what is more important -
the past, or the future?
what has taken place,
or what has yet to occur?

on the one hand,
the past is magical -
a point of comparison
we try to live up to.

but the future,
that is unknown to all.
life can change in minutes
and it inevitably will.

a sudden death in the family,
or results from a pregnancy test.
a phone call from an old friend,
or a life-shattering accident.

the past we have no control of,
it is hieroglyphics in stone,
only to be interpreted
by people of the future.

and what of the future -
that amorphous creature?
it is all of ours to create
and then forget and call the past.

wielding their words,
writers exist to write.
brandishing their fists,
fighters exist to fight.
even in ancient times,
peasants existed to work.
a stab in the back,
Judas existed to lurk.
looking to the sky,
dreamers exist to try.
while some people in general,
exist to tell you lies.
just before their death,
elders exist to give advice:
"the world is sinful,
with devils existing to entice."
soaring through the air,
birds exist to fly.
and me, you ask?
why, I exist to die.

the date was set
in cold, thick stone,
carved with a scalpel
like heart surgery.

breathing deeper now
as it approaches near,
heart thumps faster,
a battle drum before war.

the future is blank
and our pens will fill it,
if only - if only,
things always went our way.

i open boxes.
that's all i do - all day long,
is open boxes.

but i find interesting things,
like 1950s tennis shoes
and aborted babies.

i won't say it's the best,
opening boxes all day long,
but it gets me by.

what really gets me, though,
is how poorly wrapped some are,
with torn edges and sides.

a bad box can't support shoes,
much less a baby; but I smile,
as i take care of mine.

A video of horrible quality made at 1 a.m.

(read beneath the surface)

there are two kinds of people in this world,
those that do things on time,
and those that wait until the last minute,
lest the world end before its due.
because after all -
what's the point of doing it,
if the world ends
and all your work is for naught?

they say procrastinating is a bad thing,
but some may see it as living
and enjoying what we have,
whereas all the hard workers
are always one step ahead,
and closer to their death.

the history

i started writing poetry for someone,
then i kept on writing it for myself.
after a while i wrote about others,
but then came back to myself.

then suddenly - i quit
when someone disappeared.
but a stranger said 'what a pity,'
so i started writing again.

then i wrote about someone else,
for a little while anyway,
before completing a full circle
and coming back to myself.

i've written about deaths,
suicides, love and heartache.
i've written while happy
and also indescribably sad.

but i've written - written it all,
about someone or myself,
with only the truest intention -
of trying to connect myself to others.

merry christmas to all, and to all a delusion

what is the holiday season besides a mechanism for the american corporate engines to use in order to exploit a heightened sense of materialism in the public?

jcpenny, zales, and many others offer us touching commercials of people giving gifts, diamonds and cars. on the surface we see the spirit of the holidays: giving and sharing with those we love. underlying it all is just another problem with america - we buy, buy, buy.

it isn't to say other countries don't do the same, or that i don't condone buying things for others this holiday season. i'll be receiving gifts like many other people, and in may i'll be going overseas in a trip that costs thousands of dollars - none of which are my own.

but why do we have to buy things to show our love? why does it take new HDTVs, video game systems, diamond rings or a new acura to make your spouse or child smile? is it because we as a nation don't know how else to arouse our long-lasting relationships other than to commit ourselves to a materialistic model of love?

or maybe i'm looking too much into it. maybe the holidays is just a time for all those people who work all year to relax and get free stuff from others. but consider this: when christmas (or hanukkah, or whatever holiday one might celebrate) leads into new year's day, and the tree comes down, and the ornaments are packed away, and the garland is stored in large plastic boxes, and the lights are painstakingly taken off your front porch or roof, and we all go back to our lives, will you still be happy?

the first week in january, maybe the 3rd or the 4th, just after you break that resolution of losing weight by eating leftover christmas cookies or failing to do your morning jog, will you still make those around you happy? can you do that without giving them stuff?

enjoy this holiday season and enjoy the gifts you give and/or receive. but don't think that it's all about giving and receiving. i'd like to quash this concept. the entire year should be spent giving and receiving.

give in the middle of march, or the end of the summer, or a week before someone's birthday. give post-it notes that say i love you, or a single flower instead of a bouquet. give a hug to a friend, and when they ask why, remind them. call your parents or your grandparents to say thank you. call your brothers or sister (blood related or not) and see how they're doing. why wait until the holiday season to spend time with family?

december is just another month on the calendar. just because we buy big trees and wrap up presents doesn't mean we can't carry its central theme with us throughout the year.

the genie

while throwing out the trash
i found an antique lamp.
it was small, with a handle
and a long, thin spout.
it was much to my surprise,
when a genie popped out.

"make three wishes," said he,
so I did, and said thusly:
"first, i want to know -
the things i'll regret when i'm old,
so i can do them now
and die a happy man.

"second, i want to know -
once again as an old man,
who i regret not saying
'i love you' to,
so i can rush up to them today
and hug them as a friend.

"and your third?" asked he.
i didn't know, so i asked to save it.
"nay, you must use it now," said he.
so I did, and wished thusly:
"i wish for a thick pair of socks," said i,
"for i have no one in the winter to keep me warm."[1]

---

---
1 This doesn't just mean physically.

Cheesy proclamation of the year

Approximately every five to ten seconds someone in the world dies. This number is not an exact measurement and not purely scientific. Certainly, tragedies can kill millions at a time.

But you are not one of these people. At least not right now. But you will be. Everyone eventually is. Your five seconds of fame will come. How long has it been since you've started reading this? Twenty seconds? There goes two more people. I wonder who loved them, who is crying right now for them. Not you, of course. You're alive.

So live.
Share.
Smile.
And love.

And when your death comes, pat it on the back and joke, "Don't worry about being late. I had a hell of a time."

he bought a new cd
and we kissed the whole way through,
all 70 minutes of it.

the music of adolescence,
of learning to love,
of making mistakes.

but i didn't wait
like my mother told me to,
how was i suppose to know?

i didn't get pregnant
or syphilis or aids,
in fact i didn't get anything.

not even an i love you.

i have a quiz in the morning and i should probably go to bed. i need to get a good grade on it. if i get many good grades in my classes i can get a piece of paper. this paper will get me a job. the job will put food on the table. who will be sitting at the table? maybe it will just be myself. maybe a friend if it's a weekend (probably not). most likely just my parents if they want to visit. it might even be thanksgiving, or Christmas. My birthday? i shudder at the thought.

but back to the food. it's sitting on the table. i need it to survive, but i need money to buy it. i get this money from my job, which i got from my piece of paper. but what else do i need? laughter, happiness, joy, excitement, titillation? lov...

i got the piece of paper from good grades. it's why i went to school. it's why i'm here now. get up. eat. get good grades. eat again. sleep. fill in the gaps with nonsense, but not the college experience. not meeting new people. not broadening horizons. not overcoming my embarrassing level of shyness. no, i must never do that.

i must never.
a fool,
am i.

food

http://sizeofworldse.ytmnd.com/
http://endofourworld.ytmnd.com/

S. laniceps

From the Kingdom of Plantae,
magnoliophyta Division,
Class magnoliopsida,
Order asterales,
Family of asteraceae,
Genus saussurea.
the flowers that never reached the wedding.

the curvature of the thigh
as it meets the buttocks
and wraps around hips
that flow into flat stomachs,
which lead to breasts of many kinds,
is most exquisite.

yet corrupt i am not,
for i love the art of a beautiful body
as a poet loves a perfect sonnet,
intact, precise and with no excess;
or as an architect loves the Pantheon,
such perfect a structure none dare match.

yet art exists in many forms - not all beautiful to be sure -
but who is to blame one for admiring, as a poet, or what more?

