Shoes too big.

Sometimes I feel like I string words together without meaning
Pointless poems
But they sound so good together I can’t bear to split them up
They mold like the best of friends
Or like Barrel Monkeys
Hung up together by my hand
Arranged in color patterns for the effect
Look what I made isn’t it cool?
No function
Amusement I suppose, with no depth
A child playing around with physics
An amateur trying to sound like a writer
I feel proud of my achievement until I see the others
God, look at what they wrote
Such metaphors that it steals your breath
Mine suddenly like paint splotches under the guise of a masterpiece
Shame in my bold feelings
It draws me down bending my bones
I pull myself back up with old encouragement
Practice, practice and you’ll get there

Forget you’re just a body and you start thinking you’re better than everybody else just because you’re smarter. And everybody is smarter than everybody else.

Nobody wants to be a body. People don’t like their bodies. They think the shape’s all wrong. The dimensions are skewed. The color is off, the muscles are soft, the stomach is round, the hinges are creaky. And sometimes the pipes don’t work like they should.

Nobody wants to be a body because bodies die for sure.

Forget you’re a body and maybe you will live forever if your mind is big enough. If you talk loud enough, if you make enough people laugh, have enough sex, find enough people or books or blogs to remember.

But memories die with bodies. Remember that you’re a body, and learn to love it. We leave soon.

Wall Street.

I’m done investing. In men. Ideas. Plans. The whole sch-bang. Because it’s not like when you go to the store and put forth your money or whatever you have to offer and get something for it, some product that you have convinced yourself you want. No. You get a promise, not even a promise, a maybe. I’m done with maybes. Maybes don’t help you make a life for yourself. Maybes are monopoly money. That’s it. I’ve decided. I’m done investing because investing gets you nowhere. Wall Street is the perfect example of that. You give it your all and you get The Great Depression. On principle and on methods of the survival of happiness, no thank you sir.

The Lion and the Doe.

Sometimes I’m the lion, and sometimes I’m the doe. When you make me mad, when I’m passionate about something, when my blood is racing so fast it’s roaring like a hundred white rapids, I’m the lion. My curly hair rests, curl over curl, twenty rolling masses protecting my vulnerable neck and masking my exposed heart. But my hide won’t be thick forever, sometime I have to lay down in the sun. The heat wears on me and before I know it my lashes are caressing one another. My paws grow too heavy to pick up and I’m rooted where I stand. I’m tamed and I fall heavily, like a building drawn too far into the sky. Pride is strong and stubborn but it is short lived.

And then I’m the doe, prancing around dead leaves and snow melting on my nose. All at once I’m graceful, nervous, and vulnerable. I look so innocent, standing there. I don’t make much noise but you watch me none the less. At first you enjoy it, you’re entranced. You want to draw closer and pet me, run your hands along my long back. You watch my every movement, the musles on my legs running smoothly like water in a shallow river. No sound, no rocks to hinder it.

But then it grows cold and that river turns to ice. The seasons change and you’re not a boy anymore. My grace doesn’t matter to you. You forget the fact that I mean no harm; it’s erased from your mind as if you never knew it. You forget that first snowfall and the joy we both felt. You pull out your gun and you shoot me, a bullet to the heart.

And all at once, you’ve taken everything I ever was, a proud yet vulnerable thing, a girl you once loved. And with one fatal blow, you crushed both hearts, that of the lion and the doe. Because when you were a boy somebody let you play with a gun and pretend to shoot imaginary Indians. And when you grew, you forgot who you were shooting at, who you were hurting. You drew me in because you loved me, because I loved you, because you made me feel wild and tame at the same time, and just when I walked into the clearing, you punctured me with lead. Didn’t you ever think of who you were shooting? Didn’t you ever stop to think that I’m more than a trophy? Don’t you ever stop to think that there is more to being a man than hunting and taming and caging and hurting? More than the destruction you make with your own hands?

You used to pet animals, you used to hold girls’ hands, now you shoot them because it’s all a sport.

Life Unfiltered.

