not to do something, TRY to remember not to.  Don't follow my
shitty footsteps.  Well try not to at least.  And i only use this cane
for balance, not for getting around. But i guess life can be funny sometimes.
Decaying birds, resting in the middle of streets, dead, trampled and
crumpled up for protection.  Oh, how short a birds life is compared to us.
But i guess we all go when its time, don't we.  Maybe a birds time goes
slower than ours, so in actuality they "LIVE" just for as long as humans do.
But it's not my time to go but i don't know if i can ever see it in my future.
Why would i want to go when everything is so beautiful.  And everyone seems
to be looking out for me.  Buses arrive on schedule, i make my own appointments,
and i tame my own beast inside of me.  Cars fly by, skreeching their brakes,
slamming their horns, while subways rumble beneath me as my body trembles
to the echoes as trains pass above me, hearing the twists and the turns of the
track rocking the train cars back and forth like a cradle then the planes fly
too high above us letting gusts of winds force through it traveling hundreds
of miles in the school and hundreds of miles of speed.  All while we build
lasting structures that take more than centuries to crumble and dismantle.
Oh the BEAUTY!

The Elegant Woman

Craving the Ocean

Peculiarity

Dismiss

If the priests chiseled eyes want a place to judge
considering my demise a perfect bullseye
and as the bells play, every other hour
the grass shrivels, under the echoes power
the red/white and blue could honestly be seen for endless seconds
those familiar, whining sirens -- blaring

Journal Entry #1.

as i sit here waiting for the audience to fill in like fruit flies flock to a fleshy Florida peach i find my curiosity wandering picking up nodes of loose-leaf conversation that flutters around the room but is hardly answered by a caring stranger.  some might call this a formal meeting but i realize what it is through its true identity. an act. people playing with genres and persona like they were on some big budget movie.  i actually catch a few quotes being re-hashed as jokes.  haha plagiarism is so damn funny. So out of context and character that you should be filled with humility but you are rather courageous.  but i guess this is the real world, college life but to actually let that sink in, makes my eyes blink at a less frequent rate and my breath deepens to the waves, where i rather be.  to much wasted time and time is life.   to truly live is the real challenge.  the meaning of life is to waste away hopefully leaving no legacies behind to plague the future with already, set in strict designs and implications.  but sometimes life can be a hell of a drug.  and that is where emotions play in. and that is the only way someone can actually feel alive.  by not only reading trying to understand such things but feeling the infinite spectrum of emotions.  happy, sad and blank.  there aren't only moral choices and opinions but emotional choices as well.  decisions that can leave you calmly happy before bed or the ones that leave you in despair making you question your judgment while you toss and turn in your lonely bed during the middle of the night.  but in the end of all decisions, you may never know how the audience will perceive your actions.  everyone holds their formal opinions on their sleeves and sometimes can not see through the true meanings of things since no one can actually determine the truth or predict it. that's what makes conversation a guessing game and life completely random.

Graves

sometimes i like to imagine
that life is our actual grave
the beautiful blue sky
was just painted on the wood
above our view of our coffin
our destiny can not be moved
and is stuck in the exact same position
over time no matter how hard we try
and our air stays the same
the dirt at our feet can be moved
but it just digs us deeper and deeper into our lives
the wood surrounding us is always acting as our protector
but never timely honored
and our words, can only be heard as whispers by the Earth
en-caving us in echoes that build up
from the cemetery encasing us
we can only communicate in our little boxes
heard as whispers, but in reality they are pleas and screams
Our little old boxes that we are always cemented into
because, deep inside, we are all waiting to be lain in our own Graves.