It only comes once a year!
That's the general opinion on every holiday that occurs throughout the 365 days we call a year. Yet Valentine's Day is perhaps the one that gets on my nerves the most. Now, now, now, it isn't because I've never actually been in a relationship on Valentine's Day (which is true) and that I am bitter at every person in the world who possesses love. It would be quite evil of me to despise those who are in love on Valentine's Day just because I don't happen to be. Instead of being such a monster, I dislike it for a different reason, and here's why:
First of all, what is Valentine's Day supposed to be? I mean seriously, what is it? A day where you show that special someone how much they mean to you? My mistake, I thought that you kind of did that as much as possible anyway, without having to designate a day to do it. A day to give your loved ones chocolates and roses, and fancy pink and red cards with glitter? You can do this on any other day of the year, and the surprise attached to such an unexpected act will yield far greater results than doing it when the other person is expecting it.
Basically I just think that if you truly love someone you should try your best to always love them in the best possible way you can. Valentine's Day shouldn't be a day where you try and make that loved one in your life feel special and great, because every day should be like that. While some couples do act this way, others act this way sparingly, if at all. But hey, I can't complain too much because Valentine's Day gives me the chance to write entries like this, and to write poems like the ones below.
Do you really want to make that special someone in your life feel great? Then tomorrow morning tell them "I know it isn't Valentine's Day, but I want to let you know that I love you with all of my heart, and I don't need a specified day to tell me that", or something of that nature. I guarantee that will make them feel better than any red rose, almond chocolate, or cheesy "Be Mine" card ever would.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
R.I.P. Valentine
Two headstones are talking,
In the brisk February wind.
Their conversation will never stop,
A chatter not even time can fend.
The engraving on one reads:
"My love for you will never cease,
So long as I'm buried by you,
I can rest in blissful eternal peace".
The other in seemingly a reply:
"I was happy to die and pass away,
For I knew it meant I'd see you sooner,
And now forever next to you I lay".
Valentine's Day isn't only for the living and breathing,
It is for anyone who has ever loved and cared.
Whether or not they continue to exist,
Does not demean the Love they shared.
Even two headstones can enjoy this day,
By cherishing the closeness of the other.
So find that special lover of yours,
And use your Love to smother.
In the brisk February wind.
Their conversation will never stop,
A chatter not even time can fend.
The engraving on one reads:
"My love for you will never cease,
So long as I'm buried by you,
I can rest in blissful eternal peace".
The other in seemingly a reply:
"I was happy to die and pass away,
For I knew it meant I'd see you sooner,
And now forever next to you I lay".
Valentine's Day isn't only for the living and breathing,
It is for anyone who has ever loved and cared.
Whether or not they continue to exist,
Does not demean the Love they shared.
Even two headstones can enjoy this day,
By cherishing the closeness of the other.
So find that special lover of yours,
And use your Love to smother.
Valentine's Savior
Her life was so meaningless and empty,
Especially in the 2nd month of the year.
Her lonely cries could reach no man,
And if they could no man would hear.
She forces herself to throw up,
All those chocolates earlier she did buy.
Somewhere she pauses her heaving,
And wonders if with enough chocolate she could die.
Every break up in her life,
Has occurred on this most evil of days.
Each time she was ready for Love,
And each time her lover never stays.
More depressed than ever in her life,
She decides it is time to conclude.
When she returns to her room for one last time,
She will eat her pills like chocolate food.
She opens the door and stops,
And gives it one final thought.
Such a stubborn soul is she,
To give up when distraught.
She swallowed the pills,
And then she slowly cried.
If he had not come to wish a Happy Valentines,
Then she surely would have died.
Especially in the 2nd month of the year.
Her lonely cries could reach no man,
And if they could no man would hear.
She forces herself to throw up,
All those chocolates earlier she did buy.
Somewhere she pauses her heaving,
And wonders if with enough chocolate she could die.
Every break up in her life,
Has occurred on this most evil of days.
Each time she was ready for Love,
And each time her lover never stays.
More depressed than ever in her life,
She decides it is time to conclude.
When she returns to her room for one last time,
She will eat her pills like chocolate food.
She opens the door and stops,
And gives it one final thought.
Such a stubborn soul is she,
To give up when distraught.
She swallowed the pills,
And then she slowly cried.
If he had not come to wish a Happy Valentines,
Then she surely would have died.
Happy Valentine's Day
I woke up with sadness,
But for why I cannot quite say.
Then it suddenly hits me,
Oh yea, it's Valentine's Day.
How many times have I spent,
Wallowing and acting depressed.
If only I could tell you,
If only my love I could confess.
Every other person I saw today,
Was holding hands and smiling wide.
Why can't I tell you I love you,
Why can't I to you confide?
Maybe it's because you don't exist,
A shadow that's dreamy and surreal.
But a shadow could never accomplish,
In making me love this way and feel.
I spent the whole day alone,
In that sad slouched-over pose.
I did not once hug or kiss,
Or buy a single chocolate or rose.
I check my mail at the end of the day,
And there's a card in there from you:
"Happy Valentine's to a special guy!
With Love From, You-Know-Who".
But for why I cannot quite say.
Then it suddenly hits me,
Oh yea, it's Valentine's Day.
How many times have I spent,
Wallowing and acting depressed.
If only I could tell you,
If only my love I could confess.
Every other person I saw today,
Was holding hands and smiling wide.
Why can't I tell you I love you,
Why can't I to you confide?
Maybe it's because you don't exist,
A shadow that's dreamy and surreal.
But a shadow could never accomplish,
In making me love this way and feel.
I spent the whole day alone,
In that sad slouched-over pose.
I did not once hug or kiss,
Or buy a single chocolate or rose.
I check my mail at the end of the day,
And there's a card in there from you:
"Happy Valentine's to a special guy!
With Love From, You-Know-Who".
Monday, February 13, 2006
A Young Man's Lecture
Life is much too short to be spent complaining and worrying. Both are tasks that people do often, sometimes every day, and yet neither are necessary to enjoy life. Sometimes they come instinctively, but most of the time people willingly invite these feelings in to their lives with no good reason at all.
Complaining is nothing more than failing to accept your reality. When you reject the way things are, you complain. You fail to recognize a situation or event for what it truly is, and thus you despise it. Sometimes we complain because we don't want to do things. Why don't we want to do them? Why can't me make ourselves want to do them? Who says we can't make ourselves? These are the three questions I urge you to ask yourself next time you find yourself complaining about something in your life. When you complain you are doing a couple of things. First and foremost, you are delaying the forward movement of your life. Secondly, every second spent complaining about some aspect of your life is a second wasted that you will never get back. Why not use that second constructively, to get over your problem? Thirdly, you are magnifying your problem by giving it significance. If you do not allow an aspect of life to bother you, then it will not. But the minute you say it annoys you, ticks you off, or irks you, you start to complain about it. Simply put, complaining is not constructive.
Worrying is nothing more than failing to accept what your reality will become. You are either afraid of what will occur, or afraid because you know what will occur. Think about this irony for a moment. We as humans not only worry when we don't know what will happen, but also when we do know what will happen. When we don't know, we use our imaginations to conjure worst possible scenarios, and when we do know, we use our imaginations to conjure up what might go wrong. Worrying is the channeling of negative thought. It is assuming that the future is filled to the brim with darkness and uncertainty. An interesting notion that many people have come upon is that you can foresee the future if you have the will and determination to change it. Thus if you have the power to control the future to an extent, you should not worry about it. Whatever is going to happen, is going to happen, regardless of your worrying.
Remember, Life is very short. You could die tomorrow. I don't say that as an ill omen, but as a reminder. Were you polite to every person you met today? If not, how come? Don't you want people to be polite to you? Wouldn't it be nice if every person you saw was smiling at you? Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Live your life as you see fit, with the courtesy of other people in mind.
Don't complain, because it only worsens the current state of your life.
Don't worry, because it only dims your future before it even arrives.
Just live your life with the knowledge that your Death will come, and whatever you complain or worry about will then be irrelevant.
Complaining is nothing more than failing to accept your reality. When you reject the way things are, you complain. You fail to recognize a situation or event for what it truly is, and thus you despise it. Sometimes we complain because we don't want to do things. Why don't we want to do them? Why can't me make ourselves want to do them? Who says we can't make ourselves? These are the three questions I urge you to ask yourself next time you find yourself complaining about something in your life. When you complain you are doing a couple of things. First and foremost, you are delaying the forward movement of your life. Secondly, every second spent complaining about some aspect of your life is a second wasted that you will never get back. Why not use that second constructively, to get over your problem? Thirdly, you are magnifying your problem by giving it significance. If you do not allow an aspect of life to bother you, then it will not. But the minute you say it annoys you, ticks you off, or irks you, you start to complain about it. Simply put, complaining is not constructive.
Worrying is nothing more than failing to accept what your reality will become. You are either afraid of what will occur, or afraid because you know what will occur. Think about this irony for a moment. We as humans not only worry when we don't know what will happen, but also when we do know what will happen. When we don't know, we use our imaginations to conjure worst possible scenarios, and when we do know, we use our imaginations to conjure up what might go wrong. Worrying is the channeling of negative thought. It is assuming that the future is filled to the brim with darkness and uncertainty. An interesting notion that many people have come upon is that you can foresee the future if you have the will and determination to change it. Thus if you have the power to control the future to an extent, you should not worry about it. Whatever is going to happen, is going to happen, regardless of your worrying.
Remember, Life is very short. You could die tomorrow. I don't say that as an ill omen, but as a reminder. Were you polite to every person you met today? If not, how come? Don't you want people to be polite to you? Wouldn't it be nice if every person you saw was smiling at you? Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Live your life as you see fit, with the courtesy of other people in mind.
Don't complain, because it only worsens the current state of your life.
Don't worry, because it only dims your future before it even arrives.
Just live your life with the knowledge that your Death will come, and whatever you complain or worry about will then be irrelevant.
Love Eternal
There were once two people,
A lovely woman and a man.
Not strangely they were in love,
Like the ocean and the sand.
Their families were in a fued,
Not unlike Juliet and Romeo.
So when they met it was secret,
In a flower patch they would stow.
At each week's ending they'd gather,
And plant new life in the ground.
The sound of working hands and hearts,
Were the only distant sounds.
When their love was unveiled,
And they were forced to separate,
They met once more at the garden,
Away from shouts and debate.
Looking in to each other's eyes,
They knew neither would go back.
They would find a way to stay here,
Among the roses and lilacs.
They knew all along,
They would never be saved.
They knew all along,
They were building their own grave.
Now they rest underground,
A tight knot of love they did weave.
That not even familial debate and difference,
Can ever hope to cleave.
A lovely woman and a man.
Not strangely they were in love,
Like the ocean and the sand.
Their families were in a fued,
Not unlike Juliet and Romeo.
So when they met it was secret,
In a flower patch they would stow.
At each week's ending they'd gather,
And plant new life in the ground.
The sound of working hands and hearts,
Were the only distant sounds.
When their love was unveiled,
And they were forced to separate,
They met once more at the garden,
Away from shouts and debate.
Looking in to each other's eyes,
They knew neither would go back.
They would find a way to stay here,
Among the roses and lilacs.
They knew all along,
They would never be saved.
They knew all along,
They were building their own grave.
Now they rest underground,
A tight knot of love they did weave.
That not even familial debate and difference,
Can ever hope to cleave.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Forgiveness
Hate you forever?
Or forgive you later on,
Dunno what to do...
Or forgive you later on,
Dunno what to do...
I do not understand forgiveness. I don't know when is a right situation to forgive someone, and when it isn't. It differs so incredibly from person-to-person. In fact, I think it is tragic that it differs this much, because it is such an important concept. Some people think that with time you can forgive any person for any deed they have done. Others think that forgiveness is to be given out sparingly and only to those to show that they have atoned for what they have done.