I look to the left I look to the right
I see neither space nor time
Perspective is lost amongst the vastness
Awareness spreads thinner and thinner
Until I am blinded and swallowed
Caverned in amongst light and sound
Blinding, deafening, dark and loud
I know nothing, a crescendo builds
Pressing, it takes and leaves no room behind
Until all at once in an abrupt movement
It’s gone and as I come back
I breathe.

Beauty.

Beautiful. Beautiful girl and beautiful ropes.

What is beauty? Beauty is in the mind of the beholder, beauty is as beauty does, the most beautiful rose has the sharpest thorns.

Blood is beauty – not metaphor, blood and sweat and tears, but real, literal blood, seeping flowing from a cut or from the insides. Blood is life is adulthood, is the womb, comes from the womb.

Beauty is in a girl who’s a woman now.

Beauty’s everywhere if you know how to look for it, but then it’s gone again. Shimmering, dancing away on the wind like dandelion seeds, like an eyelash you wish on and blow away. Throw away your wishes and hope the world throws them back at you.

Red is beauty. Not pink, but red, red so bright it screams at you from a cut or a collar or the reddish orange walls of a clay canyon. Red is beauty, red is what catches the eye and holds it while it screams its message to you.

Beauty is a girl held down by cuffs or ropes or promises, beauty is a bound foot, beauty is a bound head. Beauty is a breast unbound, hair undone, clothes unworn. Tossed upon the floor like dandelion sees or eyelashes, thrown away because they’re too precious to keep.

Am I too precious to keep, or too dirty to save, or too broken to piece back together? Did you throw me away because you wanted me and couldn’t bare to watch it go wrong, or because you were sick of dealing with me, or because you knew I couldn’t be saved? Did I slip from your hands like a penny from a pocket, sliding through holes that you didn’t know were there, and in the end not important enough to go back for?

Too late, I’m in the lost and found and someone else has picked me up and taken me away. I’m collared and bound now, my beauty is in ropes and collars and promises, not in wildness that won’t be contained, wildness you have to throw away to love.

Why are guys so inexpressive? I mean, girls pour out their feelings all the time. Everything they love about you, they pour out their feelings. Every resentment they felt, they pour out their feelings. Every hurtful and tearful arguments they went through, they pour out their feelings. Girl express this feelings not because they want attention. It’s because they just couldn’t bottled it up anymore. They couldn’t just sit there and hurt themselves. You know what’s worst? When they are going through all this by themselves. Suffering deep within. And what do they get in return by the guy they love? “What did I do wrong?” and hence, there goes another argument along the way.

They just don’t get it do they?

Movements

Your movement into me exploded upon my face
Your fallen face floated past every movement I made
Your joyfulness falsely accused me of movement not taken
I Failed to notice the movement back

You changed my life, moving past the undefined
You followed me moving quietly in the shadows
You become my never ending movement
I Failed to notice you moving away

I wish that a peaceful tranquility could have stopped us in our tracks
Maybe then we could have stood a chance with the quietness and the stillness
Maybe then we could have carried on
Maybe then the movement wouldn’t have mattered

Remember Me.

Whatever you do in life will be insignificant but it is very important that you do it because you can’t know. You can’t ever really know the meaning of your life and you don’t need to. Just know that your life has a meaning. Every life has a meaning whether it lasts one hundred years or one hundred seconds. Every life and every death changes the world in its own way. Ghandi knew this. He knew his life would mean something to someone, somewhere, somehow and he knew with as much certainty that he could never know that meaning. He understood that enjoying life should be of much greater concern then understanding it. And so do I. You can’t know.

So don’t take it for granted but don’t take it too seriously. Don’t postpone what you want. Don’t leave anything misunderstood. Make sure the people you care about know. Make sure they know how you really feel. Because just like that…

IT COULD END.

I had the worst dream last night. I dreamt I was being stepped on. Being abandoned by my own friends and family. Being treated like dirt. No one gives a shit that I was around. No one gives a shit that I was alive. Of course it hurts when the people you cared the most decides to turn their back on you. But that’s not the point. When i woke up with tears in my eyes, I realize you, my love weren’t even in that dream. It’s like, you don’t even exist to begin with.