There are many roses in Sarajevo,
commemorating those dead and gone.
A reminder, marked on the streets,
where someone unfortunate stood.
The red roses are the saddest,
severed limbs and opened heads.
Blood is spilled, then spilled some more,
on to the open streets.
Run quickly if you can,
for even if the snipers miss,
the explosive mortar shells
need not be as accurate.

---

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarajevo_Rose
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Sarajevo

All you try
is all for naught.
All you dream
is all for naught.
Give it your all
(for naught).
Your life,
is all,
for naught.
Not.

some of you visit me once and never again,
and i feel like i've been cheated on.
others don't leave me alone,
and start to get on my nerves.
i can't think of anything to write sometimes
because i think of how they'll read it.
and still, there are some who visit off and on,
whenever they feel like it, whenever it suits them.
perhaps to scratch an unending itch
or delve deeper in to the mind of someone quiet.
surely he can't be quiet on the inside as well as out,
you probably think (correctly i might add).
but who will be persistent enough to crack it...?
the puzzle of what goes on within?

creative

twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty-
one, two, three, four-
squares to bounce the ball-
point to point and win-
shields protect us from harm-
full, all kinds of strange-
R's fill our schools and mind-
set on getting (a)head-
full of steam and dread-
full of our doubt and fear-
full of what comes next.

viva la revolucion, mi amor,
porque este noche, yo muero.
y todos mis hermanos
y todos mis hermanas
sabrán de mi acto de libertad.
seré una leyenda para la gente,
una inspiración,
una idea,
un héroe.

free writing before bed

this is the process of writing. when you can't think of anything, just write. and since i can't think of anything, i'll just start writing. maybe i'll write about hand sanitizer. they say it kills 99.9% of all germs. what about the last .1? why not kill it, too? why leave it in an agonizing, painful, lonely misery? what did the .1 do to get that kind of torture? 12 fluid ounces (or 354 mL as the bottle states) of pure germ genocide. oh, and it has vitamin E and is a bonus size. i guess that's like building bombs bigger so they cause larger explosions or something. (insert a poem about that here because i'm too lazy to write one tonight). i'll have to organize my room some time. pick up things just lying around and give them a proper home somewhere, with friends (unlike the germ, who is all alone). pens with pencils, even the black ones and white ones. maybe even a pen with another pen, although if its two of the same manufacturer i'll have to check on the legality of it. my mouse is enjoying its new mousepad. it sticks to the desk and the surface doesn't get crap on it. and if it does, i can use germ-X and kill 99.9% of all germs. sometimes i feel like im the .1. like i'm out all alone and just don't get it. but people spread just like germs, if not worse, so i'll come back around eventually. i'll say some funny joke in english class or talk to a likable person. that's just how things go for me. ebbs and flows. eggs and a Flo's? i could go for a steak, so long as it doesn't have germs on it.

there is a reason you are reading this. a sequence of events that led you here, starting from perhaps the moment of my birth, or perhaps the moment you turned on your computer or opened up your internet browser. you are here either intentionally or incidentally, but you are here, and that is not a mistake.

you were born for a reason. a sequence of events that led to your existence. starting from the birth of your parents, to the moment of your conception or a special candle-lit dinner. you exist in this world either intentionally or incidentally, but you are here, and that is not a mistake.

It might be true that there as six billion people in the world and counting, but nevertheless what you do makes a difference. It makes a difference first of all in material terms, it makes a differences to other people and it sets an example.

-somebody

Tracy

my wife still has the photo album,
the embroidered "Tracy" on the cover.
the first page filled with pictures of our daughter,
barely ten pounds in weight.

she was our first,
but not our last.
she came to us with smiles,
and left the world crying.

late at night i wonder,
what could an infant think before death?
i think - fear, or worry?
disappointment with her parents?

no - surely not - an infant couldn't think that.
over eighty blank pages are in the album,
each with a theme now destroyed:
birthdays, Halloweens, vacations.

i imagine her as a little ghost,
in the third or fourth grade,
holding a small orange pumpkin pail,
but not really dead - surely not really dead.

i'd like to create a new haven,
where none of you can read me.
i'm tired of "people who care"
and worrying those who don't understand.
i don't feel like explaining
what's so beautiful about tragedy
and how misery can lead to happiness.
if you'd like to be a member of this haven,
then answer a simple question:
who has the most to learn in life?

it had taken me long enough,
but i finally did it.
the wind rushing against my face,
causing tears to stream behind me.
how ironic - i think -
that i'd cry in the end after all.
arms spread out like a bird set free,
i aim away from the safety net,
meant to save my life.

after a person does their laundry,
they go about sorting their socks.
mixing and matching pairs,
finding what goes with what.
and - inevitably -
no matter how neat they are,
there will always be an odd pair.
a high cut with a low cut,
a white with a gray,
two that no one would say could match.
but they stuff one inside the other,
having nothing else to do with them,
lest they throw them away forever.
that's us.

i don't really mind the heat,
and i can always open a window.
that lets all kinds of bugs in,
but i think they help build character.

maybe one day i'll stop killing them,
and let them crawl around freely.
all that exists is all i create,
and death occurs by my hand.

like i said before,
by myself i can take a lot of crap.
sometimes it even scares me,
how happy i can be when left alone.

13 out of 43

the odds she had to live,
30 chances not to die.
i spin the roulette wheel,
and watch it land on death.

she had asked me,
"if i have to get up,
will you carry me,
in the middle of the night?"

and i said yes to that,
and to many other things
that she could not do on her own,
for lack of functioning legs.

"and if i die?" she asked,
with tears streaming down her face.
to which i had no reply,
but to hold her close.

a delicate, red poppy,
sprouting in the snow.
a tear runs down my cheek,
it was one of the 13.

It Doesn't Take A Ticking To Get Life Kicking

lying in bed last night,
i began to think to myself.
what if a bomb exploded,
in a nearby room or building?
i would most likely die...
and even though i was perfectly safe in a locked room
on a campus full of thousands,
i felt vulnerable.

then i thought,
what would i have done today,
if i knew i was going to die?
would i have said 'i love you' to more people,
and told them how much they mean to me?
would i actually take a chance,
maybe do something a little different,
and risk being better off?

Life's Ant-hologies

we sat on old, dead logs
and squashed ants with our big toes.
feet tell you lot about a person,
like how much they're willing to share,
where they've been,
and are likely to go.

our cousins hated it of course,
getting bug guts all over your toes.
but we didn't mind a bit,
since the stream was right there,
ready to clean us up
before mama called us for dinner.

their feet were stark white,
ours dulled and brown.
their nails were a shiny ivory,
ours old, bronzed plaques -
awards for living our life,
and squashing ants with our big toes.