Personally I do not give out forgiveness very easily. Some people would call this a good trait, and some people would call this a bad trait. So which one is it? Am I a good or bad person depending on whose opinion it is? Is there no truth to who I really am? I think if a person has done something wrong then they need to realize that they have done a wrong deed. I do not think forgiveness should be granted if a person does not atone in equal magnitude for whatever crime they have committed. I will not go to the extreme of Hammurabi's Code (eye for an eye), but I believe to an extent the same way.
Forgiveness really gets on my nerves!! It changes with situation to situation, and it is so incredibly "AAAH!" that what you get from one person will change to the next. There's very few absolute forgiveness situations. Little things like a child stealing a cookie can be forgiven. But what if someone murders your entire family? Will you ever forgive that person? Personally, I wouldn't. Some might say, "Oh! That makes you a very shallow person who cannot learn to forgive even the most heinous of acts!". You know what I say to that? "Wait until your family is murdered, pal, then you go up to that guy after however long it takes for you to forgive him, and say 'It's OK'". I don't think anyone is warranted to give advice except a person who has gone through a same or similar situation.
I don't know, it is hard to write about forgiveness because it is so damn elusive. For that reason it really, really gets on my nerves. Does it mean a person is immature if they don't forgive someone? Or does it mean a person is feeble-minded and weak to sticking to values if they always forgive people? Is holding grudges a stupid childish act, or a way to remind yourself that this person has committed an evil deed to you or someone you love, and you will never forget. And if you forgive someone, but don't forget it, and then later on use that information for coercion or what have you, then is that not in essence failing to forgive?
Personally I do not give out forgiveness very easily. Some people would call this a good trait, and some people would call this a bad trait. So which one is it? Am I a good or bad person depending on whose opinion it is? Is there no truth to who I really am? I think if a person has done something wrong then they need to realize that they have done a wrong deed. I do not think forgiveness should be granted if a person does not atone in equal magnitude for whatever crime they have committed. I will not go to the extreme of Hammurabi's Code (eye for an eye), but I believe to an extent the same way.
Forgiveness really gets on my nerves!! It changes with situation to situation, and it is so incredibly "AAAH!" that what you get from one person will change to the next. There's very few absolute forgiveness situations. Little things like a child stealing a cookie can be forgiven. But what if someone murders your entire family? Will you ever forgive that person? Personally, I wouldn't. Some might say, "Oh! That makes you a very shallow person who cannot learn to forgive even the most heinous of acts!". You know what I say to that? "Wait until your family is murdered, pal, then you go up to that guy after however long it takes for you to forgive him, and say 'It's OK'". I don't think anyone is warranted to give advice except a person who has gone through a same or similar situation.
I don't know, it is hard to write about forgiveness because it is so damn elusive. For that reason it really, really gets on my nerves. Does it mean a person is immature if they don't forgive someone? Or does it mean a person is feeble-minded and weak to sticking to values if they always forgive people? Is holding grudges a stupid childish act, or a way to remind yourself that this person has committed an evil deed to you or someone you love, and you will never forget. And if you forgive someone, but don't forget it, and then later on use that information for coercion or what have you, then is that not in essence failing to forgive?
I really don't like,
He who made the word forgive,
What was he thinking?
He who made the word forgive,
What was he thinking?
My Life: The Movie
I wish my life was like a movie,
Even if it was just fake.
Atleast in the end I'd be happy,
Instead of this crap I now take.
I could meet my one true love,
And fall for her on first sight.
I could magically fix my problems,
And make my life just right.
I would not have this sadness,
Or regret decisions I have made.
Life and movies aren't really different,
In the end both slowly fade.
The music would always be perfect,
The weather would always be nice.
No matter how short I would fall,
My best would always seem to suffice.
My loved ones would never die,
My friends would never betray.
With no hatred or contempt,
The world would be as it may.
But even movies have pain and suffering,
And often a tragic conclusion.
Nonetheless I wish my life was a movie,
Despite other people's countless intrusion.
They could see my deepest secrets,
And the inner workings of my mind.
They would know why I took my life,
When my life was going just fine.
Even if it was just fake.
Atleast in the end I'd be happy,
Instead of this crap I now take.
I could meet my one true love,
And fall for her on first sight.
I could magically fix my problems,
And make my life just right.
I would not have this sadness,
Or regret decisions I have made.
Life and movies aren't really different,
In the end both slowly fade.
The music would always be perfect,
The weather would always be nice.
No matter how short I would fall,
My best would always seem to suffice.
My loved ones would never die,
My friends would never betray.
With no hatred or contempt,
The world would be as it may.
But even movies have pain and suffering,
And often a tragic conclusion.
Nonetheless I wish my life was a movie,
Despite other people's countless intrusion.
They could see my deepest secrets,
And the inner workings of my mind.
They would know why I took my life,
When my life was going just fine.
The Yellow-Tinted Marble
Quite intriguing and allusive,
That yellowish marble seems.
You wish to pick it up,
For its color so lustily gleams.
You got closer and closer,
Knowing that you shouldn't.
You tried to delay its touch,
Realizing that you couldn't.
When it touches your skin,
You writhe in anguish.
It saps you of goodness,
And causes your soul to languish.
You knew it was dangerous,
But went for it anyway.
Now how will you let go,
That it is here for good to stay?
On a normal Sunday, at about 1 PM,
You look out to the sea and Sun's light.
Then you clutch that yellowish marble,
And throw it away with all your might.
It sinks to the bottom of the ocean,
And will live among the shoal.
Waiting for its next poor victim,
May God have mercy on its soul.
That yellowish marble seems.
You wish to pick it up,
For its color so lustily gleams.
You got closer and closer,
Knowing that you shouldn't.
You tried to delay its touch,
Realizing that you couldn't.
When it touches your skin,
You writhe in anguish.
