Worlds can't hold me,

dimensions can't bind me,

I am the brain, not the brawn

but that's okay...

Aged I may be, no worries,

I have back ups.

To back up life is wise in case you lose a family or two.

inspite of all the tech, the yellow tick will follow me always.

This parasitic relationship makes the show.

i am flesh

i am bones

i am formed from the dust that blows

i am heart

i am mind

i give life to the thoughts in my mind

i am song

i am art

i am a creation designed to create

Why are we so easily swayed to the voices of others? to find our worth in society's standards?

I have to ask this question. If the noise of the world was silenced, would there be any part of you left? Are you shaped by the voices of others? Or can you move without a nudge and a shove?

The reality though, we are shaped by the music we listen to, the movies we watch, the people we spend time with, the books that we read, social media and so on. Endless factors contribute to making a being. Yet the power to choose what shapes us lies within us.

The pressure to conform is real and not many can swim against the current.

I am Real.

As a knife cuts my hand and I bleed.

A boy hurts my heart and I cry.

I am Human.

I do care what "they" think.

I adopt a habit with ease.

Ah, I have learned about elasticity. There is hope.

He may be a follower.

She may be obsessing.

They may be behaving how they were taught to behave.

We humans are more like sheep, yes?

And if a lie roles of the tongue; is it to please another?

After all, who wants to lose the space they think they belong?

In this robotic age, can we find the genuine?

Oh yes, they are there. Just not the obvious places I presume.

As if Death could whisper in my ear, “Tell me dear, how shall we meet?”

And I’d say, “If I must meet you, then wait, will you? Wait till the moment my shoulders relax. Wait till the burden has lifted and the fire has dwindled. