work in progress.

and i'll write down these words, with good intentions.
and i'll keep you in mind, as i sing each verse.
i'll play this music, strum each cord, and i'll find the right words to convey myself.
it's commonly known that i'm trying so hard.
it's been too long, so i'll sing in tune.
listen to me, i need you.

this cycle's never ending, blame it on the weather.
i'm a mess, and this storm is taking me in.

oh so baby, listen carefully.
another day i can't wait, a minute's too long, this is fate.
and i know what you're thinkin', but baby i'm sinkin'.
uncertainty isn't part of my vocabulary.
and i was once told, if you didn't know what to say, just sing.

Chorus
so i will sing.
and i will sing.
and i will live free, baby do you think of me?
i'll just sing.

.

wine drips and he puts on her slippers.

the road wont show you where to go.

use her soul for support of the broken, and turn off the candles.

you can watch the afore mentioned dripping on the television set in the living room, while grandma and i play cat and mouse in the attic.

he can wander in her slippers, and notice your long hair.

they'll put bread in the oven, and call her down from the bird cage.

there is string holding up your apple tree.

fall, falling, fallen.

blank.

"just look at that blank canvas, dear", she whispered.

"it will always tell you the truth."

she talked of literal combinations,

expressing her own scholastic doctrine of what was real, and what was not.

"it's just... blank", i proclaimed.

"there's nothing special about it..."

she shook her head, and took my hand.

she placed it on the white canvas, and told me to close my eyes.

i ran each finger across the jaded edges.

the bumpy material beneath my skin.

"now", she said.

"paint with your mind."

.

and then they listened.

they heard the sporadic, yet consistent cry of disregard that each tree trunk told.

one owl flew.

the same owl as the night before.

old wings.

weary eyes watched the tree trunks.

he called back to his lover.

returning not, that night.

soon the sky was quiet,

and the owl was perched on an unfamiliar, foreign, yet comforting wooden branch,

talking trunks beneath him.

they watched.

they sipped fresh liquids upon each wakening, and stretched above each ant, beetle and other infinitesimal being with a beating heart.

they lay under the owl.

and around the talking trunks.

they were millions among millions.

they listened, and watched.

they were the best blades of grass...

i've ever layed in.

Boredom.

when i don't know what to write about, i think of what nature brings.

keep an open mind, you'll be introduced to the finest of things.

open your eyes, and look around.

close your eyes, and feel the sound.

tell yourself you're one of a kind.

to be honest, i don't like this poem much.

somehow it's got an annoying touch.

oh well.

Naked Eye

it's interesting that eyes can cure the broken, isn't it?

it's unfathomable that sunken features can prove the mind wrong, isn't it?

it's breathtaking that eyes may cure the broken, for viewing the gracious actions among us with the naked eye prove that peace is a reality... isn't it?

yet, it's interesting that eyes can destroy the soul.

they can tear the strong, and break any barrier.

it's interesting... isn't it?

so, if he was blind, would he be forever protected?

essentially holding a strong barrier that wouldn't tear nor break.

or would his amiable characteristics diminish?

for he cannot view with his naked eye.

can he love what he cannot see?

can he feel his sunken features?

or to him are they merely non existent?

i remain jealous of him.

though, i am not destroyed.

my barrier still stands.

my eyes, no matter what they view, will never prove me to be as sunken as he.

for her.

wake up, oh sleeper.

i will name you joy, because it flows from your pores.

you will name me nameless because i am confused.

i will bathe you in summer light, and feed you drops of disagreement .

we will celebrate the lies we’ve read. we practice them daily, we say them before bed.

and as we crawl into our sheets, demons will creep and entice us to follow.

where they come from, i couldn’t tell for i’ll never know. but they whisper to me stories, and smile with gleams of light released onto me. they cover your shadow, you shiver but agree.

tonight has become what i feared it would.

and no amount time nor liquor could change my perception of you and i.

those demons are gone, the the light has taken their place.

you slip out of the comfort of your bed, and follow my lead.

we dance in unison, down the hard wood floor.

creaking as our feet touch what’s beneath.

we will stumble in a faultless grace.

passing by frozen clocks and flightless doves.

and at this peak of time, the frenetic city commits it’s crime.

and we’ll graciously stumble, and find those flightless birds to be as confused as i.

Dream Catcher

may i be the strings in your dream catcher?

those beads in your hair remind me of summer.

when we drank coffee on the beach, shared a pack of cigarettes and stared at the people passing by, remember?

we created stories for each of them.

i exist with gravity, over your head while you sleep.

watching you deny the invitation to dream.

i catch them with my feathers.

my strings absorb each scene.

i was laying on that beach last night, you know.

i stared at people walking by.

they stared back.

i created a story for them.

and they did the same for me.

for a minute, i thought i was dreaming.

you were next to me, i lit you a smoke.

you took a sip of coffee.

we lived in black and white.

and our lack of color replaced your dreaming, and i just watched you.

i thought of a way to get closer to you.

it didn’t work out, so my mind asked yours on a date.

it said yes, and they thought together.

they did what minds did.

and eventually they fell asleep.

and taunted themselves with silly dreams.

and i was there to catch them

existing with gravity.

above our heads.

on the beach.

The Science of Peace

It’s interesting that a simple, “How can I take your order, sir?” can completely change one person’s day.

Twenty-four full hours, altered due to a common question.

Yet, what is also interesting is how appearance seems to affect the listener far more than anyone expected.

If a lower class black man asked the middle class business man what he’d like in his coffee, the business man could reply with any other answer, followed with any other feeling

or emotion.

But while the business man sips his coffee, and the waiter lights his last cigarette outside the local diner,

they both think

of each other.

Their clearly evident differences.

His pristine tie, and shined shoes.

The ever so modest stature he carries without hesitation, symbolizing everything the waiter hates, yet envies.

Wishes he could be.

But his dirty rag hanging out of his back pocket, old shoes, a gift from a former lover for holiday, and his tired yet alert eyes tracing his mistakes.

Resembling everything the business man looks down upon, yet wonders about constantly.

So what if curiosity wasn’t a present factor.

Would the business man and the waiter be neighbors?

Offering to rake each others lawn during autumns worst.

Feeding pets as the other leaves for vacation.

Because, if you and I weren’t here having our morning tea, skimming the New York Times accompanied by lack of conversation, but perpetual eye contact, then I wouldn’t have been able to see how the business man left the waiter a tip with a note.

The simple words, “Thank you”.

Altering his entire day.