Yes, I'm broken.
But so are you,
and so is this
damn system.
So please,
get out of my head;
just let me go.
How did this happen?
How did I get here?
Where am I headed now?
I never saw this coming.
Or, well, maybe I saw it,
but I never thought
this moment
would actually arrive.
I thought it was only
an illusive mirage.
But now, even I
have been "lured"
into its entourage.
Oh, where will I go from here?
Am I broken?
Or am I, only now,
finally,
becoming whole?
How come
nobody ever taught me
how to lose control?
How come
they only preach
about how not
to lose your soul?
Please, somebody,
teach me -
how to live,how to breathe,
how to feel free
how to be free,
how to be
me.
This is hard,
not easy.
So please,
Don't fuckin' tease me.
We all need
room to grow,
so please,
just let me go.
How?
Oh, I wish I knew.
But I just don't know.
So please,
everyone,
just let me go.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
always today
Isn't it funny
- or actually,
isn't it tragic -
how the older we grow
the more we must relearn
how to play?
Why do grown-ups always insist
on being so serious?
The more we "certainly know,"
the less we are willing to believe.
As we deny, ignore, fear, and run from
the unknown,
we simultaneously forget
how to explore and question
and simply stand in awe
of life's many mysteries.
Our selves
no longer allow
our souls
to dwell long
in the magical moments;
we even arrogantly
(yet "rationally") assume
that "magic"
no longer exists,
so we invent safety nets
and stop taking risks.
Care and caution
are wise,
impulse and passion,
foolish -
we like to say.
But which is truly wiser:
To passionately live in each magical moment,
Or to cautiously plan for tomorrow
while it is still, always, today?
- or actually,
isn't it tragic -
how the older we grow
the more we must relearn
how to play?
Why do grown-ups always insist
on being so serious?
The more we "certainly know,"
the less we are willing to believe.
As we deny, ignore, fear, and run from
the unknown,
we simultaneously forget
how to explore and question
and simply stand in awe
of life's many mysteries.
Our selves
no longer allow
our souls
to dwell long
in the magical moments;
we even arrogantly
(yet "rationally") assume
that "magic"
no longer exists,
so we invent safety nets
and stop taking risks.
Care and caution
are wise,
impulse and passion,
foolish -
we like to say.
But which is truly wiser:
To passionately live in each magical moment,
Or to cautiously plan for tomorrow
while it is still, always, today?
the art of breezing
Unexpected
like a sudden summer storm
or
a postcard in the mail
or
a call from a long lost friend.
Light
as laughter
and
as the morning sunshine.
Airy
as the gentle summer breeze.
Refreshing
like a glass of ice cold lemonade
after
the unpleasant flavor of spoiled milk
poured on perfectly pleasant porridge
or
like the coolness of a sudden summer sun shower
poured amidst midday heat.
Harmless
Hopeful
Beautiful
yet
Born to die
like the unfolding petals of a purple petunia.
Unpredictable
Amoral
and
Natural
as a yellow and black bumblebee
buzzing from one baby bud to another
before suddenly zipping off to somewhere,
perhaps to another sweetened spot.
Temporary
but
Tasty
like a stick of bubblemint bubbleyum
which lights and tickles lucky taste buds
before too much saliva slowly extinguishes
the poignancy of pleasure.
isn't it all
Marvelous
and
Mortal?
like the dribbling of a ball
or
the beginning of a fall;
it all begins
and
at some point
all art also ends.
Exhilarating while it lasts
yet
Destined to not.
Isn't it all
like this?
So let us listen not
to those who say
run
from all which rots
and refuses to stay.
Instead let us learn
from our ever-dying Mother
how to fearfully embrace
both the beauty of birth
and the destiny of death.
And let us learn
from our ever-living Mother
how to awfully enjoy
these present passing pleasures
which she calls today.
like a sudden summer storm
or
a postcard in the mail
or
a call from a long lost friend.