Fingering for Flintstones

"i wanna purp dindin!"
so my finger fishes deeper,
probing the inside
like a racist airport security guard.

i read about that once,
a black woman being strip-searched
at some airport for no reason -
other than being black.

red fred, pink wilma,
and the damn bamm-bamm.
my wedding ring gets in the way,
and i wonder if they made her take that off, too.

i finally find it - the only kind he'll eat,
a small, purple dino vitamin.
we leave in a rush so he doesn't miss school,
as i wonder if she missed her flight, or dignity.

the return

the first time i arrived
i was doomed from the start.
but one must get back on the horse,
and sweep their past beneath the rug.

the time after that,
held a few seeds of promise.
and they would eventually blossom
in to the springtime of my life.

the third return is quite mixed,
with uncertainty brewing in doubt.
like an eerie calmness before a storm,
as realization halts me like a brick wall.

every summer,
i always hope i can change.
so that when i go back,
i can take a stab at happiness.

there is no surgery to transplant kindness,
or injections to implant consideration.
you cannot increase the size of your heart,
or suck out your filthy dishonesty.

you must train these attributes alone,
when no one is looking, like late at night.
not one decision - but many,
comprise that which is you.

not everyone was meant to be beautiful,
or locate true love as easy as the ground.
but when it does sweep you off your feet,
you'll know it's because of what's inside.

i never knew the friends i had
until i looked back and said goodbye.
i never got the respect i deserved,
until i was halfway out the door.

farewell to you all,
after these 3 long years.
i will probably never be back,
or see you again in my life.

the only place i can be myself,
crazy, talkative, friendly, confident.
when half of those lights go off,
my amicable dr. jekyll emerges.

no one will ever know my secret,
that you gave some of my happiest times.
you granted me some friends
that i otherwise would never have had.

crush

pressing down upon my chest,
inwards from all sides.
causing my intestines to flip
and my tongue to lick my lips.

words fly through my head,
ricocheting against my skull.
the right combination is never found,
and something stupid stumbles out.

a crushing blow hits me,
square in the middle of my brain.
i forget how to be myself
and let time wash you away.

one after the other,
the pieces fall in line.
another fruitless dream,
that will never become mine.

i watch myself crumble,
as i turn a blind eye.
i become another person,
a fake, a scam, a lie.

being myself is the easiest thing,
so why do they make it so hard?
they'll never be able to breach,
this pathetic heart i have barred.

Chess

how hard can four words be,
when they redefine your world?
you can even make it three,
if you push yourself, i'm sure.

so why the stagnancy, why the wait?
is there some magical month,
or some magical date,
that will set us free for life?

i don't want to be the devil,
whose heart no person can soothe.
but all my pieces have been played,
"Check" - it's your move.

------
Interesting little note about this poem: I rarely, if ever, use bold for emphasis. Must be something important.

i write a thousand poems a day,
in my mind - the safest of places.
its a place i know, you'll never go,
and see, and make angry faces.

such disappointment you harbor,
whenever i share my heart.
how can you be, a little ticked at me,
when i don't even know my part?

i can't read minds, i can't read you,
i can't read the fairy-tale ending.
nothing you show, you say "i don't know,"
and quietly - heartbreak your sending.

before you sigh, and roll your eyes,
just like i'm sure you always do,
i want you to know one tiny thing:
this poem is not for you.

those that dwell in webs

bothersome pests lurk,
in the attic of my mind.
on my self control and sanity,
they have indulgently dined.

originating from a web,
designed by no one i know.
they uproot the embedded,
and make the unseen show.

doubts, fears, uncertainties,
a wish for -THE- trade.
trying to burn down the house,
that last year my heart made.

clink the chains together
pound your fists mid-air
wield the bats and clubs
atop black, metal harleys.

secure your bandannas
tighten your skull apparel
lace up your dark boots
and slap your chest tattoo.

rub your bald head
stroke your goatee
stare up at the sky
and laugh.

it truly is a dark and confusing place,
sometimes i get lost there,
not knowing where to turn,
and contemplating ending the journey.

a few glimmers of hope shine,
but the overwhelming darkness
engulfs them, swallows them,
so nothing but it is left.

am i able to be the conqueror,
and wield my strength over its reign?
or will i fall, deeper in the darkness,
towards a path that some call destiny?

the silence bit at him
like the jaws of a beast,
closing down on his heart,
that painfully throbs for company.

never like the others -
who fell in love together,
and smiled and laughed,
never staring down seclusion.

it had mostly been his fault,
and that ironic blame
magnified his tortuous guilt
over a thousandfold.

the playgrounds are gone,
he scorns the love of his family,
hoping with more than his soul
he could have the touch of a different breed.

many sunrises from now,
when generations of trees have fallen,
only to be replaced by their kin,
i will be old, and dying.

i will sit in a recliner,
next to an old-fashioned lamp
that still uses old-fashioned bulbs,
and read ancient books.

these books, approaching 70,
are showing their age as much as me.
and yet, when i open the cover
a plethora of brain synapses connect.

what was i, a little over 13?
when i first read these books...
and became enchanted by their magic,
thrust in to a world all my own.

now, on the brink of death,
just like so many of its characters,
i take a small moment to relish,
the world i had created in my mind.

this is what it means to die,
to sit in a recliner,
and read books from our youth,
aching to return to that fantasy, once more.

it built up in my chest,
like the snowball in the freezer
my brother kept going
winter after winter.

something was about to give,
like the shaking legs
of a weight lifter
right before they cave.

the passing time is torture,
like an illegal immigrant,
waiting to be caught
and shipped across the border.

sticks and stones
may break my bones
but you -
make me want to die.

tonight we dine on the flesh
of the bastard sons
of the devil incarnates
that roam the land
and plague us with normalcy,
with mediocrity,
with content.

at the darkest hour
of the deepest night
we tear out their bones
and make them instruments,
to be played as a warning to all:
do not enter this place,
if risk is something you fear.

murder them all, in cold blood,
without a chance to fight back,
preferably with their backs turned,
so they never see it coming,
and never had a single moment,
to pray to whatever God,
for a second chance.

[this space is where a poem entitled 'i bet i could write some damn good poetry if i got high' was suppose to go, but i axed it after a stanza because i felt it was a bit ridiculous. so upon further thought, i figured it would be even more ludicrous to write a stand-in explanation as to why the poem will not be appearing, despite the fact that my ignorant audience would have been none the wiser. it's late and i'm thinking strange things. shut up]

focus on the cup,
notice its shape,
texture, clearness,
and uniformity.

the liquid inside is
rich, fuzzing,
filled with aroma,
and begging to be consumed.

they both sit there,
in perfect harmony,
liquid contained by cup,
cup contained by atoms.

the universe halts,
for this perfect match,
until something comes along,
and turns it all upside down.

raw

poetry is a dangerous thing,
where thoughts of the mind
and emotions of the heart
can become murky and muddled.

but please, do not assume
to know what comes from my mind.
at times it confuses even me,
and other times i regret it.

i do not delete thoughts i regret,
thoughts that many of us repress
and say "that's silly," and move on
like it never happened.

no - instead of hiding them for eternity,
i display them here - for you,
for anyone, to peruse at their leisure,
inside of my mind, inside of my heart.

things you keep locked up inside
and wouldn't dare share with others,
are here for your pleasure,
but devour them at your own risk.

