A Brave New World

Forward. Outward. Into the blue. My island seems so large, the only land around. The only land I've known for a long time. The tide is a comfort. The soft white sand, a luxury. The soft wave of the palms in the breeze has me absolutely mesmerized. But beyond the beach, beyond the trees and the sweeping grass, what is there but another beach? To the right and left the island stretches on for what seems like forever, but it seems to be a never-ending stretch of two beaches. Nothing but grass and palms and beaches. No food. No fresh water. No hope. Only a fools hope.

So I tear through the island. I cut out the grasses. I hew through the trees. Scars course through the bark of the palms. Poisonous bark. Venomous bark. My hands are shredded from the work. My arms are tired and my head hurts, but there's nowhere to rest. No soft bed, no roof from the storm. Only the luxurious beach. Only the tide. Coming in and going out. It's beautiful. Warm. Calming. But offers no shelter from the storm. No home.

To take what I have wrought is the goal. To rip apart something so peaceful, so comfortable, for fear of a storm I cannot predict. Leaving on a construction that I cannot test. In an effort to avoid a storm I'm not even sure is coming. But I am sure. They've come before. I'm in the middle of a torrential downpour telling myself that the rain is not a storm. Nothing grows here. The storm won't kill me, but it's enough to stop anything from growing.

It's hard to leave something you know. But maybe once you're gone it will have been harder to stay. I've gotta tie together the raft. Good night. Merry Christmas.

Beaten With a Hose

Articulate expressions read syntax
Literally—translate it into prose. Look
Up! What? You don't understand?
Who? Where? When? What? Why?
Does it matter? Does it mean?
How?
Does form contribute?
To effect and to mean: how?

Does "poem" draw on poetic traditions?

Before I Was Alive

I killed myself: I took my own soul
In the midst of the summer before I was alive.
I gave up on everything that hands cannot hold.
I chose this for me. I chose, and I died.


In the midst of the summer before I was alive,
I had to do something. I had to be strong.
I chose this for me. I chose, and I died
Knowingly. Choosing right over wrong.


I had to do something. I had to be strong
For my mother, my father, my brothers and friends.
Knowingly choosing right over wrong,
I sought my own bitter end


For my mother, my father, my brothers and friends.
They deserved that: some lack of surprise.
I sought my own bitter end
With tears stinging and blurring my eyes.


They deserved that: some lack of surprise.
I gave up on everything that hands cannot hold.
With tears stinging and blurring my eyes
I killed myself. I took my own soul.

Etnies

I have a brown pair of Etnies. They're a size and a half too small, but they look fly so I where 'em.  The only weird thing about 'em is the button on the back. It's like the designer wanted to have an openable loop on the shoe, but didn't know where to put it. Sometimes, when I jam my foot into the shoe, the button clasp comes undone and it clicks while I walk around. Sometimes I don't notice it, but when my conscience is heavy and I'm listening—hoping—for the world to tell me what to do, I hear this clicking. I check all my pockets, nothin' makin' that click noise. I look down and realize which shoes I'm wearing. One more thing I did wrong today, I guess. Kinda like that Green Light's tryin' to follow me around.

Interpretations

You have to listen

Cause the words you heard

Don’t mean a thing

Unless you let them

Mean. 

We all hear a different

Story. We all tell one too.

A lot of that’s not real though.

But who cares? Lies tell something true.

What I want you to see.

Is it real or not?

Do I love you?

Do I hate you?

Do I tell you?

I can’t stand here and not hear.

I can’t have ears and not listen.

How do you do that?

How do you close your eyes?

Everything says something

Especially when it doesn’t say something else.

I’m sorry if you can stop listening.

I wrote again:

Why does tomorrow count more than today? In all reality, tomorrow has a continuously decreasing probability of existing for the individual.

So why do we look ahead so frequently? Would you bet your bottom dollar that you;ll be alive tomorrow? That's stupid: gambling your last dollar in a situation that provides motivation for murder. You might as well hand someone your wallet and drink the Kool-aid. Ya, the sun'll come up, but you might not. I might not. Nothing is guaranteed, and you deserve nothing more than what you make. Stop waiting. Change today.

Hahaha, I'm a hypocrite. I'm in love. She has no idea (Not Fish, that was a comment on infatuation). Maybe She'll find out tomorrow! Ya, I'll tell her tomorrow. Too bad tomorrow never comes.

Cube

I wrote again:

I like to ask questions and I like to write. I've not been wronged, but I like to write. I want to say something, but I have nothing to say; nothing of import, at least. What's wrong with me? Am I empty? Is the hollow bird on my back more than a name tag?

I am a vase. Flawed and imperfect. I hide my imperfections under gloss, hats, paint, clothing. Something to be seen, then appreciated, but unused. Not useful. Useless. Empty. Filling with dust. Why am I empty? Why can't I be the vase that houses and keeps alive the flowers?

This is what I want to be. This is what I want to do. This is what I want to create, and in creation, live. I want to live. Not survive.