It saps you of goodness,
And causes your soul to languish.
You knew it was dangerous,
But went for it anyway.
Now how will you let go,
That it is here for good to stay?
On a normal Sunday, at about 1 PM,
You look out to the sea and Sun's light.
Then you clutch that yellowish marble,
And throw it away with all your might.
It sinks to the bottom of the ocean,
And will live among the shoal.
Waiting for its next poor victim,
May God have mercy on its soul.
Breaking Up
In an age long ago,
I loved her very much so.
But even then we fought,
With misdirected thought.
I don't know if the love was true,
Or just crafty lust born anew.
All I know is the pain,
And my ever-growing shame.
We speak daggers to and fro,
Curses that seem to flow.
I should have known I was tricked,
Strings of my heart now pricked.
Guess she didn't care after all,
Whether I rise, or whether I fall.
Yet through the ache and pain,
There is wisdom I have gained.
Each month we say Good-Bye,
But later come back to say Hi.
When will it stop, when will it end,
And who will take my heart to mend?
When I lived through her,
I thought I had found the cure.
Now I teach others not to love so much,
Because with it is a hate as such.
Back to loving myself, I guess,
In the lonely hollows of my crow's nest.
Back to spending those horrid nights,
Eating lonely dinners by candlelights.
I loved her very much so.
But even then we fought,
With misdirected thought.
I don't know if the love was true,
Or just crafty lust born anew.
All I know is the pain,
And my ever-growing shame.
We speak daggers to and fro,
Curses that seem to flow.
I should have known I was tricked,
Strings of my heart now pricked.
Guess she didn't care after all,
Whether I rise, or whether I fall.
Yet through the ache and pain,
There is wisdom I have gained.
Each month we say Good-Bye,
But later come back to say Hi.
When will it stop, when will it end,
And who will take my heart to mend?
When I lived through her,
I thought I had found the cure.
Now I teach others not to love so much,
Because with it is a hate as such.
Back to loving myself, I guess,
In the lonely hollows of my crow's nest.
Back to spending those horrid nights,
Eating lonely dinners by candlelights.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
The Marbles
There is a collector who owns billions of marbles,
He takes care of each one, none of them he garbles.
He polishes them with care, until they are shiny as chrome,
But they are slightly unorganized, and freely they roam.
The marbles wander about, curiously through his estate,
With no course or destination, they travel and they wait.
Each marble has one instinct, and it is to find its match,
For each marble has a duplicate, and through both a new marble will hatch.
How does a marble find a match, with just the right colors and swirls?
Is their meeting predestined, around Fate's finger which twirls?
Would a marble happen to know, whether it is going the right way?
The marble just has to believe, for as we know a marble cannot say.
If the marble never finds its match, and finds itself in despair,
The collector will comfort it, because he's always there to care.
He shall remind the marble there's a perfect match, it's true,
My marble is a tint of blue, how about you?
He takes care of each one, none of them he garbles.
He polishes them with care, until they are shiny as chrome,
But they are slightly unorganized, and freely they roam.
The marbles wander about, curiously through his estate,
With no course or destination, they travel and they wait.
Each marble has one instinct, and it is to find its match,
For each marble has a duplicate, and through both a new marble will hatch.
How does a marble find a match, with just the right colors and swirls?
Is their meeting predestined, around Fate's finger which twirls?
Would a marble happen to know, whether it is going the right way?
The marble just has to believe, for as we know a marble cannot say.
If the marble never finds its match, and finds itself in despair,
The collector will comfort it, because he's always there to care.
He shall remind the marble there's a perfect match, it's true,
My marble is a tint of blue, how about you?
My Soapbox
The synapses in your brain fail to connect. You are mentally bariccaded from a reality that you cannot comprehend. Stuck behind a glass wall that you can't feel. You don't know what your choices are. Trapped inside a self-built cage of doubt and regret. You can sense the presence around you, starting to envelop you. You accept it, because you know fighting is useless. You join together symbiotically, becoming one, for one is all, and all is one.
Your pulse quickens. Your instinct takes over coordinating your movements. Your control is now a set of random variables acting out upon their own will. What will happen next is equivalent to throwing a thousand separate dice on a table and guessing the number of their cumulative quantities. You become ensnared in your own passion, and allow the true person to show. Breaking the shell that you set up throughout the day, to portray a figure that you wish existed. This is your time to shine. This is your time to become a self-proclaimed God.
Perhaps just mental jargon is mentioned here. Perhaps just left over scraps from the depths of a mind that has thought a little too much. These are the things which get filtered in every day conversation. Your brain tells you not to mention them, because they are not appropriate for the situation. You hold back discussing them because you are afraid what will happen if you do. But within your own realm and existence it is perfectly fine. Within these confines, with this company, it is perfectly okay to resemble your tantalizing desires.
It very well could be none of this makes sense. It could also be that it wasn't meant to. It could be that it was meant only to make sense to a particular group of people, or no one at all. The answer will change with person to person, because life is subjective. You love it, hate it, or a combination of the both depending on how long it has been since you had something to enjoy. People fool themselves in to thinking their lives have meaning by enjoying themselves without regard of the consequences.
This is because animals live to survive. Humans live to survive. If a meteor were to ominously approach our Earth, scientists would find a way to destroy it before it got here. That would be prolonging the human existence. Dinosaurs and other organisms before us could not do this, and thus became extinct. What will exterminate humans? Maybe ourselves, maybe a meteor. Perhaps aliens. But none of it really matters to us, because we will be dead and gone by then, and in the arms of Jesus, under the faithful eye of Buddha, and in the living souls of all things reincarnated.
Eventually I will have to stop this rambling, because my mind will continue to think and analyze to the end of infinity if I do not manually stop the neurons from firing away like children. It would be wondrous to see what would happen if I could turn my brain on full power. There's a man who can remember up to 40,000 digits in a string and recite them perfectly. Imagine the other possibilities. The greatest computers humans can make may not come close to comparing to the human brain, but we will never know. Once again, though, it doesn't really matter. Everything on this planet happens in a cycle circle. Humans are hypocrites who do evil deeds in the name of righteousness, and who kill to stop killing.