Every morning she would send me an e-mail with something sweet and kind to say. I started every day of my life like that for five long years. One day, when I received no e-mail, I knew she was gone forever. I didn't stop to think she was ill, or forgot - I knew she never would, and even if she was near death she would find a way to send me one. I never knew she was terminally ill until after she died - a fact that she hid from me for my sake. It made her death sudden, abrupt, shocking, and heart-wrenching. There are so many things I wanted to share with her, so many things I should have told her - how great of a person she is, always giving to others, always loving her family. I wanted to tell her how I felt, but never got the courage. There is a permanent stain on my heart where she will reside forever, even if I move on and find another love. She is my constant reminder that no matter who we end up with in this world, that we should take advantage of our time with them.

---

I am uncertain whether you are in heaven now or capable to reading this, but if you are then know that I always wished you the greatest of happiness.

in my world i'd ban television and movies and magazines and all sorts of pop culture that stain our society and teach guys they need to work out to look attractive and girls they need to be skinny to be loved. i'd get rid of it all, so people start seeing each other eye to eye and in a genuine way instead of what kind of clothes they wear. people wouldn't care about celebrities' lives because they would be more concerned with their own. shows like jerry springer and reality tv wouldn't exist to make us feel better about ourselves because that is a job that each and every one of us can do already.

people would fall in love and stay that way, because there wouldn't be all these images of beautiful people showing us a false reality we know we'll never have, but dream for nonetheless. my world would be stripped of such ridiculous expectations put on real people by actors on shows that are scripted. plastic surgery would be outlawed after society realizes it is unnecessary. if you need to change the way you look to be happy, then you haven't found true happiness, or someone special to love you. when you do find that person, they will open your eyes and allow you to see the real you - the one you've been missing out on.

don't live up to anyone's expectations other than your own. don't change the way you look or act for anybody else. be who you are - and if the people you care about most don't respect that, then it is time to move on in life and acquire some new company. your family will always support you, even if it is not evident. it is heartbreaking when someone you love doesn't like the way you are, but you -must not- change to accommodate them. this is prolonging an inevitable separation caused by your "act" struggling against your will to be your natural self.

live life, be yourself, and stay happy - at whatever cost it comes.

the night that i died

flying down the road
way over the speed limit,
i'm nervous when i get like this,
so i never pause to stop
or think, or react,
and i start to sweat,
and i can't separate
reality from fiction,
so i just keep going,
way too fast,
trying to get to you faster,
even though i'll never get there,
for i crash halfway home
and my car spins in elegance,
doing three barrel rolls,
spelling out 'i love you'.

every morning i rise,
these old bones past their time.
i can smell the air of the wharfs,
and the trolleys with their chimes.

i have some trouble with the hills,
sloping in such varying degrees.
i try my best to keep going,
at my back keeping the breeze.

i've seen many presidents,
and fought in a couple of wars.
now i take morning walks,
and visit the endless stores.

there's something only this city,
is able to allay.
which is why i awake every day,
and walk down to The Bay.

The Siren

hark!, a mermaid,
there in the distance!
ride on harder,
she's in need of assistance!

oh!, her auburn hair,
gleaming in the sun,
captivating the crew,
whose hearts become undone.

a first love for us all,
a freshness in our breast,
this is where the joy begins
and where our sadness is laid to rest.

ahoy!, that maiden isn't fair!
she is a succubus, with unkempt hair!
on closer inspection, a beast is she!
casting us to doom - not setting us free!

because i only have myself
to put may faith in to,
the others do not understand,
the others just like you.

we all have problems -
shit we have to solve,
but mine are never ceasing,
like a kaleidoscope they evolve.

can't my life just stop,
for one blissful day?
with no expectations,
and no one to obey?

stop the endless cycle,
the maelstrom in my chest,
i don't want to live this way,
i don't want to be depressed.

all the answers i seek
become elucidated
in this stream of conscience state
where the wind is blowing through my ears
like a battle flag
on some countryside's ramparts
before a bloody battle ensues
and takes the lives of thousands of men
who i can not relate to.

quiet lonely midnights
radio emitting soft jazz
and low wattage bulbs
washing your bedroom
like the streetlamp
that beams on to the street below.

when the sun returns
it brings with it noises,
birds of the morning,
cars commuting to
their everyday prisons,
and a bright light
that penetrates you.

enter the day,
but await midnight,
where there is no noise
or violating light,
just silence and darkness
that envelops your world
and swallows your soul whole.

welcome to my memory
where there are no trees
or flowers or exotic beings
but simply harsh winds
and an unforgiving landscape.

this is a selective memory,
that i'm forced to dwell on
time and time again,
despite wishing to rid it
from my mind for eternity.

on the horizon is a lone figure,
a shadow against the blood red sky,
underneath a foreboding tree
that is bereft of lush green leaves
and leans to one side like a noose.

my insides have a way of crying,
where my stomach is a bloated bag
and my heart drops in to my intestines
as everything from my throat
all the way down to my hips
becomes a gigantic scrambled mess.

it is emotional pain that i cannot share,
except in a few select words and lines
that somehow find their way here
for eyes that even i am not aware,
and hearts i never knew existed.

invisible persons inspecting my soul
will not find treasure in this maze,
but will be doomed to explore it evermore,
always taking the wrong turns,
in this scrambled mess that is me.

why are you in my dreams,
having secret crushes on me,
and acting excited to see me?

why are you in my dreams,
and what are these emotions?
and what is my subconscious saying?

why are you in my dreams,
i shouldn't be dreaming of you,
you don't even like me in real life.

why are you in my dreams,
and why - in that state of being,
do i love you?

i hated a lot of things about high school,
from the popularity contests to the drama,
to the constant lack of a girlfriend,
to the daunting task of finding friends at lunch.

i hated how i never went to a school dance,
and knew as a freshman i wouldn't go to prom.
all my old friends grew away from me,
and towards drugs and alcohol.

i hated the overwhelming crushes i'd get,
and the fact that i never had confidence in myself.
i could never be myself there,
where expectation collides with reality.

then, on my graduation night,
walking down the rows of people,
all of which i knew,
and some of which were my friends,
i thought:

i kind of like high school,
and smiled.
if only that had happened
four years earlier.

it wasn't fair in that cul de sac,
because i was the only lefty,
and i always hit it in the trees.

no matter how hard i tried,
it always went the same way,
"stephen's up, move to the trees!"

that was years ago,
with people i don't even know now,
and who have gone a different direction in life.

i may be short-minded,
and i may be overly critical -
but atleast i know where i'm going to hit the ball.

atleast i know,
where i'm going in life.

away from wherever it is they're headed.

sunny days wear me out
with all the kids at the pool,
cookouts, baseball,
and the jingaling of the ice cream man.

i like rainy ones much more,
with all the gray clouds,
pitter, patter,
and no one making noise.

safe harbor is indoors,
and only a foolish child
would dare play in such weather
that would surely give you a cold.

i enjoy it while i can,
for tomorrow returns the jingaling.
i wonder if the ice cream man hates sunny days,
since he can't get that damn jingle out of his head.

