When you wake up, it isn’t what it was the night or day before.
Leave me, leave me, leave me – We’ve been nothing but trouble.
Counter views, and frame colliding perspectives, now empathy.
“I feel a sudden clear focus and perspective. There is no time for anything inessential. I must focus on myself, my work and my friends.” – Oliver Sacks
Look how you get up in the morning,
Are you mad? Are you a king?
Have you forgotten your place in time?
A knight can’t hesitate to do what needs to be done. It doesn’t matter how you feel inside, because if your sword hand pauses for even a moment; You get cut down before you get out of your scabbard. And that’s never pretty.
So tell me how you feel when you don’t get what you want! By picking up your head, and getting back to what needs to be done. Don’t skirt a duty because it isn’t the ideal you saw in that fool head of yours. Do it now, and get on. The pages aren’t waiting. The river still running, and you’ve got water to catch
You really have a duty only to yourself!
But when you keep your sword sheathed you’re still making a choice.
It’s a choice about the world you want to live in.
Do you want to be remembered for the dents in your armor – Or for the efforts which you gave to others? You can turn your face and keep on walking, but you won’t build anything but a wall.
Some people are dark memories for this place.
Those that shine illuminate the shadows – All the others are forgotten.
Whether it is anger or sadness, it’s okay to bring them here because I know how quiet the woods can get, and it is something you need when you’re looking for a soft place to hold up that will be equally as hard on the things you’re working to change – Yes, I know how quiet they can get, but don’t conclude that it is weak, god no the roots go deep; They hold far more together than the shallow mind will take notice of. You feel it in the gentle echo of brother wind whirling through the lush undergrowth, knocking on the windows of all the forest’s denizens – You feel it like the touch of rainfall through the branches, dripping down the bark and kissing the sacred ground. This is the art of your insides, a mental construction of the temple that is your spirit’s vessel, it is your greatest achievement. This is the story of all the times you drew water from the well, the details of how your hands gripped the rope to your center and gracefully lowered your skull cap down into the depths – It took grit to resist the burning in your fingers, the singing of your palms, but you did. This is that story, this is that little anecdote of the time you gave everything with no guarantee that anything was coming back, and how at times you trembled, but you never gave in. You never needed to be told, you pushed through every step of the unknown path, and only you know what you found; What blessed beauty!
So how dark does it get when only you can see?
But her smile as she gleamed into me,
Well that was something to really look at,
To think how I got so blessed in this one,
60 seconds of pure melted euphoric butter
How stripped of a single worry I had chanced upon;
Like picking up a drink that’s not as expected,
A drink so cool and happening (I do know it’s happening),
That your mind refreshes, and for a bit – You can blink starry eyed into a night that is crisp as a new book; Tumbling through the pages pouring into the minds of characters you’d almost use a second wish up to meet for a night out; Yes, that’s the kind of minute it was, one you could hold on to for a while – Check my watch and realize I’ve still got it right under the little hand. I smile, you’re smiling because you’ve got no reason not to, I look down again and tell myself, “Keep this one, just keep it until the keeper comes asking questions about it’s disappearance from the records – Hell, he has all the time to come and find it.
Oh I must have gone around again, I forgot the power in these hands.
Time, yes, let me tell you about the time… keeper…
How much time had passed? Heart beat driving like Ayrton Senna in the Monaco Grand Prix; He took a few deep breaths and pictured a calm sea. Then he opened his eyes and the waiting was over. The calm sea he had painted rapidly rolled into The Wave by Katsushika Hokusai. His stomach dropped like Pheidippides after his run from the battle of Marathon to Athens. He really shouldn’t be so shook up. He wanted her to make her choice, but he wanted her choice to be the same as his. “How could I be so selfish,” he thought. Quickly everything he had lined up in his head departed with his exhale.
Just as quickly as it all left him, it all came rushing back as he sucked in a large breath of cool air. He began sweeping in his head. Everyone is always looking for something. They might not admit it to themselves, but you can read it. Especially when you know what they’ve been through. It’s not even a forecast; It’s actual. They have hopes hanging from their lips the way a ripe fruit weighs down on its branch. Even Tantalus wouldn’t reach for his hopes though. The way that forsaken man looked up at him and shook his head should have been more than enough to go ahead and lower the casket on this. He never locked doors though. He was never afraid of what might come barging through uninvited.
The sun is high noon, beating down on his skin like a barrage of compliments from someone you haven’t seen in a while. He knew standing there too long would get him burnt, but he had reason to wait, more a feeling he couldn’t shake. He checked his phone for the time. One of the few nice days the year had seen so far, and on his mind was a place and time far from where he stood. He had spent a lot of his life waiting. He’d been wrestling with that concept now for a while. Why should any time in life be spent waiting? When the right time is near it will appear, he thought. We get so carried away, obsessing over what’s next. We could just relax and look at what’s now, then when what’s next is up, turn to it. For him the problem wasn’t waiting. It was wasting. He expected the best out of things. He saw no reason every moment couldn’t be everything it dreamed of being. Why every person couldn’t become more! He didn’t like to waste.
