Covered, head-to-toe, in your transparent coat of shame –
There’s nothing to be ashamed of dear.
Isn’t this what you wanted? Just a taste of fame?
Well, now you’ve got it. Hurry and wipe that iridescent tear.
Hide yourself and disguise that pain.
They feed off the stuff, with those blood-stained teeth.
Give them what they want, right? There’s nothing to lose, but nothing to gain.
Nothing to lose? Wrong! They’re little carpenters.
They're carving away at your dignity and your pride.
Is this what you wanted? A little taste of fame?
It’s starting to ache. I can see it in your eyes.
What a pretty picture. Well, here’s the frame:
They’ve gone fishing and tossed the bait.
You’ve taken hold and they’re in for the kill.
Your distress is tasty, but not enough. You give more, and they can’t wait.
They strive for your heart, and you give it with will.
Covered, head-to-toe, in your transparent coat of shame.
This isn’t what you wanted?
28 April 2009
Autumn's Embrace
Alone on a peacock green park bench,
I slowly become solitude’s victim.
Dawn emerges, and the trees are drenched –
Drenched in the colours of a welcoming autumn.
The air is crisp against my paper white face.
A towering sun rises above it all.
One ray of warmth, and I’m quick to embrace –
Embrace the crimson pallet of fall.
On a peacock green park bench, I sit alone,
Waiting for solitude to consume me.
Without man’s corruption, true colours are shown,
The world’s and mine, alike;
I’ve found an escape.
My childish instincts are prominent.
I slowly become solitude’s victim.
Dawn emerges, and the trees are drenched –
Drenched in the colours of a welcoming autumn.
The air is crisp against my paper white face.
A towering sun rises above it all.
One ray of warmth, and I’m quick to embrace –
Embrace the crimson pallet of fall.
On a peacock green park bench, I sit alone,
Waiting for solitude to consume me.
Without man’s corruption, true colours are shown,
The world’s and mine, alike;
I’ve found an escape.
My childish instincts are prominent.
Misconstrued Self-Image
You, with your devilish tone, send us home
to moan and groan. And you keep us, persistently,
on our toes, because no one knows what goes with you.
Without a tinge of remorse in that devilish tone of yours -
which, by the way, scorches and burns us, turns us white
with fear to utter a word - you slip in remarks that ache
and make us take, and double-take.
Why do we put up with you?
But all you do is "put up" with us, and thus, our lack of trust
in you is justified. In no way can we just confide in you
when you continue to do as you do, and pursue gratitude
through a magnitude of hate and "attitude." You roll your eyes,
wide, with vexation when we disagree with you.
And all of your sighs and grunts may stunt your growth;
because your constant state of bent over isolation, with
your arms locked and jaw tightly shut, won't be of aid to you
when you whine about looks and aesthetic pleasance.
Rather, it will simply add to your essence, your unpleasant essence.
Your lack of poise destroys your forceful arrogance.
And directly above that lack of poise, accumulating
in that skull is nothing but air, which I guess
is fairly sensible, because the density and mass are vast in scope
and it makes me wonder...
Is that why your hair is so big?
What good will it do for you? A temporary fix - fixed in that mind,
closed off from reality - seems empowering, but it makes you
intolerable when you push and pull with deceptive intentions,
that eat away at you everyday. And everyday,
you whine and complain with chilled and shrill shrieks about
what went wrong with so-and-so,
and who upset you through-and-through.
And everyday, that devilish tone, amplified with every word -
absurd, making stomachs turn - forbids your lips,
which grip onto repulsive sounds, sounds more and more like
a desperate cry for help and assistance to retract this distance.
You know the one - that distance you place and continually trace,
and retrace, without an apparent trace of consideration for
the walls you've built.
When you finally face the face that belongs to you,
coated in caked on make-up; when you finally see
through those hateful eyes, behind which despise lies, endlessly;
and when you finally see your lips, torn up by the acid
spewed from your throat, from which that devilish tone erects...