WEBSTER calls it
a series of rhythmic and patterned bodily movements usually performed to music
please,
don't make me laugh.

what does WEBSTER know
about what dance truly is?
about the spiritual chakra
that acts as an ignition?

when's the last time you danced?
probably too long ago,
for fear of embarrassment or humiliation
or simply not knowing what to do, well

JUST MOVE!
what does WEBSTER know?
'patterned' my ass -
move your body with your mind,

and the natural dance will follow.
it can be to any song really -
so long as it stirs you inside,
shaking up your chakra.

The blood spills onto the floor
and clashes with the puddle of tears
that has already formed by their feet
in the shape of a dragon poised to fly
them all away from this horror,
this abomination that has no name
but still strikes fear in to their hearts
as though it were the devil itself
and wanted nothing more than to torture
and torment all who stood in its way,
regardless of their convictions
or prior acts of sin and malice
that were in all probability accidental
and careless by human nature
which is in and of itself a fickle thing
that bounces from one day being black
to one day being white like the sun
which if you stare at for too long
will cause you to become dizzy and faint
like those who have been crying for years.

Look at me,
I'm a ghost,
a whisper,
a fragment,
a memory probably forgotten,
a lone shoe whose lost its matching pair,
an ugly shirt you claim isn't yours,
a small name in the endless rolling credits that one person will see and read but later forget,
a flower that sprouts despite the odds,
I am.

The summer is unhealthy for a person such as me,
who is not acclimated to its harsh requirements.
Memories begin to float in with ease,
like the birds and insects that emerge with the weather.

Thoughts of loneliness and solitude
mingle with broken hearts
in a stew that boils and spits,
waiting to be cooled by the winter.

The overhaul of this emotion
is accompanied by blooming flowers,
family cookouts, and beach vacations.
But I see none of that.

My heart keeps tugging against fate,
against the future,
towards a path of the past that is gone,
and never to return again.

I think one day,
when I stop returning here,
my heart will abandon
the iron grip of the summer.

come ballroom dancing with me.
spend hours putting on makeup,
and more picking out the right dress,
while i try my best to look good,
or atleast as good as on our wedding night.

the tiled floors hazily reflecting dancers,
the ornate chandeliers showering us with glowing light,
and music playing that was made by men long dead.
won't you join me, even if neither of us can dance?
if only for a brief moment of romance at its pinnacle?

the facade we construct for the evening,
gives me a sense of satisfaction and glee.
i know when we return home, and undress,
and you wipe off your makeup and take off your jewelry,
you will still be the same woman,
that i just went ballroom dancing with.

many people i know are going to die soon,
the reaper inching closer like a summer's rain.
some have escaped a few times already,
but their reflexes and agility are diminishing.

after they die, more will follow suit,
until those closest to me are stripped away.
one by one i will lose all i've ever known,
until i am left with only myself.

thus, if i am to live alone,
i wish to remember those countless who've died
in a bright, positive light,
even if my memory begins to corrode.

the living become the dead,
and the dead become memories.
memories die with the passing of the living,
the only last link holding the dead to our world.

so while i'm living, and while you are too,
shall we do our best to remember the dead?
it is their only form of existence in the world,
for once thoughts of them are gone, they disappear forever.

spain looks like a lot of fun,
i presume about as much as italy was.
that trip where i made friends for a week,
with people i wouldn't talk to ever again
for we were far too different
to exchange words at school.
but you are different,
and you will be quiet for a time,
before your curiosity likely takes hold,
and another chapter ends,
while another begins.

i place confidence in you,
along with a few other things,
for while this is entirely speculation,
i'd like to think of you still
as a guiding inspiration for me,
as well as my poetic mind,
for no matter how many thousands
upon thousands of miles away you are
you will eternally hold a small place in my mind,
and - perhaps surprisingly - an even smaller one in my heart.

paris france, lost in the woods, and 8am computer programming

i remember the soap bubbles
on the screens of the computers
and the one friend i always had
in every computer class i took

i remember yearbook signing day
feeling so alone and left out
because i couldn't ask the simplest of things
not even to some of my friends

at a baseball park many years ago
my teammates and i made fun of you
but i can see now you're a fine man
and that you were then, too

i'm particularly upset at you
the ex i never had
for blowing me off my sensitive perch
down to the rocky terrain

you gave me a hope i'd never known
one that perhaps went to my head
and inflated me to uncharted heights
of doubtful expectations

my life is the same
it hasn't changed pace that much
in many ways i'm still stuck on yearbook day
with no one to talk to, waiting for the lonely summer

i find myself, at some point other than the present, sitting in a blue foldout beach chair beside my bedroom window, the one closest to the driveway, listening to the sound of rain as it hits the black shingles of roof.

at the moment i'm an old wizened man, though the mirror dares say otherwise. my internal speech is aged and beyond my current years. this is thanks to many days spent in the chair, pouring myself over texts, and eating plate after plate of tyson chicken nuggets.

it is summer, not too long ago, some momentary lull between high school years where my friends drifted away. i thought of many things in that bedroom. how i always wished it would rain outside, the peace bringing a calmness to my heart that has never quite been matched.

it was always hot in that room, but i didn't mind. i had a small black electronic fan, and its 'whurr' back and forth, as it blew on my face, went away, and came back again, was reassuring. like the memories i was evoking from my readings, it was pleasant, and i enjoyed life by myself.

i thought about my high school crush, except that the crush in question did not go to my high school. my novice heart is not hard to decipher, as even a fool can tell when an honest man lies. that is about all i will say straight-forwardly about her at the present.

where my life was headed, and where i was going, were all questions that seemed to wrap themselves around my mind in an air of newfound wisdom. i was no longer scared, or wary of my future. it would come, and i would face it best i can.

it really is funny sometimes, how certain events change our lives. i've always believed one of my flaws to be i was much too influenced by things and people. perhaps that makes me dangerous, as well.

it's hard to live in a fantasy when the real world keeps pattering outside your window on the black roof shingles. i remember one night i lay, forsaken, in my bed, with my window blinds up, and a full moon staring down at me, bathing my sheets. there was a distinct place i wanted to be, and a distinct person i wanted to be with. had the devil appeared before me and offered a proposition in accordance for my soul, i'd say chances are good i would have taken it. that is how deluded and warped i can become.

yet the fantasy of childhood finds itself disappearing, as it does with everyone i suppose. sadly enough, we all lose those moments where we wish to fly, or cast magic, or be somebody special.

that part of my memory, that holds so much, is locked away, but easily retrievable. it is so expansive that i think an entire mental library section has been devoted to it. there is just something about that time, something about that place, that still holds me in speechless, awe-inspired, breath-taking, captivation.