Yet here he was. Wasting. At least he was enjoying the sun. That was never a waste, however the fact could not be removed from his current situation; Again he was waiting. He noticed he had been checking his phone for the time incessantly. He was a dreamer. Maybe the king of wishful thinking. He could blame all those films. The ones about love and how things break down, but then through some sheer willful hearts and circumstance or luck, everything works out. Yeah they had watched a few of those. He was a romantic. He didn’t consider romanticizing a waste. It did waste a lot of his days though. He spent every other minute rearranging what he would say. He had to keep in mind that it wasn’t his choice. “I can’t make you love me,” he thought like Tank covered from Bonnie Raitt. I don’t want you to be “Somebody that I used to know,” like that silly Gotye song. He already knew the answer. He had felt it in the long days and lonelier nights. He knew she felt it too, but he wanted to give her space to find her happiness. It wasn’t his decision.
Arisen from my dreaming to such an alarm, I could hear not but my heart; blood running my veins. My guide, she stood still with locking gaze. If one could give silence after such an intimate use of blade then I should expect no word from her barren lips, but the complacency of these waking dreams – I still embrace to the warmth of such a cold chance – She cut her gaze towards East. I presume we are behind and without time. Yet she remains stoically leveled. For reason I could not discern, I sense this disconcerting calm would soon be stirred. She moves and simultaneously I alert to the falling of limbs cracking through the unsettled quiet of the wood. Her hand placed upon the trunk of a massive Wilder tree, not even a flinch as the splinters flew about the air whiffing her hair. Looking upon her demeanor I seem to replicate it. It’s as if every step she takes, every hand placed, works to awaken some great image within me. I feel urged to welcome it.
There is a reason we tread with a hop in our step.
She’s beautiful. I state it simply because there is no complexity in notion; but her smile. It casts mystery, and with that shadows o’er complexity; as her presence makes certain that she is awakened to some truth to which I am yet asleep. I shant press her to answer, as our silence in travel seems to be such, alluding to my motioning mind, liken to a light which one’s eyes can not catch, yet warmth and fire can be felt, I revel in this flame, as if it is a certainty, one that I know will come to faith if given the life to nourish to a peak and fruit upon my tongue, or hers. But I am brought to water, that she is of few breaths raised for ear. I lose train of thought, and feel as though touched upon shoulder by breath, her voice, but my body is not given sense; only perceived by the consciousness. Her voice resounds the walls of my sanctuary; I can not give word to an infatuation only given life by my vision’s desire to incept a voice as truthful as light. My mind dances between waves of aether and as my body seems free of all physical restraint, I am shattered all at once as I come alert, a body awaken; She, the beauty that has yet to give voice to quench my thirst, has drawn my blood. Awakening me from a calm, my attentiveness required. I pause in hopes of word exchange, none come my way. I perplex of a women who would sink blade to open eye all without pass of one word. To think I’ve not even spoken to raise cause and may too soon have found the bad side of such beautiful flawlessness. My body is once again at calm, but to my observable perception I can conceive no motive from her. She refuses to give me word of our direction all I can gather is East.
I hope you know I could only be here so long,
It may not be enough of me to keep you strong,
but your troubles are not for me to solve
I’m sorry I can’t be the one for you,
I can’t muster the strength for what you must do
There are plenty of books I’ve always wanted to read.
I’ve perused here and there; telling myself soon I’ll sit.
It’s become clear the only book I’ll get deep in, is you.
You opened up, and since the first line, I’ve struggled.
Closing you, like crawling from bed after an entire fifth.
Chapters infused with tea and tequila; Stained scents
powerful enough, evoke voices to mind, laughter’s joy
Printed in hugs and kisses you’ve put your soul upon
Water color illustrations done with times you’ve cried.
Clearly you won’t let the beauty of real pain go in vain.
Every time I pick you up, you’re better than I recalled,
Constantly adding pages bound in early morning rays,
Your plot elevates, and I swear if there’s a come down
I haven’t actually read to that part, but I fear no worry,
The way you make me wait for what I’m anticipating!
You’re a loaded six-gun, you’ll reveal great mysteries;
The way you’ve got moonlight dancing across the Nile,
I’m raised at every moment of the night, so worthwhile
After just thumbing your spine, you’ve piqued curiosity
Exploring you like a lost temple, uncovering knowledge
Through you the blind do become sighted, I’ve ignited
If your binding were any hotter I fear It’d catch on fire
Even then, with burning desire, my hands got it covered
– IV
Desacralization has occurred across the lands &
Many have begun to feel the glow of magic fade.
Yet, there can be no loss where hope still clings!
I’ll consecrate the way; a return to hallowed days
It takes a great deal of strength to remain upright when the weight of reality works to knock you unstable – More when you’ve come across a treasure so rare it’s like looking for water in the Atacama desert, only to cut anchor; traveling far away in hopes of returning not to the same spot, but to anything near the previous moment. You could have drank. Instead, you thought about drinking. Now you remain parched
– IV
The sailor, the traveler, the adventurer, the gardener, the priest, the thief, the warrior, the explorer, the assassin, the trader, the craftsman, the bard, the kind, the fool… All of them seek, what they already have.
Dirty Window Pane Poetry - An Experiment 