Where did I go wrong? It's not just about the whole enchilada. The discipline we yearn for But beyond the basics It is there. Like the striking of lightning, Written on April 22, 1997 in response to Justin's suggestion of doing so.
a time when all has ceased of being the being that is similar to that of the universal light but there will be those momentous occasions
Rain at 1:23 in the morning Pouring rain to cleanse the skies The distant, almost futile, thunder I am alive at 1:30 in the morning, At 1:33, I realize that I watched As I reflect upon my day with the tact of a poet, Who has time to be poetic as 1:12 in the morning? Who cares if love rhymes with dove, or hair is in sync. with care. June 29, 1997
Two and one half years from our destinial calling, "Civilized" sound from an ancestral culture, That same calling is inside each and every one of us! Stay occupied with your mind and accommodate the purpose! July 1, 1997
It's not like it'll matter in a hundred years, My poem might reflect my state-of-mind Or maybe a documentary Maybe they'll do it. The effects of my existence Nothing for me to be ashamed of. A time capsule beneath the soil, Covered with a franchise of greed
We are children on a sea of flowers, A ring of truth surrounding our guarded emotions The eternal we are, love, is content in our emotions July 31, 1997 at International Y.O.U. Conference Note: The title pertains to the final page of this particular journal, not the last of my writings.
A surreal endeavor, a foggy Thursday morning, An endless web of foliage mocking the actual circumstances, Silence around, silence abroad, Arise to the point, where bells ring in the distance, Bellow your deepest emotions Look back to the fog, to your fleeting domain. August 16, 1997
A yearning so domestic, Be here in the love we emit. Discover the point at which Pervert joviality into a game August 21, 1997
The day, created with forgotten darkness Arrive. Short in remembrance, polite in introduction, Luke warm phrases that constitute September 4, 1997
It's like the lessons I learn in life, Guilt. I blame myself. Waiting for a miracle. Next line. September 8, 1997
Rainfall
Where did the string run out?
As I implode upon my will
and still,
I sit here pondering my existence
in this world,
in this life.
It's about the little things,
the everyday things,
the things that demand your attention,
your decision,
and that's where the harmony brings itself
to the front of the stage
in peacefulness and timid rage;
uncaged, it reveals itself to the unaided eye
and we wonder why,
we wonder the extent of our decisions,
the repercussions of our actions
and we stand
and watch it fly by.
is lingering on the minds of our parents,
on the tips of their tongues
as they hope, translucently hope,
that we have the strength that they did not
to not make the mistakes they made,
the lives they wanted as youthful children of the land,
as the youth on the vine of life,
on a vine of existence, of universal love.
and the logistics of reality,
we stand as apprentices
learning the actions,
the signs of success,
the sounds of the rainfall.
It's just a matter of taking that step
grasping that brass ring the hangs solemnly above our brow.
It is the truth behind the verdict
and we see it.
We see it gleaming in the shadows we have created,
the shadows that create our fears,
that we have collected through all of our years,
and the shadows spread their seemingly positive influence
upon the grace of our thoughts
of our decisive will.
we clear a path to the light,
to the light of the present,
not of the future, but to that of our own indulgences,
and we stand
and watch it fly by.Linger
a time where all is connected
an attachment of simplicity
a diversion of complication and haphazard
a time of waiting, of hoping,
a time that stands still, lingering.
of living the Truth that always was
as diverse as the rule of thought
as eclectic as life, itself
of a shadow that casts its own shadow
where we do not dwell or linger.
we travel everywhere, holding hands,
holding each other's faithful calling
visiting houses of the untouched,
that know not of the lingering presence
or of the eternal love, pondering within all of us.
and deep contemplations
when the light shines on itself
where we, now, stray away from
our deeply rutted paths
where we fly and do not linger.Friday Morning
to break the cold, stiff, breathless air.
Obscurity beyond perfection, the ceiling fan,
everything is normal, until I glance in the mirror
and notice my dysfunctional hair.
I mean even the little things,
that fly I swatted while watching Happy Gilmore,
did it care?
God knows.
and the midnight fever
among the ghosts of our own will.
All these observations of reality
are making it harder and harder to stay still.
as I notice that it's now 1:28.
My father's lovable morning remarks
of my previous consciousness
with myself remarking, "Not too late."
But, it's that early morning concept
that I really mustn't hate.
writing a simple poem.
Recalling the day's events
as I saw them from my home.
From the couch, from the kitchen,
from my powerless throne,
which is in reality, the computer.
three whole movies today
and that's all I did.
A thriller with Geena and Samuel
where everyone ends up dead.
And then a trip with Captain Picard,
where you finally notice that blank space on his head.
Finally, a round with Adam Sandler,
where I've forgotten all he said.
I step aside from my morals.
I utilize my avid vocabulary,
and tell my ego to wait.
I simply tell myself that I am tired
and it's 1:38.F#!k Poetry
I mean, come on here, who cares if a couple of words rhyme?
Who wants to write a stupid poem when the person next door is snoring?
And you know what? To make sure that two words have the same ending,
I don't have the time.
Who cares if fun sounds like run, or kid has as many syllables as lid.
I mean, to a decent writer, it's really not fair!
And, frankly, I think it's all really stupid!Untitled
I hear the voices from across the sea
on a silicone component of our vast technology
and the voices match something majestic inside me.
a mix of new and old in fragrant verses.