You'll probably be surprised, and you will realize that maybe
you should clean your mirror a bit more often.
to moan and groan. And you keep us, persistently,
on our toes, because no one knows what goes with you.
Without a tinge of remorse in that devilish tone of yours -
which, by the way, scorches and burns us, turns us white
with fear to utter a word - you slip in remarks that ache
and make us take, and double-take.
Why do we put up with you?
But all you do is "put up" with us, and thus, our lack of trust
in you is justified. In no way can we just confide in you
when you continue to do as you do, and pursue gratitude
through a magnitude of hate and "attitude." You roll your eyes,
wide, with vexation when we disagree with you.
And all of your sighs and grunts may stunt your growth;
because your constant state of bent over isolation, with
your arms locked and jaw tightly shut, won't be of aid to you
when you whine about looks and aesthetic pleasance.
Rather, it will simply add to your essence, your unpleasant essence.
Your lack of poise destroys your forceful arrogance.
And directly above that lack of poise, accumulating
in that skull is nothing but air, which I guess
is fairly sensible, because the density and mass are vast in scope
and it makes me wonder...
Is that why your hair is so big?
What good will it do for you? A temporary fix - fixed in that mind,
closed off from reality - seems empowering, but it makes you
intolerable when you push and pull with deceptive intentions,
that eat away at you everyday. And everyday,
you whine and complain with chilled and shrill shrieks about
what went wrong with so-and-so,
and who upset you through-and-through.
And everyday, that devilish tone, amplified with every word -
absurd, making stomachs turn - forbids your lips,
which grip onto repulsive sounds, sounds more and more like
a desperate cry for help and assistance to retract this distance.
You know the one - that distance you place and continually trace,
and retrace, without an apparent trace of consideration for
the walls you've built.
When you finally face the face that belongs to you,
coated in caked on make-up; when you finally see
through those hateful eyes, behind which despise lies, endlessly;
and when you finally see your lips, torn up by the acid
spewed from your throat, from which that devilish tone erects...
You'll probably be surprised, and you will realize that maybe
you should clean your mirror a bit more often.
Life Lessons
The purification of the soul and
the escalation of the mind let
the changes take the course so
the life is to the fullest, but
the memories and the times
win us over and over again and over
the years, when the angst has sat in
the seat, which stays dormant in the theatre,
the realizations build the guidelines and
the mistakes turn into the lessons which allow
the mind to escalate and the soul to purify.
the escalation of the mind let
the changes take the course so
the life is to the fullest, but
the memories and the times
win us over and over again and over
the years, when the angst has sat in
the seat, which stays dormant in the theatre,
the realizations build the guidelines and
the mistakes turn into the lessons which allow
the mind to escalate and the soul to purify.
22 April 2009
Some Kind of Liking For Those Dreadful Things
Considering everything you've done for me,
I guess I shouldn't complain so much.
You provide a means of transportation
and you refuse to leave me hanging.
Sometimes you get lazy, but don't we all at times?
It's all right. I forgive you.
You still allow me to get from point A to point B -
and in a relatively safe manner at that!
It turns out that I couldn't live as I do without you.
I'd go insane without you, always a step away.
So, when it all comes down to it, feet:
You complete me.
I guess I shouldn't complain so much.
You provide a means of transportation
and you refuse to leave me hanging.
Sometimes you get lazy, but don't we all at times?
It's all right. I forgive you.
You still allow me to get from point A to point B -
and in a relatively safe manner at that!
It turns out that I couldn't live as I do without you.
I'd go insane without you, always a step away.
So, when it all comes down to it, feet:
You complete me.
My Version of A Dream Deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it cease
like a fire without air?
Or does it burn like an itch –
you can no longer bear?
Does it tear at the heart?
Or inject toxins in the veins –
like a poison dart?
Maybe it sits crying
like a child in pain.
Or does it go insane?
Does it cease
like a fire without air?
Or does it burn like an itch –
you can no longer bear?
Does it tear at the heart?
Or inject toxins in the veins –
like a poison dart?
Maybe it sits crying
like a child in pain.
Or does it go insane?
