I had an actual thought to put here earlier. This has since disappeared. Now, I will post a smattering of my thoughts and see if my original thought appears within.
- I hate playing second fiddle, but often end up doing so due to being the "ugly friend". I wonder who would even speak to me if I didn't have access to the other guy/girl. The answer? Not many.
- I think people (me included) too often confuse pessimism with realism. Always looking on the bright side doesn't make me unrealistic, nor does the pessimist always end up being right. It's 50/50, just like many other things in life.
- Some days I want to pack a bag and leave everything behind me. Permanently. I write in things like this to prevent such thoughts from taking over. I feel this way more often than I care to admit, which may be why I cling to so many of these things. Which is funny, since there are so few worldly things I place any value in. Which leads to my next point. . .
- I have a terrible habit of considering everything transient. I can never rid myself the thought that no matter what I do, people will just tire of me, run out of use for me, and just leave. I feel like in a way many people I'm close to have, or will. There's no real explaining why, I just don't see a reason why they'd think any different. It's really not fair for them to, at least.
- I haven't written anything in a while. I miss it, but have no idea what I'd say if I started a new poem. Maybe later (said the clock to the deathbed).
That's it for today folks. Have a good morning, and in case you never grace this page again, afternoon, evening, night, baptism, bat mitzvah, prom, wedding, and funeral.
With love,
DJ
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Color complex
Thought of the day: carrying yourself with class and knowing how to control your urges will get you far in life. I don't want to say I'm "assimilated" to white culture, because that would mean that there was some brainwashing process or some other nonsense. I'm not for that. If my mind's been altered at all, it's simply been augmented so that I don't see people as colors, but as people. I'd say the world would be better without color, but it wouldn't. We as a society would simply find other ways to judge one another, like length of hair or something equally ridiculous.
I dream in color,
but I don't define myself
by racist rainbows.
Until next time, dear reader, safety and peace.
I dream in color,
but I don't define myself
by racist rainbows.
Until next time, dear reader, safety and peace.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Loneliest Star
I know what it's like
to find meaning in stardust
when no comets have
come your way in a long while.
We just have to keep wishing.
Not a whole lot to say this time, reader. Feeling some kinda way about some things, but letting things sort out in good time. Time heals all things, so they say. I'd sure to Hell like to find out. . .
to find meaning in stardust
when no comets have
come your way in a long while.
We just have to keep wishing.
Not a whole lot to say this time, reader. Feeling some kinda way about some things, but letting things sort out in good time. Time heals all things, so they say. I'd sure to Hell like to find out. . .
Friday, May 21, 2010
I'm looking through the glass. . .
On the outside looking in,
it's a struggle to keep wandering memories
off of my cot at night.
If home is where the heart is
I have perched in an alley
cut a R.I.P. sign out of a cardboard box
and hoped it would keep me warm at night.
Falling into the burlap
where bad dreams go to die.
Weaving relations into nightmares
and then having the nerve
to complain
that it keeps me awake.
No memories,
just worn down shoes
three shirts
and a hat
that never quite fit
These days, I want my heart back
but wouldn't know what to do with it
if God spit it up.
it's a struggle to keep wandering memories
off of my cot at night.
If home is where the heart is
I have perched in an alley
cut a R.I.P. sign out of a cardboard box
and hoped it would keep me warm at night.
Falling into the burlap
where bad dreams go to die.
Weaving relations into nightmares
and then having the nerve
to complain
that it keeps me awake.
No memories,
just worn down shoes
three shirts
and a hat
that never quite fit
These days, I want my heart back
but wouldn't know what to do with it
if God spit it up.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
When You've Done Something Right, People Won't Know You've Done Anything At All.
I was once taught that if you do something perfectly, people won't be sure you've really done anything. This sentiment was later woven into an episode of "Futurama", and has achieved a touch more fame. Just a little, though.