Anyone can claim they are a good person. People preach about it all the time. And to judge people is to be judgmental, which a lot of people hate. At a wedding I once went to the preacher was smoking and drinking at the ceremony after-party. This is our messenger of God, basking in his Sin? I wonder if a preacher can confess to himself in the booth. That would require cloning, though. And cloning is science, and only God was meant to create according to the Church. Oh, what irony!
The only meaning your life holds is the meaning you give to it. No one can tell you the meaning of life, or what you are here for. There isn't a reason humans exist, other than to survive. We can claim we are here to love people, and to care for one another, and bring each other up. We can claim that we are here to be happy to the fullest, and to enjoy everything that is presented to us in the fullest. All we ever really do is survive, though. Martin Luther King helped the black race to survive by pushing civil rights. Some may call it morality and common good among people. Others may call it striving to make conditions ideal for a race to prosper. But they are still killing themselves in city streets, and I still hear the racial slurs.
My soapbox has become covered with moss growing from the ground because I've been going on and on so long. Before this terrestrial invader has a chance to start breeding on my leg, I am going to step off, and allow all of this nonsensical data to find a lodging inside your short term memory. Most of it won't stick, and when you attempt to recall it you will most likely be unable to. That makes this entire post meaningless in a way. It is just something I am doing to pass the time during my existence, because it helps to keep me a little more sane. It helps me to survive a little bit more easily.
Your pulse quickens. Your instinct takes over coordinating your movements. Your control is now a set of random variables acting out upon their own will. What will happen next is equivalent to throwing a thousand separate dice on a table and guessing the number of their cumulative quantities. You become ensnared in your own passion, and allow the true person to show. Breaking the shell that you set up throughout the day, to portray a figure that you wish existed. This is your time to shine. This is your time to become a self-proclaimed God.
Perhaps just mental jargon is mentioned here. Perhaps just left over scraps from the depths of a mind that has thought a little too much. These are the things which get filtered in every day conversation. Your brain tells you not to mention them, because they are not appropriate for the situation. You hold back discussing them because you are afraid what will happen if you do. But within your own realm and existence it is perfectly fine. Within these confines, with this company, it is perfectly okay to resemble your tantalizing desires.
It very well could be none of this makes sense. It could also be that it wasn't meant to. It could be that it was meant only to make sense to a particular group of people, or no one at all. The answer will change with person to person, because life is subjective. You love it, hate it, or a combination of the both depending on how long it has been since you had something to enjoy. People fool themselves in to thinking their lives have meaning by enjoying themselves without regard of the consequences.
This is because animals live to survive. Humans live to survive. If a meteor were to ominously approach our Earth, scientists would find a way to destroy it before it got here. That would be prolonging the human existence. Dinosaurs and other organisms before us could not do this, and thus became extinct. What will exterminate humans? Maybe ourselves, maybe a meteor. Perhaps aliens. But none of it really matters to us, because we will be dead and gone by then, and in the arms of Jesus, under the faithful eye of Buddha, and in the living souls of all things reincarnated.
Eventually I will have to stop this rambling, because my mind will continue to think and analyze to the end of infinity if I do not manually stop the neurons from firing away like children. It would be wondrous to see what would happen if I could turn my brain on full power. There's a man who can remember up to 40,000 digits in a string and recite them perfectly. Imagine the other possibilities. The greatest computers humans can make may not come close to comparing to the human brain, but we will never know. Once again, though, it doesn't really matter. Everything on this planet happens in a cycle circle. Humans are hypocrites who do evil deeds in the name of righteousness, and who kill to stop killing.
Anyone can claim they are a good person. People preach about it all the time. And to judge people is to be judgmental, which a lot of people hate. At a wedding I once went to the preacher was smoking and drinking at the ceremony after-party. This is our messenger of God, basking in his Sin? I wonder if a preacher can confess to himself in the booth. That would require cloning, though. And cloning is science, and only God was meant to create according to the Church. Oh, what irony!
The only meaning your life holds is the meaning you give to it. No one can tell you the meaning of life, or what you are here for. There isn't a reason humans exist, other than to survive. We can claim we are here to love people, and to care for one another, and bring each other up. We can claim that we are here to be happy to the fullest, and to enjoy everything that is presented to us in the fullest. All we ever really do is survive, though. Martin Luther King helped the black race to survive by pushing civil rights. Some may call it morality and common good among people. Others may call it striving to make conditions ideal for a race to prosper. But they are still killing themselves in city streets, and I still hear the racial slurs.
My soapbox has become covered with moss growing from the ground because I've been going on and on so long. Before this terrestrial invader has a chance to start breeding on my leg, I am going to step off, and allow all of this nonsensical data to find a lodging inside your short term memory. Most of it won't stick, and when you attempt to recall it you will most likely be unable to. That makes this entire post meaningless in a way. It is just something I am doing to pass the time during my existence, because it helps to keep me a little more sane. It helps me to survive a little bit more easily.
She's So Pretty
In her mortal realm,
Of flesh and bone.
She lives so vainly,
In a body on loan.
Silicon and plastics here and there,
Thousands for a tummy-tuck.
All that fat inside her,
And a tube through which it will suck.
Raise those breasts,
Re-shape that nose.
Shallow cheeks and wrinkles,
Are your biggest foes.
Why is she built like a doll,
Like a Barbie for goodness sake.
She is only one fourth human,
The other three fourths are fake.
She does it so when she dies,
And ascends in to the sky,
She will remain forever beautiful,
Even if her soul becomes a lie.
Of flesh and bone.
She lives so vainly,
In a body on loan.
Silicon and plastics here and there,
Thousands for a tummy-tuck.
All that fat inside her,
And a tube through which it will suck.
Raise those breasts,
Re-shape that nose.