21 April 2009
Euphoria
This morning, after a nice seven-and-a-half hour night of sleep, I woke up to the soft repetition of "The Cost of Resistance" by Xploding Plastix. Following my own resistance and final consent to disrupt the music's continuation, I languidly rolled out of my bed to rid myself of clingy fatigue. Once I set my feet on the Pom stained carpet, I stood still for a while to make sure that my foundation was as strong as I'd wished for it to be today. A good minute went by. My feet agreed to keep me standing and able to walk yet another day. On my way from the bed post to the vanity, I stumbled over a heap of nothing; I've always been a bit clumsy. Maybe my feet hadn't quite abandoned their own fatigue just yet. Luckily, I've tripped over myself plenty of times, so I managed to avoid a complete spill. I once again gathered myself and reestablished my balance. After I had safely made my way to the sink - with my head down to watch my feet take individual steps, parallel to each other - I tied my now semi-long hair up with a thin brown band which never leaves my person, grabbed my face wash to awaken the senses along with my mind, brushed my teeth with my green Pokemon toothbrush and finally, rinsed off my face and took my hair down- all without taking the slightest glance at my reflection. I have become quite accustomed to disregarding the presence of mirrors and going about my life without giving them the due respect of allowing them to serve their primary function: give back to us a smidgen of what we long to know without an ounce of questioning.
Every morning, some ulterior force provides me with yet another moment of life, but regardless of the endless love I have for those moments, I have not shown a fraction of the appreciation which I owe to that ulterior force. Every time a new day commences, the pages of my unwritten schedule close and reopen to the first page, starting at: Wake! Then, the sequence of events continues just as it did this morning; I get out of bed, find my ground, trip a bit, resist the mirror, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. My life could hardly be considered as boring, but repetition has the full capability of agitating, and it has done so in my own existence. To repeat something in one's mind triggers a memory, which creates a habit. Repetition is great for learning and obtaining new information! For life, on the other hand, to repeat is to hinder one's own experience on earth. And when one allows for hindrances to continuously occur in his or her life, life itself becomes something of less value than it would have been otherwise.
This morning, though, my typical schedule went against protocol and consisted of an unexpected violation; I turned away from the vanity, fresh and fully awake, to dress in the unflattering uniform the school presents as my solitary option of attire. Afterwards, I persisted to destroy my hair with a four hundred degree straightener in order to be a bit more pleased with my outward appearance. At last, after filling my autographed book bag with six or seven text books and spiral-bounds, I jumped to my feet and headed toward the door which was only about an inch cracked open. But right as I expanded the space between the door and it's frame, I stopped myself from stepping into the hall, and with a tinge of discomfort, I turned one hundred and eighty degrees to the right and faced myself in that reflective surface, once a pile of sand grains. To my surprise, I stared, and I did so with a bit of content. Another flaw did not leap out at me and carve at my self-esteem as I had expected. A form of remorse for exposing to myself an image which I rather disliked did not blanket my mind. Instead, I moved closer to the mirror and more delicately examined my anitomical features which had previously seemed to be an affliction to me. I saw my hair, and though it had been tortured by unbearable heat, I liked it. I saw my eyes, which have a small difference in shape, and I enjoyed their azure presence. I turned my head ninty degrees to see my nose, which now I know is nearly perfectly straight. Lastly, I turned back to a head-on position, and noticed a smile in the corner of my mouth. I giggled for a while at how silly I had been to hate my appearance for no real reason. I turned around, walked towards the door, flipped the light switch down, and left the room to live my repetition with a bounce in my step.
Every morning, some ulterior force provides me with yet another moment of life, but regardless of the endless love I have for those moments, I have not shown a fraction of the appreciation which I owe to that ulterior force. Every time a new day commences, the pages of my unwritten schedule close and reopen to the first page, starting at: Wake! Then, the sequence of events continues just as it did this morning; I get out of bed, find my ground, trip a bit, resist the mirror, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. My life could hardly be considered as boring, but repetition has the full capability of agitating, and it has done so in my own existence. To repeat something in one's mind triggers a memory, which creates a habit. Repetition is great for learning and obtaining new information! For life, on the other hand, to repeat is to hinder one's own experience on earth. And when one allows for hindrances to continuously occur in his or her life, life itself becomes something of less value than it would have been otherwise.
