Sudden
You cannot prepare
For the anything of everything
The intent of self
Or the outcome of others alike
It is not in this way
Ever possible to be
Prepared for or in all for all
But to not be surprised
At the realness of reality instead
This is wisdom
And that is mind
And mindful nature found alive
And to that I wish you
All manner of preparedness
For such a dark sun streamy day
Do not be blind
For dawn is dawn
As thoughts arise
If you could read my thoughts
You wouldn't be impressed, by the jumbled mess
I'd rather message you my reflections
Quietly, directly, and slowly as they arise in me
I'd send them your way most every day
Even though I know the truth
That both my workings and my ways
Are not unique in most every way
For I am just a simple mind
And one man amidst a sea of humanity
And to share my thoughts in secret with you
Would most undoubtedly be... A joy to me
Always quietly, directly, as slowly as they arise in me
My reflections, yours, if you would please.
You and me
Find me in these pages, between this binder
The place where my ink and your eyes finally meet
Is where most of my secrets are yet to keep
Alive and well, once inside of me
Now resides in a notebook often next to me
Will I continue with this? Will I follow thru?
That now is the question I ask of you
My reader, are you all I ever hoped you to be?
Have you eyes like cornflowers?
And a heart which sways longingly, like the
untamed waves on the overlooked sea?
Can you see our children before they're even here?
Hear their voices? Boy or girl.
But ahead of myself I'm already getting
Because one way or another if you're reading
this... I'm already in heaven, be it on earth
or far above. Either way I'll find my way
to wider smiles each wonderful day. But each
night in my bed, in the stillness of my head,
I pray for you, I pray for me. And
that God perhaps wouldn't make me wait a
lifetime to discover this union called:
You and me
An honest expression
I am not the most imperfect being
Ever to walk this hallowed earth
No, I am just one of many pickled grapes
on the same old vine
Living this life to the best of my ability
Failing infinitely and all the time
Obsessed with songs and words from the other
Which seemingly represent me
At least here, at this present time
But hear my words in place of such songs
For this honest omission was in mind
Long before it ever existed here
Between these pages
Forever in this book of mine
Reminded
Some days I completely forget why
I'm even here
And why I was created like this
Not to selfishly create for myself
But to give back to the world with grace
So that it might not remain as it is
So God...
Would you help me let myself
Be at last set free from myself
So that I can serve you better than this
And rediscover all of the unread messages
I must've missed
Theintercross
I am at an intersection, perfectly content with life
A cross roads with more than four corners
Is where you will find me in mind tonight
Pondering and questioning all that is within my sight
And wondering more than anything
What it means to be, a man, a mouse, a follower
Alone but not alone at last
Alive until I die in this life
Start to finish
What is progress to a human? And what is
progress to him? The one who is above us.
The one who doesn't hesitate to blink an eye at death
When we see progress on our debts, in our taxes
What difference does it make to him?
If we are broke and broken down or if we can spend?
Does it really matter? Does he not require
any of this? In order to begin again?
The answer of course to this is, no...
Because he is beyond, and he is the beginning and the end.
Circular search
Sometimes you search and spend your time
constantly trying to find whatever it is,
-------> you've built up inside your mind
Walking around, up and down, as if in time you
will be found, by someone who has heard your
sound. When really, as the rain drops fall, and
all around you as it's built, is seemingly still
falling down. Sometimes you have to search
less, inspect more, and return to the place where
you didn't expect, anything of substance to be found.
Because,
No matter how much you hope, remember, that
noone is obligated to hear your sound.
A beautiful irony - from when I was younger
There's no way you could know
Just how much you matter to me
Just how much you mean to me
no metaphor or synonym could possibly begin to speak
of just how beautiful is the irony of you
of me being able just to watch and see
The many wonderous mysteries you're developing
Inside that youthful thing known as psyche
I treasure hearing every word you send
And value seeing every sight you share with me
not because it is my own
And not because with the same eyes we see
But because I see something simmilar
And yet completely different and unique
It's like peering through the looking glass
And yet realizing that there are infinate possibilities
How beautiful and ironic at that
That you would show me the other side
of the other mind while all the while
standing on the exact same side
That's why perhaps in time you will know
Just what you mean to me in mind
Human struggle - written when I was a single man
No womans hand will warm my own
And I need no other voice, to tell me I can
I'll find no comfort in the confusion of another persons soul
I have enough problems within my own
I feel no obligation to try and break this human mold
For this is how I am
I just somehow wish that I could stop expecting others
To create the value in me
Which would permit me to get old without regrets
This most definitely, is a terrible venture in which to invest
His creation
Fake Photos, ignorant Pixels...
Plastic plastered onto walls.
There was a time when I thought I would create such things.
And bring beautiful things into the world.
But not like this, and not for these.
I'll leave such pictures to the bees and instead.
Squint my eyes at the beautiful leaves.
Because though photos may not claim the innocence,
Associated with these. I would rather leave the
natural nature alone and well, as compared
to selling it's likeness to the highest
corporate bidder as I please. Because was
I not the author of these such trees?
You know the truth, that such an author was not me.
A word I no longer care for
That’s Stupid...
To waste your life creating things for someone else
When really all that I create is to learn about myself
To understand the other half, of the other side
of the other me... And to create something so foolish
And to think that it represents most perfectly
That perhaps, was stupid of me.
Sharing
Who among you knows my name
Enough to call me as I am?
To see beyond the former self?
To view me as a person again?
And not as the one time, one man fad?
Because I hate small talk and then
But love not having to meet again
With the same old misconception mold
Which tries to reshape our conversation
Back into the ways of old
Because that was an outdated version of me
And I have reasons for which I seek
to share only certain portions of me
In a world where I am not at ease
Because if I always would let them in
Everyone could see me, and everyone could judge me
And that just simply couldn't be
Because within the looking glass
There are so many sides to me, most humbly
And no one yet has proven themselves
Enough to be considered... trustworthy
U.S - P.S.
If I could box up all of the words
The most beautiful ones that I've found
And send them to you in the mail
I would do it without hesitation
Because beautiful words don't belong in my world
And I'd much rather see them alive and well
In the hands of a timid, reflective girl
Who might just melt them into song
In a world where such words actually belong
Wherever
Let there be a lasting peace which follows you
constantly, steadily, clearing the path before your feet
Finding you an empty bench or an open seat
Wherever you go, would you walk with the confidence
As if you know, that wherever your wandering
feet may go. Such peace and grace will
follow also. Everywhere, down every road.
Stuff
Headspace here is what I really need
No special air to breathe
or a mountain spring to drink from
Free is how I wish to be
And freely is how I wander, aimlessly
Between the iles lined with things
Which, if given the chance, would make any wandering
man feel like a king. When really it's just the
space I think, which permits me to feel like
a king, in this place which is home to many
things.
Choose true power
True power
Is knowing when
And choosing to
Hold back a fist clenched
When you have every right to strike
But don’t
This is as sure as truth
For truly as true power is
Instead
Not to react
But to choose
Put a number on them
Number my thoughts?
Impossible.
You'd have a better chance-
-animating the cold sands
Mold me slightly a certain way,
and on my own I'll stand,
But expect me not.
To live with only black and blue
Because life is too short
to be lived in fear
of such a small thing as mere ink.
As such a large thing as a bruise.