Shallow cheeks and wrinkles,
Are your biggest foes.
Why is she built like a doll,
Like a Barbie for goodness sake.
She is only one fourth human,
The other three fourths are fake.
She does it so when she dies,
And ascends in to the sky,
She will remain forever beautiful,
Even if her soul becomes a lie.
5-7-5
Hypocritical,
That was some heavy metal,
Now I can move on.
**No one's gonna understand this but that's ok ^^ It's really only for me to get anyway <.<
Have fun guessing!
That was some heavy metal,
Now I can move on.
**No one's gonna understand this but that's ok ^^ It's really only for me to get anyway <.<
Have fun guessing!
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Imagery Haiku
Arabian Night
Wind blows so slightly,
Lights that never die tonight,
An empire unites.
This haiku is how I express the following:
It is nearing midnight in an Arabian city. This city can be seen as a mecca, where thousands of people gather in a time of peace to trade and purchase goods. A king sits in a balcony of his palace, and the desert winds hit his face with a freshness that envigorates him. He does not rule these people, for he is one of them. When he looks down he sees caravans and their lights blurred for miles, each one trying to sell something. The commotion and hubbub of this city is comforting to everyone who hears it. Eventually it will die with the night, but for now it is magical. The clearest sky, the brightest stars, and the best location he could ever imagine.
City Lights
Happy single man,
Stares out to the bright city,
While his mind is split.
This haiku is how I express the following:
A single man is in his apartment, and his room is one on the tenth or so floor. It is high enough so he can look out through a massive window while reclining in a chair and gaze at the city lights blazing back at him. He is enjoying something relaxing, such as a movie or video games. Someone special has just entered his life, and he is taking the time to stop and absorb the finer details of the city he has become a part of. An enormous full moon illuminates his patio and room. He smiles, and picks up the phone to call a special someone.
The Mall
Rainy night tonight,
Look up at the glass skylight,
Hear "pitter-patter".
This haiku is how I express the following:
It's a rainy tonight and two people are sharing it at the mall together. There isn't anything that they need, or anything that they even especially want. They are in love but have not yet confessed it to one another. For the moment they frolic about in their youthful desires, free of pain and hurt. This moment, where both know they are in love, but have not confessed it, is sublime. The uncertainty of such an event allows both to act freely and as themselves. The rain above casts gorgeous prisms on the carpeted walkways of the mall, as the two go from store to store. They are able to talk about everything, and also nothing. The rain is symbolic of the beauty they share, and they will not leave until it stops.
**Everyone has those environments or atmospheres that they can envision in their mind, but never dream about explaining to someone. This is my pathetic attempt to portray those situations in writing. These are mere shadows of the real image that exists in my mind of these places. I don't know why they are there, or why I am so strongly attracted to them. They are just more things that exist without explanation.
Wind blows so slightly,
Lights that never die tonight,
An empire unites.
This haiku is how I express the following:
It is nearing midnight in an Arabian city. This city can be seen as a mecca, where thousands of people gather in a time of peace to trade and purchase goods. A king sits in a balcony of his palace, and the desert winds hit his face with a freshness that envigorates him. He does not rule these people, for he is one of them. When he looks down he sees caravans and their lights blurred for miles, each one trying to sell something. The commotion and hubbub of this city is comforting to everyone who hears it. Eventually it will die with the night, but for now it is magical. The clearest sky, the brightest stars, and the best location he could ever imagine.
City Lights
Happy single man,
Stares out to the bright city,
While his mind is split.
This haiku is how I express the following:
A single man is in his apartment, and his room is one on the tenth or so floor. It is high enough so he can look out through a massive window while reclining in a chair and gaze at the city lights blazing back at him. He is enjoying something relaxing, such as a movie or video games. Someone special has just entered his life, and he is taking the time to stop and absorb the finer details of the city he has become a part of. An enormous full moon illuminates his patio and room. He smiles, and picks up the phone to call a special someone.
The Mall
Rainy night tonight,
Look up at the glass skylight,
Hear "pitter-patter".
This haiku is how I express the following:
It's a rainy tonight and two people are sharing it at the mall together. There isn't anything that they need, or anything that they even especially want. They are in love but have not yet confessed it to one another. For the moment they frolic about in their youthful desires, free of pain and hurt. This moment, where both know they are in love, but have not confessed it, is sublime. The uncertainty of such an event allows both to act freely and as themselves. The rain above casts gorgeous prisms on the carpeted walkways of the mall, as the two go from store to store. They are able to talk about everything, and also nothing. The rain is symbolic of the beauty they share, and they will not leave until it stops.
**Everyone has those environments or atmospheres that they can envision in their mind, but never dream about explaining to someone. This is my pathetic attempt to portray those situations in writing. These are mere shadows of the real image that exists in my mind of these places. I don't know why they are there, or why I am so strongly attracted to them. They are just more things that exist without explanation.
The Placebo Effect
Upon marriage she was happy,
But now she is sad and dour.
A husband who says words of love,
But whose meanings are bitterly sour.
Each time she moves in,
He'll let out a big, fat sigh.
To ask, "Honey, do you love me?"
Is to hear, "I got a ring, don't I?"
If she were to move in for a kiss,
She would meet a cold cheek.
A man once loving and vibrant,
Now desolate and bleak.
Can she even call it sex,
If it is forced against her will?
If she cries out he beats her,
So she supresses her urge to shrill.
It is easy to love and care,
When your feeling lonely and bereft.
It is even easy to love a monster,
When your life has nothing left.
But now she is sad and dour.
A husband who says words of love,
But whose meanings are bitterly sour.
Each time she moves in,
He'll let out a big, fat sigh.
To ask, "Honey, do you love me?"
Is to hear, "I got a ring, don't I?"
If she were to move in for a kiss,
She would meet a cold cheek.
A man once loving and vibrant,
Now desolate and bleak.
Can she even call it sex,
If it is forced against her will?
If she cries out he beats her,
So she supresses her urge to shrill.