I start like that because lately, I've found myself in an odd predicament. Now that all the lives of my loved ones are pretty much stable, I've found myself unnecessary, and therefore not included in the new lives they have gone on to lead. In essence, people are drifting away because they don't need me.
That in itself is fine, and it makes me very happy. It's just led to some very frustrating and depressing moments lately. I wonder if I'm only good as a booster or an object to be used, and wonder if that's just my station or if I'm that way because somewhere in me I choose to be. I then wonder about how things would be different if I were different and I realize that who I am is truly who I need to be. In the end, even if no one I care about has seen or will acknowledge my effort, I know it's there and have no clue what the world would be like if it wasn't.
It hurts. People always slipping away from me after they've gotten what they need from me hurts tremendously, and I will sit here on my own outlet and pretend that it does not. Being alone burns by itself. Being alone, and then realizing that maybe things have to be this way so that people can be happy, that's a level of pain I don't think I have words for. But in the end, people can be happy.
And if that means I can't be, so be it. The messages of today are twofold: the first is the title of this entry. The second is this:
Appreciate beauty, no matter how hard it is to find.
Feels like we're falling,
feels like we're slipping away.
Please say if you can
that this all will be OK
just like you said way back then.
Be well, be blessed, know that you are loved, dear reader.
I start like that because lately, I've found myself in an odd predicament. Now that all the lives of my loved ones are pretty much stable, I've found myself unnecessary, and therefore not included in the new lives they have gone on to lead. In essence, people are drifting away because they don't need me.
That in itself is fine, and it makes me very happy. It's just led to some very frustrating and depressing moments lately. I wonder if I'm only good as a booster or an object to be used, and wonder if that's just my station or if I'm that way because somewhere in me I choose to be. I then wonder about how things would be different if I were different and I realize that who I am is truly who I need to be. In the end, even if no one I care about has seen or will acknowledge my effort, I know it's there and have no clue what the world would be like if it wasn't.
It hurts. People always slipping away from me after they've gotten what they need from me hurts tremendously, and I will sit here on my own outlet and pretend that it does not. Being alone burns by itself. Being alone, and then realizing that maybe things have to be this way so that people can be happy, that's a level of pain I don't think I have words for. But in the end, people can be happy.
And if that means I can't be, so be it. The messages of today are twofold: the first is the title of this entry. The second is this:
Appreciate beauty, no matter how hard it is to find.
Feels like we're falling,
feels like we're slipping away.
Please say if you can
that this all will be OK
just like you said way back then.
Be well, be blessed, know that you are loved, dear reader.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Clockwork Hearts
In the blink of an eye
we come face to face
with the ticking hands
that cannot grasp the sands
falling through the hourglass.
In the time it takes us
to see
that some things will always be the same
so much more has changed
that it all feels
like a matter of perspective
more than evolution.
we come face to face
with the ticking hands
that cannot grasp the sands
falling through the hourglass.
In the time it takes us
to see
that some things will always be the same
so much more has changed
that it all feels
like a matter of perspective
more than evolution.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
A Moment in the Life of a Last Goodbye.
As I escaped his grasp
I almost couldn't squeeze
through the iron curtain.
His teeth wanted to sabotage
his tongue wanted to obey
his mind wanted to go
his heart
beat in syncopated rhythm
to the raindrops
ripped from the thunderclouds
on a moonless night.
Baby, baby. . .won't you come inside?
It's cold out here
and there's a story in your eyes
with ink spilling from the corners.
As I formed on a stiff breeze
come flying by in the darkness
I knew that I was flash in the pan
transient waves
that don't even extend the length of their fingers.
There is energy in parting
saccharine sorrow sewn into the splitting sides
of thunderheads.
Said the lightning bolt to the gust,
"and we wonder why life is a comedy of errors?"
If only you could see the world as I do
you could understand the bursting laughter
of the falsities spoken into stormy nights.