Something as simple as printed money
acquired my calling from a stack of plastic.
Perhaps it is because I am 15.
Perhaps it is because I am a YOUnitic...
Perhaps because life is a never ending octave
that resonates from our highest hopes to our deepest fears...
And it keeps our blood flowing, our feelings churning
through all of our long-lived years.
Once you discover it, don't ignore it or be at bay with it's meaning.
Show the world your heart, your cause,
discuss it among your farthest and closest peers!
Sing the melody by which it breathes.
Hum the tune for that which has given you new reasons.
Author books, compose songs, write poems
about the colorfully slowing seasons.
And when you have satisfied your new-found desires,
be still and know that He hears us!
All!Time Capsule
the fact that I was angry as hell,
or almost in tears,
or those little feelings I could just not tell
to anyone besides myself.
when they blow the dust of the title.
Only if it stands the test of time
and just sits around for a while
describing the thoughts of many.
on my "unique writing style."
On my elementary thoughts and rudimentary planning.
That would span the gap
between my childhood and adolescence.
Maybe they'll say, "He made an impact,
a difference in other people's lives."
Or they'll just go home to their children and wives
and say, "Just another boring day at work hon'.
It's time to go to bed, son."
can only seem to be measured
by the smallest of rulers.
Sure, sure, Mr. Swift says I'm being too modest,
but am I really doing my best?
No.
Just honorable to admit it, despite the fact
that I'm just a maggot among the insects
of intelligence and wisdom.
just waiting to be buried over
by some Super Wal-MartŠ.
Not very smart of them is it?
To cover a hidden treasure.
A diamond that just might be rough.
and "American free enterprise."
Not Wal-MartŠ, but our own hearts.
It's not exactly 'book smarts',The Final Poem
Walking in our own sacred silhouettes.
Watching the ebbs and flows of nature
as the trees' shadows display a code
that deciphers our most genuine questions.
is miniature compared to the bearer of our own love.
Our emotions are the window that tints the light
of negativity and protects guilt from our will.
and contempt.
Love is in all.
Peace, be still.The Advance & Intuition
fog swirling in constant manipulation,
lawn wet with evening dew,
your arrival in due time, hesitation.
you anchor in uncertain harmony,
you stride to the point;
wait in the silence solemnly.
in the whole, you are in pleasant company,
in the night, you are advancing
to a place which cannot possibly be any country.
look to the horizon, to the uncertain boundary.
Watch the waves roll to the shore,
to the well worn land of blessed ancestry.
from your heart, from your soul.
Shine from your brightest stature; as any beacon,
stand proud, watch the waves roll.
Glance abroad to your secure surroundings, hear the distant bells.
Be blissful, be serene, be content.
Peace, be still, know that all is well.Tag Team, Back Again
it cannot possibly be erased.
Experiences in which we could experience ourselves
with the freedom of thought and congregation.
The pleasure is right here,
in our own hearts.
A yearning so domestic,
it can only precede anticipation.
Be a mindset that is balanced.
For feelings and emotions,
that indescribable consciousness are healthy.
Submit to your own answers,
become your best friend
and learn from the everyday people.
Be here, right now, in the love we emit.
admiration turns to appreciation.
Like water for chocolate,
make the confrontation a keynote.
It's the little things in life
that create the most magnificent of hopes.
Walk to the element that condenses into love.
Sample. Realize.
It's the little things in life.
of immortality.
Mock the love that creates our deepest joy
and our shallowest fears.
Be the ears of hearing that speak as well.
Listen to the words you don't hear
and be still.
Celebrate. Reflect. Share.
Initiate those killer conversations
with an elementary friend.
Together, climb that illusional hill.
Listen to the words you don't hear
and be still.Pale September
and mellow repetition.
Waking, hoping, knowing that it is overcast.
Remembering my timid anticipation.
That extrasensory delight of dim myopia
from the not so distant past.
Repetition, but well on the side of sociality.
Pale, pale September.
'Tis only a day, a day in great revelation,
'tis only overcast.
In its own way,
a metaphor of reality.
Warm, tepid darkness
surrendering to the jovial martyr.
Onward into the gray. Onward.
the day passes.
Before recognition came
the perverted truth of occurrence.
9 holes, failure, but advancement.
9 holes.
this poem recollect the days of rest.
A test for some, a pleasure for others.
But, in reality, simply an overcast day
on the hunt
in pale September.21 Types
come so abruptly.
The bearer of truth
obviously wasn't in Y.O.U.
Shit. Why do I reap the repercussions
of my failures of the past
as failures of my present?
Coming 'round again to bite me in the ass.
It's so easy, yet so hard.
Acceptance of the epiphanies
we create in our sincere minds.
No. Not today. Not tonight.
Mourn what could have been.
Become the sullen man hiding in his dilemma.
Waiting for anything, everything.
How do we know what we want so well?
That we attach ourselves
to the source of the indwelling need.
I need it for sure.
It can wait. No! I could've...
Too late.
Think, think again.
Reflect on the pity
you have perverted into self loss and gain.
Seek the cleansing shower
of that symbolic afternoon in the rain.
Look at me now.
I'm all tied up in knots,
deciding which parts are my fault,
and which are also mine.
No, epiphany - It's all my fault.
Can't change anything about it.
Except yearn, mourn, and be sullen
in the tainted grace that I emit.
Slack. Be there.