It is easy to love and care,
When your feeling lonely and bereft.
It is even easy to love a monster,
When your life has nothing left.
Wolf Story
**This is my feeble attempt at Fiction. They won't suck so much when I get better, I promise. Might be some grammatical errors.
There was once a prideful pack of wolves which lived
in the mountains. They were excellent creatures, who
worked as a team in every situation. Every other
animal who shared the tundra kingdom with them knew
their power, and thus steered clear of it. All of
these wolves were gray with black muzzles, for that
was always the way they were born. On one snowy day,
however, a wolf was born with magnificent white fur
and majestic black eyes like two onyx gems. This was
known to the wolves as The Day of Devil's Birth.
This young wolf pup was extremely neglected
throughout his young life. The other wolves did not
share food with him, did not keep him warm, and did
not train him in the ways of survival. Almost all of
the wolves, anyway. The young wolf pup's mother,
despite knowing that being born white is a sign of
great danger, and knowing that she would do better
to simply let him die, took care of him with a love
only a mother can give.
Despite many attempts of the pack to abandon the
wolf, and other attempts to outright kill him, the
wolf preservers. He began to wonder why he was
still alive. He knew it was because of his mother,
who took every chance she could to protect him until
he reached maturity. Yet he wanted to know what his
purpose was. He did not want to be born with ivory
all over his body. Each day the curses were thrown
at him for being a Devil of the land. After his
sixth year of life, his mother passed away.
Upon her death the wolf ran away from his pack. He
had no other choice, for he knew he would surely die
if he remained with them. The wolf ran, and ran, and
ran, toward some eternity he didn't know the
location of. He spent his adolescent years in
complete solitude, and it was not until he was an
adult did he begin to explore once more. His nose
guided him, picking up scents of the bleak
landscape. No one knows what day it was, because at
this point the wolf had lost track of the meaning of
time, but on this day the wolf had come across his
old pack. They were huddle together and surrounded
by a circle of people with guns aimed at them.
The lead wolf and his pack were glancing back and
forth at the creatures holding long metal rods. One
such creature came up to the lead wolf, and with one
stiff blow, knocked him into a world of
unconsciousness. Each other wolf fell as well, and
while none were killed, each one was now helpless as
the men began to tie them up with ropes. A flurry of
white, camouflaged in the snow, dashes back and
forth in the landscape. The men brush it off as a
mirage, some crazy image their mind is conjuring due
to the extreme cold.
The lead wolf wakes up groggily, and begins to take
his bearings. Lying around him is each and every
wolf of his pack, each with a bloody patch of fur on
the back of their heads. He instantly becomes
aggressive, but calms at the sight of over ten dead
humans on the ground, each with brutal cuts and
slashes covering their bodies. Before he has a
moment to comprehend, he looks in the distance,
where he sees a lone white wolf staring directly at
him with two fierceless onyx-colored eyes.
===
Ten Years Later
===
A wolf pack of entirely snow-white wolves now
inhabits the same area. It is now the color of
purity, and the color of Wolf Pride. They are now
not only feared by animals of the area, but human
creatures as well. Any older wolves of "gray
descent" are treated with respect for their wisdom
of ancient years. The tradition in these lands now,
however, is to revere ivory-colored wolves with the
most respect. On a day when a blizzard is brewing, a
wolf was born with dark brown fur and powerful amber
eyes. This was to be called by the white wolves as
the The Day of Devil's Birth.
Miles away, in a dark and cold cave, an old white
wolf dies.
There was once a prideful pack of wolves which lived
in the mountains. They were excellent creatures, who
worked as a team in every situation. Every other
animal who shared the tundra kingdom with them knew
their power, and thus steered clear of it. All of
these wolves were gray with black muzzles, for that
was always the way they were born. On one snowy day,
however, a wolf was born with magnificent white fur
and majestic black eyes like two onyx gems. This was
known to the wolves as The Day of Devil's Birth.
This young wolf pup was extremely neglected
throughout his young life. The other wolves did not
share food with him, did not keep him warm, and did
not train him in the ways of survival. Almost all of
the wolves, anyway. The young wolf pup's mother,
despite knowing that being born white is a sign of
great danger, and knowing that she would do better
to simply let him die, took care of him with a love
only a mother can give.
Despite many attempts of the pack to abandon the
wolf, and other attempts to outright kill him, the
wolf preservers. He began to wonder why he was
still alive. He knew it was because of his mother,
who took every chance she could to protect him until
he reached maturity. Yet he wanted to know what his
purpose was. He did not want to be born with ivory
all over his body. Each day the curses were thrown
at him for being a Devil of the land. After his
sixth year of life, his mother passed away.
Upon her death the wolf ran away from his pack. He
had no other choice, for he knew he would surely die
if he remained with them. The wolf ran, and ran, and
ran, toward some eternity he didn't know the
location of. He spent his adolescent years in
complete solitude, and it was not until he was an
adult did he begin to explore once more. His nose
guided him, picking up scents of the bleak
landscape. No one knows what day it was, because at
this point the wolf had lost track of the meaning of
time, but on this day the wolf had come across his
old pack. They were huddle together and surrounded
by a circle of people with guns aimed at them.
The lead wolf and his pack were glancing back and
forth at the creatures holding long metal rods. One
such creature came up to the lead wolf, and with one
stiff blow, knocked him into a world of
unconsciousness. Each other wolf fell as well, and
while none were killed, each one was now helpless as
the men began to tie them up with ropes. A flurry of
white, camouflaged in the snow, dashes back and
forth in the landscape. The men brush it off as a
mirage, some crazy image their mind is conjuring due
to the extreme cold.
The lead wolf wakes up groggily, and begins to take
his bearings. Lying around him is each and every
wolf of his pack, each with a bloody patch of fur on
the back of their heads. He instantly becomes
aggressive, but calms at the sight of over ten dead
humans on the ground, each with brutal cuts and
slashes covering their bodies. Before he has a
moment to comprehend, he looks in the distance,
where he sees a lone white wolf staring directly at
him with two fierceless onyx-colored eyes.