Light
as laughter
and
as the morning sunshine.
Airy
as the gentle summer breeze.
Refreshing
like a glass of ice cold lemonade
after
the unpleasant flavor of spoiled milk
poured on perfectly pleasant porridge
or
like the coolness of a sudden summer sun shower
poured amidst midday heat.
Harmless
Hopeful
Beautiful
yet
Born to die
like the unfolding petals of a purple petunia.
Unpredictable
Amoral
and
Natural
as a yellow and black bumblebee
buzzing from one baby bud to another
before suddenly zipping off to somewhere,
perhaps to another sweetened spot.
Temporary
but
Tasty
like a stick of bubblemint bubbleyum
which lights and tickles lucky taste buds
before too much saliva slowly extinguishes
the poignancy of pleasure.
isn't it all
Marvelous
and
Mortal?
like the dribbling of a ball
or
the beginning of a fall;
it all begins
and
at some point
all art also ends.
Exhilarating while it lasts
yet
Destined to not.
Isn't it all
like this?
So let us listen not
to those who say
run
from all which rots
and refuses to stay.
Instead let us learn
from our ever-dying Mother
how to fearfully embrace
both the beauty of birth
and the destiny of death.
And let us learn
from our ever-living Mother
how to awfully enjoy
these present passing pleasures
which she calls today.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
the Plucked
Hope.
A delicate,
Lavender
Flower.
SMASHED.
Between the pages
of a long,
Forgotten Story.
"Pressed,"
Some call it.
Flattened.
Preserved.
"Preserved" until
Most evidence
of her previous
Life
Has been
Destroyed.
Snuffed out.
Extinguished.
The intricate
Curves
of her petals-
Now flat.
The sweet, soft
Scent
of her center-
Now stale.
Every drop of
Life water
Squeezed out
from
Between the pages
of another's
Story,
Seldom
Remembered.
Involuntarily
Plucked.
Severed.
Cut off-
from
Her natural
Community.
Now she is
"Relocated."
Isolated.
Alone.
Now she is
only
a flat,
scentless
Picture-
Evidence
of what
Once was,
But
No longer is.
Without the others,
She is
Vulnerable
to
And
Helpless
against
the
senseless
Whims
of her
Plucker.
No longer
flexible,
She is now
fragile.
Now,
when the Wind
blows,
She
no longer
enjoys
how It tickles
her pollen
and sways
her slender stem.
Now,
instead,
She
only
worries
How It can
Break
her stiffened spine.
She is now
"Preserved
Forever."
Yet
She is now
also
Denied
her Opportunity
her Possibility
her Innate Ability
to
Replenish
and
Rejoin
the others.
A delicate,
Lavender
Flower.
SMASHED.
Between the pages
of a long,
Forgotten Story.
"Pressed,"
Some call it.
Flattened.
Preserved.
"Preserved" until
Most evidence
of her previous
Life
Has been
Destroyed.
Snuffed out.
Extinguished.
The intricate
Curves
of her petals-
Now flat.
The sweet, soft
Scent
of her center-
Now stale.
Every drop of
Life water
Squeezed out
from
Between the pages
of another's
Story,
Seldom
Remembered.
Involuntarily
Plucked.
Severed.
Cut off-
from
Her natural
Community.
Now she is
"Relocated."
Isolated.
Alone.
Now she is
only
a flat,
scentless
Picture-
Evidence
of what
Once was,
But
No longer is.
Without the others,
She is
Vulnerable
to
And
Helpless
against
the
senseless
Whims
of her
Plucker.
No longer
flexible,
She is now
fragile.
Now,
when the Wind
blows,
She
no longer
enjoys
how It tickles
her pollen
and sways
her slender stem.
Now,
instead,
She
only
worries
How It can
Break
her stiffened spine.
She is now
"Preserved
Forever."
Yet
She is now
also
Denied
her Opportunity
her Possibility
her Innate Ability
to
Replenish
and
Rejoin
the others.
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