it could very well be the solitude i endured, and the fact that i enjoyed it. being alone with only my thoughts and imagination was something i wish everyone to have at least once in their lives. i have experienced that magic, and loved fictional characters, but never in my wildest dreams will i live out that state of mind again.

the best that i can do, is walk down the archives of my memory, and attempt to locate the monstrous tome that undoubtedly holds the best memories of my youth. they are not memories of others, of laughter, of water parks and friends, but of myself, in my room, next to the window (closest to the driveway) unleashing from my mind a thirst that quite possibly no literary master can quell.

what will today be like? how about tomorrow? should we start planning for next week? our lives are cluttered, our minds are filled to the brim. we're constantly worried about things. we wake up, and nothing seems to have changed. but this is not necessarily a bad thing. and when you feel overwhelmed, or if the day, or perhaps your life, begins to slowly creep up on you..

stop.

close your eyes.

and take a deep breath. allow the pleasure of life to fill your lungs and exit through your mouth. that's all you need to worry about this moment. steady breathing and focus. life comes at you one thing at a time. sometimes we can handle that, sometimes we need help. seeking out this help is normal. depending on yourself to get you through is, too. all you have is today. tomorrow does not exist, and yesterday is already gone. you would no sooner stay up at night imagining ghosts exist in your closet, than you would worrying about the phantoms of the future. sooner or later the ghosts will burst out.

life isn't always about moving forward. sometimes it's about stopping. allow yourself to stop once in a while, we are not machines. we are life forces like the trees and water, with our own meanings of existence.

the world is so much simpler at 2 a.m. in the morning with all of the lights out and only my thoughts and music to occupy my mind.

they are one of those people,
where if happiness were cookies,
they'd be your friend's mom,
who always baked enough for everyone.

they've always been there,
dependable as a lawn sprinkler,
that turns on overnight unnoticed,
and helps everything around it grow.

there they are next to you,
like a friend on the dance floor,
busting some ridiculous move,
just so you can feel comfortable.

they are,
THE MEGADRAGONZORD OF FRIENDS!,
combining all the perfect things,
in to an unbeatable package.

i once saw a documentary
on some "father of the nation,"
who practiced self-efficiency
and patience and truth.
i tried to identify with him,
but failed.

i once saw a show on FOX
about a calculating man
whose impeccable genius
truly inspired my heart.
i tried to identify again,
but failed.

i once saw a Japanese show,
with a teen with really long hair,
who showed up late to class,
but had a bigger plan in store.
i tried to identify once more,
and failed.

one of these days,
i will look in the mirror,
see myself,
and try to identify,
with who i really am.

people wake up every day and feel indifferent. they are bored, with not much to look forward to. to them it is just another day. then something down the road happens. some people die or something happens and they feel alive. they reflect and feel grateful for what they have. they wake up with a different outlook on how their world works. soon this feeling fades and they are back to where they were. before they go to bed they feel nothing special. they assume tomorrow will come just like it always does. many people are bored and feel indifferent, apathetic. what does it take to get motivated? what is being motivated? what does it take to stop, take a breath, and reflect, without needing a tragedy to occur? why can't we as humans always feel that way? how you feel after a special song, or seeing the ending to an emotional movie. that feeling, where your life is briefly changed for a time. why can't we always have that? that is all i have to define myself by. unable to conjure my own definitions, i live and appreciate through the creative lens, however horrific, of others. love begins as a blossoming flower, continues as a stagnant oak, and ends as a weathering willow. a glance inside the head of a killer will only give you an inkling of his rationale. just like this obscure and insignificant entry.

how do you make sense of 33 dead?
some shot on their body, most in the head?
what brain like a Rubik's cube could possibly conceive,
to turn modern-day America in to Tel Aviv?
the media playing dumb, with their critical acclaim,
instead of seeing his message, they look for blame.
do you love your life more, now that you fear
everyday people, and not Ahmad Amir?
is it scary to think, that your life's end is near,
and one angry person, can make it disappear?

that stoic Asian face, plastered over the news,
and the repetitive phrases, they always overuse.
why did this happen, where do we go from here?
let's hold our heads high, and continue with the year.

"Where are the keys?"
"I've seemed to misplaced them"
"Oh jesus, fucking again?
You've got a problem you know that?"
"Yes dear, I'm sorry."

"Did you get the right ham?"
"I got the kind I always get"
"Fucking Christ, this is the wrong one!
Can't you get anything right?"
"I'm sorry..."

"Did you pick up my shirts?"
"I was so busy all day I forgot"
"What the fuck will I wear to work?
Wash what I wore today for me."
"Yes, I'm sorry, sure thing."

"I'm too tired to make love"
"Oh yes, you must be tired"
"I give you as much as I can,
I'm only human you know."

(quietly to herself)
"I am too, and I'm sorry."

airport

white
male
middle-aged
racing back to his family

white
female
young
getting off work - preparing for a date

black
male
middle-aged
lucky he has an expensive suit on

black
female
young
fortunate she's a stewardess

middle eastern
doesn't matter
doesn't matter
sir we're going to need you to step aside.

Personal Journal Entry of 4/6/2007 at 2:34 A.M.

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this is emotion, this is power.
this is why wives favor hatred
over 'i love you's of indifference!

this is why i write:
the chaotic internal winds
providing the power
of my creative windmill!

it is and forever will be
my greatest inspiration
to sit down and pour out how i feel
so all of you who get the fake me
can see who i truly am!

i come out at night like a vampire
and walk around the streets
looking for what i lost
in sewer gutters and trashcans
where'd you hide it
where'd you put it -
you demon of an existence -
you abhorring testament of mankind!
curse you - but more -
curse myself, for those wasted months.
i had a chance to be normal,
and you stripped that away from me
someone's got to take the blame!
perhaps my heart could forgive you,
if only i could find it
in some sewer gutter or trashcan.

rat out of its cage
scratch scratch scratch
better catch it soon
gnawing gnawing scratching

the panic rat is loose
and chewing on brain nerves!
excruciating pain - as anxiety takes hold
like a giant man procuring a teenage girl
a few feet away from the bus stop.