===
Ten Years Later
===
A wolf pack of entirely snow-white wolves now
inhabits the same area. It is now the color of
purity, and the color of Wolf Pride. They are now
not only feared by animals of the area, but human
creatures as well. Any older wolves of "gray
descent" are treated with respect for their wisdom
of ancient years. The tradition in these lands now,
however, is to revere ivory-colored wolves with the
most respect. On a day when a blizzard is brewing, a
wolf was born with dark brown fur and powerful amber
eyes. This was to be called by the white wolves as
the The Day of Devil's Birth.
Miles away, in a dark and cold cave, an old white
wolf dies.
2-2-8-0
**Just so people understand: For whatever reason when I'm sick I get this weird taste in my mouth. For an even stranger reason I associate this taste with much of the time I spent alone working in the aisles of Domestics at Super Target, where I learned alot about myself.
**I'd like to hear what my Target buddies think of this poem, lol.
A strange taste is in my mouth,
And it comes from being sick.
It brings back old work memories,
That make my conscience tick.
Isolated and docile,
I would fold towels and rugs.
Hours and hours of folding,
At my sanity it did tug.
Yet the time by myself,
Was time for reflection and peace.
The aisles were my world,
Built out of cotton and fleece.
No outside contact from others,
Just myself and the strays*.
For four to five long hours,
For days upon days upon days.
I know not how they choose,
Who gets to work in that hell.
They don't care either way,
As long as they sell, sell, sell.
My world is intruded,
When a person calls to scoff,
Saying their cherry red desk,
Was supposed to be 50% off.
So the operator picks up the phone,
And hands my peaceful world a row*,
"Domestics you have a call,
A call on two-two-eight-oh"*.
*Strays are items that don't belong to the area you are currently working. Target employees collect these so they can be "properly" put back.
*Row meaning argument or complaint.
*Two-two-eight-oh (2280) is the phone extension most commonly used to put a call through to departments.
**I'd like to hear what my Target buddies think of this poem, lol.
A strange taste is in my mouth,
And it comes from being sick.
It brings back old work memories,
That make my conscience tick.
Isolated and docile,
I would fold towels and rugs.
Hours and hours of folding,
At my sanity it did tug.
Yet the time by myself,
Was time for reflection and peace.
The aisles were my world,
Built out of cotton and fleece.
No outside contact from others,
Just myself and the strays*.
For four to five long hours,
For days upon days upon days.
I know not how they choose,
Who gets to work in that hell.
They don't care either way,
As long as they sell, sell, sell.
My world is intruded,
When a person calls to scoff,
Saying their cherry red desk,
Was supposed to be 50% off.
So the operator picks up the phone,
And hands my peaceful world a row*,
"Domestics you have a call,
A call on two-two-eight-oh"*.
*Strays are items that don't belong to the area you are currently working. Target employees collect these so they can be "properly" put back.
*Row meaning argument or complaint.
*Two-two-eight-oh (2280) is the phone extension most commonly used to put a call through to departments.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
To: Anonymous
Perhaps writing this poem,
Will cause me later on to rue.
For when you read it you'll never know,
That it's a poem from me to you.
Oh mystery person how you've healed me so,
You keep me exposed to others with things you say.
For whatever reason your attention I might have,
You raise me up and keep me from fading away.
Is it a tragedy you may never know,
Or a tragedy that I will never say?
At a time when no one was there,
You walked in to my life and said "Hey".
I am much too scared to have feelings,
So I feign myself with regret and doubt.
Instead of facing you brave and sure,
I sit back and whimper and pout.
I'm sorry I can never tell you,
Or utter the words I long to say.
I know you would not understand,
Or care about them anyway.
Will cause me later on to rue.
For when you read it you'll never know,
That it's a poem from me to you.
Oh mystery person how you've healed me so,
You keep me exposed to others with things you say.
For whatever reason your attention I might have,
You raise me up and keep me from fading away.
Is it a tragedy you may never know,
Or a tragedy that I will never say?
At a time when no one was there,
You walked in to my life and said "Hey".
I am much too scared to have feelings,
So I feign myself with regret and doubt.
Instead of facing you brave and sure,
I sit back and whimper and pout.
I'm sorry I can never tell you,
Or utter the words I long to say.
I know you would not understand,
Or care about them anyway.
Memories
What funny things those memories are,
A source of joy and emotional scar.
We can never forget their lasting impact,
Those choices we made and the judgement we lacked.
We learn from them and go on with our day,
They crop up unnoticed in every thing we say.
Every conscious thought you have is stemmed,
From your altered memories so cut and hemmed.
The memories of your mind can trick and deceive,
And in addition to that they also bother and peeve.
The memories of your mind can soothe and heal,
And in addition to that guide you through any ordeal.
Some things in life we wish to lock away for good,
Our memories dredge them up, and we knew that they would.
Other things in life we want to keep for evermore,
So we keep them in our head, the safest place we can store.
Our memories are more than events long past,
They are the basis of who we are, from first to last.
Cherish each and every one, both the good and the bad,
For they are who you are, whether it be happy or sad.
A source of joy and emotional scar.
We can never forget their lasting impact,
Those choices we made and the judgement we lacked.
We learn from them and go on with our day,
They crop up unnoticed in every thing we say.
Every conscious thought you have is stemmed,
From your altered memories so cut and hemmed.
The memories of your mind can trick and deceive,
And in addition to that they also bother and peeve.
The memories of your mind can soothe and heal,
And in addition to that guide you through any ordeal.
Some things in life we wish to lock away for good,
Our memories dredge them up, and we knew that they would.
Other things in life we want to keep for evermore,
So we keep them in our head, the safest place we can store.
Our memories are more than events long past,
They are the basis of who we are, from first to last.
Cherish each and every one, both the good and the bad,
For they are who you are, whether it be happy or sad.
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