This morning, though, my typical schedule went against protocol and consisted of an unexpected violation; I turned away from the vanity, fresh and fully awake, to dress in the unflattering uniform the school presents as my solitary option of attire. Afterwards, I persisted to destroy my hair with a four hundred degree straightener in order to be a bit more pleased with my outward appearance. At last, after filling my autographed book bag with six or seven text books and spiral-bounds, I jumped to my feet and headed toward the door which was only about an inch cracked open. But right as I expanded the space between the door and it's frame, I stopped myself from stepping into the hall, and with a tinge of discomfort, I turned one hundred and eighty degrees to the right and faced myself in that reflective surface, once a pile of sand grains. To my surprise, I stared, and I did so with a bit of content. Another flaw did not leap out at me and carve at my self-esteem as I had expected. A form of remorse for exposing to myself an image which I rather disliked did not blanket my mind. Instead, I moved closer to the mirror and more delicately examined my anitomical features which had previously seemed to be an affliction to me. I saw my hair, and though it had been tortured by unbearable heat, I liked it. I saw my eyes, which have a small difference in shape, and I enjoyed their azure presence. I turned my head ninty degrees to see my nose, which now I know is nearly perfectly straight. Lastly, I turned back to a head-on position, and noticed a smile in the corner of my mouth. I giggled for a while at how silly I had been to hate my appearance for no real reason. I turned around, walked towards the door, flipped the light switch down, and left the room to live my repetition with a bounce in my step.
20 April 2009
Cessation
The implications nature continues to provide have finally dawned on me - the year is coming to an end. As I walked back to my dorm this afternoon, proceeding a dinner of a spinach salad, topped with tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, grapes, peaches and "craisins," I took note of the absolute beauty by which I was encompassed. It was nearly 6:45 and the sun still shown brightly, as if to enliven the morning of a new day. Prior to my observations of a baby squirrel running from its parents, a new bud on a cherry blossom tree, and that sun, not even on the verge of setting, I had refused to believe that "Spring had sprung." I was not ready for my sophomore year to come to a cessation, because of the improvements yet to be made in every aspect of my life. I have set unreachable goals for myself, and not reaching them has brought me down an unimaginable amount. I have wanted to be the straight A student I know I can be, but I have not put forth the full effort, and thus abandoned all possibilities of meeting said goals for the remainder of the school year.
As the expiration of this year creeps closer, those goals, though unaccomplished, elicited a dormant trait of mine which had been itching to rip itself out of my heart, crack my ribs and break through the box in which I had been hiding it for so long; I actually proved to myself and others that I have potential and my efforts have not been a waste of time. Even if they were, the time spent on everything this year was well worth it and I now realize that if given the chance, I would not change one thing that happened this year. As I said, I have not been ready for the year to be over, but I know that next year only holds new chances for improvement and an ample amount of times to shine, just as the sun shown at 6:45 this afternoon. The sun brought forth an unforgettable essence which the whole campus thoroughly embraced, and the completion of the year is accompanied with the endearing charm of Spring. So, the actual end to my year is also paired with a beauty of its own.
As the expiration of this year creeps closer, those goals, though unaccomplished, elicited a dormant trait of mine which had been itching to rip itself out of my heart, crack my ribs and break through the box in which I had been hiding it for so long; I actually proved to myself and others that I have potential and my efforts have not been a waste of time. Even if they were, the time spent on everything this year was well worth it and I now realize that if given the chance, I would not change one thing that happened this year. As I said, I have not been ready for the year to be over, but I know that next year only holds new chances for improvement and an ample amount of times to shine, just as the sun shown at 6:45 this afternoon. The sun brought forth an unforgettable essence which the whole campus thoroughly embraced, and the completion of the year is accompanied with the endearing charm of Spring. So, the actual end to my year is also paired with a beauty of its own.
