Why I write.

I hate everything I write,
but I do it for two reasons.
One, it's good to vent
with words written.
It's good to imagine
an imaginary audience,
one that might understand
and sympathize with the
good, the bad, the in between.
Two, I write to improve.
I hate my writing, but I respect
the feeling I get when my
thoughts are out and in
the world, ready to be seen.
I value it and anything
you value, is worth honing.
I hate everything I write,
but I value every bit.

Isn't it?

life is
all about
answering
questions,
isn't it?

C

I fear sleep,

terror of reawakening

my waking nightmare.

The thought I must oppress

to move forward, yet, still,

the thought I should confront

to carry on. To look past,

or to press through. 

Either way the pain's there still,

and in my dreams it takes

unobstructed strength,

unchecked reality.

I write to remember 

what I want to forget.

If time is the only

panacea to this condition,

it feels rather like a

slow acting poison.

In the end, her indifference

is venom in my veins. 

Untitled Poem 3/20/15

Entranced and obsequious
to a unifying tyranny,
the one that serves us best.
But does it really?

do idiosyncratic ways
not fit the mold,
are they a cancer,
must the branches be
trimmed so that the fern
isn't overbearing?

Perhaps this incongruity
is a carapace that must be
shed, in order to grow.
The tyranny, it is
self-imposed, so that
everything may flow,
so that the ferns
don't obstruct the paths
and new skin breathe anew.

Sea

We're always given a choice.

The choice to drift with the waves,

and the choice to learn to swim against them.

At any given moment, we always have

the same choice to make. 

Often you may find yourself

swallowed by the waves, thinking,

wishing, hoping you could swim,

but if you could, you wouldn't know

which way to go.

Do you choose a direction

and swim towards no destination?

Do you wait for a beacon,

one that might never come?

Is fear stronger than will,

is will a shrouded pursuit?

Do we all come up with

our own answer, or

is there no answer at all.

In an open sea, we drown.

Quietly

The value of my thoughts are little,
when I myself give them little worth.
I feel I have something to say,
but I'm afraid no one would listen.
I want to say something that can change,
somehow affect those who would hear it.
Yet there are so many who feel the same.
With so many as I, reality takes hold.
Not everyone will make that difference.

Most of us will live quietly.
Most of us will die quietly.

Quietly I press on.

Borrowed Possibilities

If you could, if it seemed that you had to,
would you use the dreams of someone else
as a step in your ladder? Are theirs worth
less than yours? Maybe if they can be used
as a step, then that is in fact their only value.

I don't know.

Who are you?

You are possibilities.

You are the choices you make.

You are the results that you garner.

You are the expression of your complexion.

You are the memories you’ve made.

You are the things that you say.

It is often hard to say,

Who you are.

Describing the news

Collision

The young man cycled on the path

of a Crooks Valley Road morning.

He turned to Winter Street

and met the person who would

leave many, wondering. Meeting by

collision, acquaintance through casualty,

she drove into him, leaving him bloodied

bruised and scarred. She got out of her vehicle

and said little. Her kids, they would frighten,

they must get to school. She left him there and drove off.