(((it is no time to be P.C.,
the man was probably black -
at least that's what the news tells me)))

how will you handle the rat
thats eating away at your sanity?
you can call up an Orkin man with a PhD
or deal with it yourself.

close your eyes, envision the rat,
create the trap for it, and wait.
m e d i t a t e
and catch it.

hi my name is stephen
an interesting fact?
and i write poetry
i fucking hate the first day of class

'oh, that's interesting'
yea, it sure is
'what kinds do you write?'
oh, all kinds i suppose, anything really

now just look at the next person
the attention is already tiring
'my name is james'
'i'm going to peru and i have a black belt'
'oh how interesting!'

my name is stephen,
and i write fucking poems...

emo kid get sad
and go write some poems
emo kid get sad, and go write some poems

emo kid get sad
no friends to call
emo kid get sad
no one to talk to at all

emo kid get sad
shit for self esteem
emo kid get sad
emo kid just a teen.

emo kid get sad
hate all of life
emo kid get sad
emo kid grabs a knife

emo kid get sad
cant go to sleep
emo kid get sad
emo kid weep

and i looked back over my shoulder,
waved a final good-bye,
and cried like a little schoolboy
who lost his box lunch on a field trip.

up the elevator we were just on,
past the automatic doors we'd been
through countless times,
i cried.

but there's something reassuring
about going through so much pain.
i know i must have loved
tremendously in the first place,
to have felt such sadness
upon farewell.

why do i feel this doubt? this doubt that i was once the best thing for you, but now i have been replaced? what makes me feel like i am no longer the reason you breathe and live? a small little candy. i bought some at the grocery store outside of my dorm hall. they were orange, but not because i go to tennessee. i remember as a kid i'd get a handful from my mom's purse and eat them, and the orange ones tasted best when i crunched down on them with my teeth. a simpler time, waiting outside sears dressing rooms for what felt like hours, because i was too immature to be left alone at home. years later, i see nothing has changed, and i am still left alone, too immature to reach out and grab what it is i want. hold me close, and do not permit me to drift off very far, because i have this feeling i won't find my way back, no matter how hard that i try. so where does that doubt come from? probably on the corner of change the topic avenue and stream of consciousness boulevard.

A glimpse in my head

This song is called Remembrance 9/11 and when I heard it I pictured the Twin Towers at night.

high school haunted house

she didn't want to go in,
even though he was pressuring her,
saying there was nothing to be afraid of
and that he'd be with her the entire time.

she imagined zombie babies,
strangled by their umbilical cords.
she'd never been in one before
and had heard horror stories from her friends.

he told her it would be okay,
and that she should just come in.
"ok," she thought, "i'm going to do it,
I'M COMING!!!!" she yelled.

not for the faint-hearted

walking on the right half of the sidewalk
he stretched his left arm out all the way
and pointed the gun parallel to himself
while glancing away, down and to the right.

he stood motionless, and when they passed him,
he fired - sending half of their brain
roaring towards the parking lot in a spiral
of liquid matter and blood.

it splattered over his skin and shirt,
but he kept looking away,
the echo of the gunshot ringing in his ears
while people around him screamed in terror.

then he took the barrel of the gun
and flipped it over his head
and poetically caught it in his other hand,
where he pointed it at his head, and fired.

西方白虎

The same cat was always in the park,
old and gray - looking for a handout
in nearby garbage cans and litter.

Unwashed and wild, and left ignored,
people walked passed it every day
knowing it would die soon.

But one man in particular had a choice,
he could choose to have it live
in a home with a loving family
and toss a yarn ball around
a giant inferno of a fireplace
that would surely keep it warm forever,

or,

leave it in the park,
where it would shiver every night
and be forced to keep one cautious eye open
for someone looking to capture it
and inject it with death.

The man's girlfriend kind of liked cats,
so while he may have let it go before
he scooped it up and took it home,
where it would live for another year
in a home with soft cat food
a litter box and lots of milk.

They named it 白虎.

Catherine

A wonderful composition it would be,
and when she heard it, he was sure
that she would fall in love with him.

Over two years he perfected it,
such delicate and gentle notes
emanating from the strokes of his fingers.

But she found another lover,
and it was through deep meditation
he decided to continue the song.

He even kept the title,
her name, the same,
up until her wedding day.

It was on that day she heard,
while walking on the terrace,
a sound that struck her still.

"A wonderful song, isn't it dear?"
Unblinking and faltering, she stuttered,
"Yes, it must be for one dearly beloved."

sunspots of the heart

Gliding her hand over the fleece blanket,
smoothing out the texture
and fixing its delicate color,
she remedies the blotches from before.

With her thumb or finger
she'll draw a dark mark on the fleece,
and then smooth it out again
so it looks the same as before.

How long has she been doing this?
How many years has it been?
A tear falls off her cheek,
wishing all her blotches were as easy to erase.

for the most part i like being alone
there's no unwanted noise or farts
i can do whatever i want in privacy
and only listen to the music i like
i can maintain order and structure
there aren't any uninvited ears
and i can watch jdramas in peace

whatever part of my sanity i'd lose
by being confined to live alone
i think i would make up for
in finally being able to write poems again.

yes, everything's fine
of course i'm sure
i'm okay
i promise

my runny nose,
it must be a cold.
and some dust
must have gotten in my eye.

i look away
and contort my face
caused by the mental pain,
like hot irons on my heart.

in a playful move
i cover my face with a pillow.
i'm hiding my feelings, my face,
my tears.

i'm okay,
"daijoubu"
i promise
ok, just this once, i'm a liar.

i changed the music i liked
how i acted
and my hair

i tortured my heart and stomach,
both twisting and writhing
trying to quell the butterflies

the music on my ipod was yours
along with the feeling in my heart
and the words in many of my poems

you asked who she was
and i dodged it like a pro
just like i've always done

the closest i've become to normal,
where other people accept what i have,
vanished right before my eyes.

it is the selfish desire of every sadist to see the pain and anguish their death would cause others. perhaps it an attempt to convince themselves that people care, they would love to see people emit some emotion for them. if only this emotion was present when they were alive, they might still be with us. if only we did not wait until they were gone to laugh, or cry, or at least show some emotion in their presence, instead of ignoring them. if only they could go in to the future, and see themselves lying in their coffin, with friends and family huddled around. then they'd learn that they weren't quite alone as they thought and that their death wasn't needed or necessary.

guys

they get really lonely
and lose faith in themselves.
they lose self esteem
and confidence and rationale.

they lose their heads.
tempers go flaring
and violent outbursts
thrash innocent victims.

they don't have a listener-
not a single one.
frustration ignites an inferno
that blazes down reason.

hot blood is pumped
from their heart
to their warped minds,
and the subjective reality
that they see of the world
becomes distant and bleak,
to the extent where nothing,
no one, matters.

they hurt others.
they call friends.
they get drunk.
they have sex.
they write poems.
they commit suicide.
they lose their heads.

falling in slo-mo

plummeting towards the ground
with my heart in my throat
and my hands outstretched
desperately denying their fate.

i am fully ignorant
of the events before this moment.
how i came to be here,
falling in slow motion.

just before that moment
where my hands hit the pavement,
and my radius and ulna crack in two,
i wake up in a cold sweat.

for a moment i think i'm still falling
before being called back to reality -
an alarm clock flashing 9 a.m.
and a new day to live.

i try to remember why i fell,
what subconscious part of my mind
is telling me to take a breath
and look around at my life.

like holding sand in my hands,
the memories of why i fell
slowly disappear in to nothing.
so tantalizingly close,
yet so many birthdays away.

Sitting in the car with my dad in a Burger King parking lot, I said something I wasn't supposed to. "Well," he said, "you'll think differently when I'm dead."

With my head buried in a pillow in room 506 I thought to myself, "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to die." I held my breath as long as I could, but the pain was too much.

I had just ran warm-up laps for All-Stars after eating a bowl of macaroni in the car ride over. I threw up, and Mr. Rosenberg, who sat in the bleachers, said, "Well I ate before I came, and I'm not throwing up."