Mindlessness
Irretraceable, yet memorable, the time allotted
seems to be the only thing that keeps me tripping
on the track of life, I stand alone and wonder what today
will bring to me and if I'm living or
if by chance I follow plans, leaving pure existence at hand,
dragging me down several stories.
And stories seem to fade away, with every passing moment
and lost memory. So let me ask you, may I sit and stay a while,
just observe the scenery?
Three days gone again, my friend, and we're all lying home in bed
with no intent of moving forward.
But getting ahead's impossible. Let's catch up to what we've got
in front of us and then we'll think straight.
This is just another attempt at getting points across to the audience,
the one that takes in God knows what,
and appreciates a shit ton less than what we told them.
One day, I'll show them.
Damn it, what's the point in this?
You'll probably criticize the hell out of this and tell me,
"You need to work on this."
Well, right now is not the time to revise, but rather the time to realize
that I'm not the only one whose life is passing by.
You, yourself, should check your watch and enjoy your time before it's lost.
Whoops, there it goes again. Thirty minutes, half past ten.
Get some sleep and rest your head for the oh so exciting day ahead,
because it's quite identical to the one you just went through a little while ago.
Isn't that exciting?
seems to be the only thing that keeps me tripping
on the track of life, I stand alone and wonder what today
will bring to me and if I'm living or
if by chance I follow plans, leaving pure existence at hand,
dragging me down several stories.
And stories seem to fade away, with every passing moment
and lost memory. So let me ask you, may I sit and stay a while,
just observe the scenery?
Three days gone again, my friend, and we're all lying home in bed
with no intent of moving forward.
But getting ahead's impossible. Let's catch up to what we've got
in front of us and then we'll think straight.
This is just another attempt at getting points across to the audience,
the one that takes in God knows what,
and appreciates a shit ton less than what we told them.
One day, I'll show them.
Damn it, what's the point in this?
You'll probably criticize the hell out of this and tell me,
"You need to work on this."
Well, right now is not the time to revise, but rather the time to realize
that I'm not the only one whose life is passing by.
You, yourself, should check your watch and enjoy your time before it's lost.
Whoops, there it goes again. Thirty minutes, half past ten.
Get some sleep and rest your head for the oh so exciting day ahead,
because it's quite identical to the one you just went through a little while ago.
Isn't that exciting?
Vocabulary Hysteria
Inevitable desires, consume me now
and dwell upon my pulsating physique.
Unfold the realms untold.
Laudable, yet nonexistent limitations
provoke my recoiling;
Inhibit such habits and sanction my
sinful wishes - those which linger
rarely through my body,
but endlessly through my conscience.
Wait.
Sweet, chaste innocence prevents
afflicting decisions.
Inevitable desires: remain docile,
yet not scarce.
Console my sundry dolor.
Prohibit pernicious requests, both
from mind and body,
and allow subtle yet prudent
modesty.
and dwell upon my pulsating physique.
Unfold the realms untold.
Laudable, yet nonexistent limitations
provoke my recoiling;
Inhibit such habits and sanction my
sinful wishes - those which linger
rarely through my body,
but endlessly through my conscience.
Wait.
Sweet, chaste innocence prevents
afflicting decisions.
Inevitable desires: remain docile,
yet not scarce.
Console my sundry dolor.
Prohibit pernicious requests, both
from mind and body,
and allow subtle yet prudent
modesty.
