Put to Task

I worshipped the feet below this cloud,
A backwards example of melancholy,
Torn asunder by miniscule people in big boy pants,
They wanted to fly, but failed to sprout wings
Even upon those that they forced out windows of skyscrapers
The pawns that they kept smashed under their thumbs.

But amidst it all is the disrespectful

The life beaters,

Forcing the joy out of the willing

Those who wanted to become something

And took in the lie of the big machine

Even those who willing took the knives against the innocent

They took their joys away

In the final hours we wish for more

In the final waking moments we want some kind of sign

A signal from on high, perhaps

But we should stop begging for chances to change it all around

Because we only seek to find solace in the things we hated

Whent he things we hated become our only options.

But in this cynical sky,

There is a silver lining

And golden rays of sunshine

But you have to pass through the fog

You have to pass through a raging storm

And lose track of all your patience

And rush in head first

But to be honest,

Not everyone will find it.

They will chase the carrot on the string

Dangling from the end of a stick

Attached to their heads

Hands extended forth

And trying wildly as if grasping for straws

and in the silence of their fall,

Nothing.

To Just Be There

In the blink of an eye I see I know not what I was saying
I could not fathom what I was doing
Jumping into the ocean without a raft or knowledge
I took this plunge to quickly while your feet were cemented to the ground above
Here I was drowning, and realizing
My feet were cemented too
What was I thinking, why was a grasping at a ghostly image
Not really there
But still a soothing presence
But now I think I understand
You spent so much time swimming amongst the fish
When you were meant to walk on earth
And you have only been there for a bit of time
But you were worried of doing it alone
Because some would make you go back to the ocean
But this time, patience is key
the time could be at hand or not
But you need time to take in the oxygen
And spread your toes in the grass
Welcome home to freedom,
I won't try to dive again,
Not at this moment, maybe not ever,
If we are not meant to be this place,
Built upon sand,
Good, but fleeting as the tide rushes in
Battering everything into flat surfaces void of dimension
I'm calm and collected,
Here I go.

Distances Measured in Promises

I'll start this new post by saying it has been a good long while, but this blog is still getting attention so I figured I should post something new, so here goes.

Despite what you say, what you do, how you feel, or how you think
There is still a white light that shines through your perforated vision
Something unique and detachable, reachable, perchance retractable
This solititude I feel, is incomplete, because no man should be solo
The falling trees and the shaking earth, your conscience battered and bruised,
Contemplating suicidal tendencies but never suicidal action
You balance your belief system on the lies of your childhood,
And fall into your pits of fire like they were pools of water
And although you contemplate brighter times, you repeat dark days
Finding fault in the broken glass, but still embracing it
You are bloodied and broken
Crying out, but holding on to this rageful, spiteful vengeance,
That you continue without fault to do to yourself,
Here in this place about you, there are clouds of diminished capacity,
You see me fragile, and distraught, a smile upon the face of a porcelain doll
But strength abounds for under the fragile is rock
So when the earthquakes , and the tornadoes bruise your ego, and your passions
I will still be here, a little worse for wear but in tact,
It isn't blasphemy to curse God for this, because he cursed us first
Made us human, made us suspetible to mistakes, and stupidity
To knowledge and foolishness, he gave us not only the tools for our creation
but also the tools to lead to our ultimate destruction
I don't pretend to be a philosopher, nor would i want to be,
These impossible questions, with ridiculous solutions, since there are none
Are not reality's.
to the point at hand however, we are not perfect little flowers,
But I am not a rabid dog,
Perhaps a simple red fox,
Weaker, and vulnerable, but boxed in a corner, prepared to defend, and survive as best I can
Maybe the world will swallow whole that goodness that I want to stand for,
and maybe one day you can see this too, all of you, the you's out there in all this world,
Catastrophe is at hand,
But it is avoidable, and I will be here till i'm not,
And then i'll be gone forever if seasons do not change.

Possible Revised Opening for the Night Flyer

In a multitude of ways Simon Grace was like any other, a young strapping man with a penchant for simple acts of rebellion.  He tried his best to be the ideal grandson he thought his grandmother wanted, but something in him screamed to disobey.  If it wasn’t for that wonderful affection he received daily from her, he might have descended into a different type of young adulthood, but as it were his undying love, and respect for her ideals kept him in check, and molded his disposition.  He still had the urge to do his own thing, to walk free of the pack, but it wasn’t in any damaging way.  He kept to himself, his quest for independence was to allow him the chance to love his isolation, to understand himself, and the world around him.  Simon Grace was a strange boy in this regard, while others ached for the companionship of others, and finding comradery in friends, Simon demanded from his rebellion the right to be on his own, and to ponder his thoughts, with himself, on his own.  He was not a perfect grandson, he would often tell lies to his sweet trusting guardian, who would it seemed grant him a humorous knowing distance.  These lies he told were simplistic, you see Simon didn’t love fishing, but if you asked anyone in Placim what his greatest hobby was, his wonderous passion, they would tell you the opposite.  But Simon Grace didn’t fish, he pretended to fish, as an escape.  He never really gathered why he thought the lie was sufficient, that he was going out to catch his own breakfast, lunch, dinner, but he did, he felt as Placim was a fishing village that that would be the most understandable distraction a young man could have.  No one asked question about a boy in a fishing village who wanted to go catch fish, why would they?  They would assume that such a boy was shaping himself for a lifelong career of carving up smelly bass and trout, a lifelong career where one dreamed of catching and parading around the gutted body of a razor shark.  He however cared nothing for such dreams, for such life choices.  Simon would set off with his fishing line, a bucket, and he would go to the old town worn away by typhoons, and eatin by the blowing dune sands, and sit, dipping his toes in the waters at the end of the oldest, most worn docks in all of Placim.  And when he was there he would stare across the great big blue at the Isle of Grimm where in his mind the greatest mystery of all lied, where questions could be answered, and where no one could get to.