I had just come out of the bathroom of J.J. Daniels middle school and the fair-skinned english boy on our team noticed my haircut, and said, "Nice dew! (doo)."

I was talking on AIM about visiting a friend. "I want to come and see you as a friend," I said. "Only as a friend?", they asked. "No, I want to take care of you."

I always called her back but something always came up.

I am proud that I don't drink, but sometimes I lie about it to fit in.

"She said she just wants to be friends," said Chris McGuire, about my first crush. Ben gave her a warhead at lunch and said it was from me.

"I bet you won't tell those guys to go sit down," said Chad's sister, talking about the three business men blocking our view of home plate. I got up and asked in a way my dad would have if he was there (Hey buddy/I appreciate it/etc.). The guy I asked would later on scratch his forehead, with only his middle finger.

"Who the hell got the controller all greasy?" Gus asked. It wasn't my fault they brought down Fritos, but I felt very guilty and victimized.

"I want to break up," I've never said.

"I love you," I've said alot.

"Will you marry me?" I'll perhaps say some day.

With my hand raised I almost was going to ask the teacher what was on the "other side" of the map of the globe. I thought maybe it was all just water.

While racing Kimani Allen on Field Day I realized I was going to lose a sprint, so halfway through I started limping and faked an injury.

One of the coolest things I learned in school was when T.K. taught me how to catch butterflies during one morning in 4th grade.

I still feel bad about kicking Mikey in the eye while playing duck, duck, goose.

When I broke my wrist and had to have a cast put on it, not a single person (or very few) signed it, because no one offered. People always asked me why no one had signed my cast.

All I've ever wanted is a close group of friends to belong with. I've only ever had this once in my life, which was over 5 years ago.

When I graduated Middle (or Elementary) School I cried. My friends made fun of all the girls who had cried later on that day, and I joined them.

I have a hard time being happy for others when it comes at the cost of me having to give something up.

I am easily bullied and buckle under peer pressure.

My name is Stephen, and the present moment is all I have.

happy valenchyaan's day

i wonder what makes this day
any different from the others?
it has become commonplace
to downgrade valentine's day.

people call it commercial,
a sham and pointless.
but any day i am given
the opportunity to love you,
is a day i cherish like my life.

i like only having one person,
to kiss, to hug, to have.
i like the specialness
that accompanies a day like this,
and a person like you.

i could exist within 1,000 ages of the past,
and travel over every inch of earth,
but i would never find someone as trusting,
understanding and open-hearted as you.

so am i going to shun the day
that gives me even more reason
to imagine a life shared with you?
i would no sooner be a single man again.

i am what i am
exposed for the world to see
my favorite color, blue
my favorite number, three

i have the same urges
and the same desires
i admire old people
and hate liars

this is me
twenty, six feet tall
shy (or cowardly)
and ready to fall...

...straight in to your arms
and be set free from worry
and doubt, and given
something to protect and love
for as long as the moon
hangs high enough,
for me to know that somewhere,
you can see it too.

i am all these things
but i'm proud of only a few,
and of those i am,
is my eternal faithfulness

I know very well my place in life. I am to breathe air from the trees for approximately seventy to eighty years, perhaps shorter - unlikely longer - and then die. The actions in between may lead to the betterment of others or my surroundings, or they may not. Years after my death my time spent here will have been insignificant to the current events of the world. With time, any conventions will disappear. There is no reason I am alive. There is no purpose I have been given. I can give myself goals, and attempt to define the meaning of my existence, but ultimately that is my own self-actualization at work. In truth, from birth to death, there is no reason for me to live, other than to live. Some call this ultimate freedom. Realization of mortal boundaries. Others call it blasphemy, and condemn me to flames of hell. Yet when one realizes there is neither a reason to live, nor a purpose to life, something occurs. They tend to treasure their time all the more, seeking out to identify parts of themselves that up until that point have been left blank. We are all filling in the blanks of our lives, every day. You can choose to be happy or sad, to laugh or cry. You can choose to shelter yourself and quietly live out your insignificant existence of this world. You can make a difference and be immortalized in high school text books. Yet mere remembrance is not a proper measure for life fulfillment. The only person who has the power to ensure your short time of living is at least somewhat meaningful in even the most minuscule of contexts - is you.

I was created for a single island,
a bachelor mansion on a windy knoll,
an eremitic bench -
in a dreary park.

Yet I was not created,
to be alone.
My soul seeks for a partner,
but alas - no more.

No - one is enough -
to satiate desire.
To give what I require,
others are unneeded.

I was created thusly,
for others stir the pot.
Annoying gnats - they fly -
which I am unable to swat.

All I Need

Stand tall and firm,
without a tear or pout.
Be strong in your resolve,
do not regret or doubt.

Look me in the eyes,
not with your head askew.
Gaze deep in to my heart,
where my love is true.

We'll still be together,
underneath the expanding sky.
And all I'll ever ask,
is for a kiss good-bye.

Jumper

I wonder where he went wrong
as his second legs swings
over the guard rail and he jumps.

Perhaps a failed relationship,
or maybe humility at work,
or it could be both.

His worries are washed away
by the wind that streaks
through his jacket that
flaps in the air like wings.

His shoes fly off,
and his pants flutter violently
against his legs,
trying to slow him down.

I wonder where he went wrong,
as his head is forcefully caved in
by the concrete sidewalk.

No one is smart,
no one knows more
than anyone else.
Knowledge and life
are relevant to the person.
There's no right
no wrong,
no justice,
no truths.
They'll fool you
to think money matters.
For you to think
paper equals happiness.

If you want to get drunk
then it's your business
and not mine.
If you want to be loud
and obnoxious
and a complete moron
then go ahead.
If you want to drink
as much as you can
until you can't stand
be my guest.
If you choose to drink
and take a long drive
off of a short cliff,
then it's your business,
and not mine
(though I won't be mourning).

The guys on the other wall are too loud
and I grumble to myself like an old man.
For every bass beat that strikes my wall
and keeps me up another minute longer,
I'd like to strike them with the power
of calmness and intellect that only
a freak like him could possess.

I don't know what the next 10 years have in store for me. I try not to look too far, and live as close to the present day as possible. I've always had emotional trouble when I venture too far in to the past or try and delve too deeply in to the future. I figure the less time I spend thinking about "what ifs" can be applied to the "is"s and "are"s. I've learned that by loving yourself you appear attractive to other people, and they will in turn love you. That loving another person isn't all about giving yourself to them and devoting all you have for them (though it's a part), but taking care of yourself and showing them what it takes to get along in this world. Sure, we all offer each other helping hands every once in a while - that's what life is all about. But learning to stand strongly on your own two feet is perhaps the best thing a person could ever do for themselves. So to live in the present moment, and to love and be true to myself, is a goal I have adopted for the new year, and also for my entry to adulthood (in that I will soon no longer be a teenager). Soon I'll be working - but I don't know where, or what I'll be doing, how much I'll be making, or even whether or not I'll enjoy it. What I do know is that in order to have a successful life I must make whole-hearted and thoughtful decisions in the present. Thinking too far ahead will only limit my ability to make these decisions intricately and carefully.