Jots of Beauty
Sure, your eyes are captivating and quite capable of leaving me breathless, but most would base such a description off of mere aesthetic beauty. Not that your eyes are not quite deserving of the title, "beautiful," but the question is longing to evade these lips, through these fingers, which cannot keep up with this train of thought: what is beauty? In most cases, one would contemplate the concept of beauty and simply regurgitate every simplistic idea that had ever been spewed into his or her face - beauty is a six-letter word for something which elicits some sort of a hormonal outburst. Well, all right, that's beauty. But beauty, which manufactures a fleeting pulse and a cold sweat - rather addictive, if not related to cardiovascular problems - cannot possibly refer only to the select few lucky ones with the perfect symmetry and awesome genetic make-up. Arousal is not simply driven by voluptuousness or a petite skeletal frame; beauty provokes arousal both physically and mentally. What could cause the mind to produce the same feelings which are composed by a sexual sensation? Surely not the exterior. Your eyes, along with every other sight-capable being's eyes, are a direct path to pure truth. Whether it be the depths of an honest statement or the disclosure of a lie, your sensational, magnificent eyes provide the directions which lead to your mind, which just so happens to be connected to your soul. The one thing that brings forth unfeigned beauty in it is that the legitimacy behind your corneas, a bit to the left of your retinas, and straight past the optic nerves, is the unclouded honesty in every word which escapes your mouth.
It's strange that the utterances, forced upward and forward by involuntary systems - starting at the brain, which sends the signals to the voice box to generate vibrations which bounce off of the walls of your throat and remind the tongue to curl and touch the roof of the mouth occasionally, all in order to create a sound - originate in the soul. But wait, the signals initiate in the brain, do they not? What runs the brain, though? Some ulterior force, which some like to call a spirit, a soul, or a consciousness. All of such are absolutely correct, and they, as a whole, form the center of one's being which is where that alluring truthfulness, of which you are oh so famous, obtains its life. Why, though, are your eyes so much more understandable than the tone in those utterances or the fashion in which your lips move? A tone, which is yet again a result of one minuscule signal sent from the brain to the rest of the body, cannot uncover what the soul dies to eject; a tone merely follows its orders, which it takes from the brain. A tone is capable of trickery. Eyes, though, pull every emotion and every physical expression together to fully convey the mind, which is imprisoned in that overpowering brain. One cannot hide behind his or her eyes, because the eyes' sole purpose is to portray what the rest of the face and the body cannot; what the physical fairness cannot display, the eyes do, as a means of exposing the untouched, uncorrupted beauty which lies within.
So, your subdermal beauty, which surpasses your corporal excellence, either advertantly or inadvertantly seduces my very being. Let it be known that I am quite cognizant of the effect which your essence has on me, but your beauty, which even your captivating eyes are unable to fully release, has my inferior core under a hypnosis. The hypnosis would not succeed in enthralling me if my focus were not entirely devoted to your unearthly totality.
What is beauty? I guess that's you.
It's strange that the utterances, forced upward and forward by involuntary systems - starting at the brain, which sends the signals to the voice box to generate vibrations which bounce off of the walls of your throat and remind the tongue to curl and touch the roof of the mouth occasionally, all in order to create a sound - originate in the soul. But wait, the signals initiate in the brain, do they not? What runs the brain, though? Some ulterior force, which some like to call a spirit, a soul, or a consciousness. All of such are absolutely correct, and they, as a whole, form the center of one's being which is where that alluring truthfulness, of which you are oh so famous, obtains its life. Why, though, are your eyes so much more understandable than the tone in those utterances or the fashion in which your lips move? A tone, which is yet again a result of one minuscule signal sent from the brain to the rest of the body, cannot uncover what the soul dies to eject; a tone merely follows its orders, which it takes from the brain. A tone is capable of trickery. Eyes, though, pull every emotion and every physical expression together to fully convey the mind, which is imprisoned in that overpowering brain. One cannot hide behind his or her eyes, because the eyes' sole purpose is to portray what the rest of the face and the body cannot; what the physical fairness cannot display, the eyes do, as a means of exposing the untouched, uncorrupted beauty which lies within.
So, your subdermal beauty, which surpasses your corporal excellence, either advertantly or inadvertantly seduces my very being. Let it be known that I am quite cognizant of the effect which your essence has on me, but your beauty, which even your captivating eyes are unable to fully release, has my inferior core under a hypnosis. The hypnosis would not succeed in enthralling me if my focus were not entirely devoted to your unearthly totality.
What is beauty? I guess that's you.
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