They have put an end to more beautiful dusks
than I care to count
taking destruction
cold, pain
masking it as beauty
it is afraid of me.
Maybe I have seen its true face
etched into a raindrop
by their feet
Baby, baby, won't you come inside?
it's cold out here and I wonder,
what was the use of crying?
I don't want to leave
the sanctuary
of thoughts without being.
But how things have to be
is how they have the be
floating into the space between
the parted clouds
of their palms, I wonder:
what would this storm be like if I'd never been born?
I asked her what I sounded like.
She kissed him,
and the lightning struck,
and she walked away.
I almost couldn't squeeze
through the iron curtain.
His teeth wanted to sabotage
his tongue wanted to obey
his mind wanted to go
his heart
beat in syncopated rhythm
to the raindrops
ripped from the thunderclouds
on a moonless night.
Baby, baby. . .won't you come inside?
It's cold out here
and there's a story in your eyes
with ink spilling from the corners.
As I formed on a stiff breeze
come flying by in the darkness
I knew that I was flash in the pan
transient waves
that don't even extend the length of their fingers.
There is energy in parting
saccharine sorrow sewn into the splitting sides
of thunderheads.
Said the lightning bolt to the gust,
"and we wonder why life is a comedy of errors?"
If only you could see the world as I do
you could understand the bursting laughter
of the falsities spoken into stormy nights.
They have put an end to more beautiful dusks
than I care to count
taking destruction
cold, pain
masking it as beauty
it is afraid of me.
Maybe I have seen its true face
etched into a raindrop
by their feet
Baby, baby, won't you come inside?
it's cold out here and I wonder,
what was the use of crying?
I don't want to leave
the sanctuary
of thoughts without being.
But how things have to be
is how they have the be
floating into the space between
the parted clouds
of their palms, I wonder:
what would this storm be like if I'd never been born?
I asked her what I sounded like.
She kissed him,
and the lightning struck,
and she walked away.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Pinball Wizard
Deaf, dumb and blind boy
plays flippers as if his wrists
were replaced with God's.
He touched my heart and healed it,
with those hands, of a wizard.
plays flippers as if his wrists
were replaced with God's.
He touched my heart and healed it,
with those hands, of a wizard.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The World's Strongest Man
The weights collect dust
in the corner.
A sign hangs off of one nail
at the door, border
bound by decrepit paint
chips into oblivion
as the water falling through
cracks in the ceiling
drips at the rhythm or mortality.
Recently
waxing and waning phases
of masculinity
have found the gym fading
fading, faded.
Forever young memories
set between bent syringes
and burst pipe-dreams
have let the machines rust
rot
remind us
that nothing is forever,
but old habits leave brains
faster than muscles leave limbs.
in the corner.
A sign hangs off of one nail
at the door, border
bound by decrepit paint
chips into oblivion
as the water falling through
cracks in the ceiling
drips at the rhythm or mortality.
Recently
waxing and waning phases
of masculinity
have found the gym fading
fading, faded.
Forever young memories
set between bent syringes
and burst pipe-dreams
have let the machines rust
rot
remind us
that nothing is forever,
but old habits leave brains
faster than muscles leave limbs.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day.
She may never know
that she inspires the fireflies
tucked beneath my sternum.
He may never look in the mirror
and see the wind beneath my wings
staring back at him.
These dreams
sit on a coffee table
in my living room
under a halo from a floor lamp
and light my words like a brighter tomorrow.
My parents are not muses.
They don’t even like poetry that much.
But for every thousand words I pour onto a page,
I see there eyes, and remember where I come from.
that she inspires the fireflies
tucked beneath my sternum.
He may never look in the mirror
and see the wind beneath my wings
staring back at him.
These dreams
sit on a coffee table
in my living room
under a halo from a floor lamp
and light my words like a brighter tomorrow.
My parents are not muses.
They don’t even like poetry that much.
But for every thousand words I pour onto a page,
I see there eyes, and remember where I come from.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
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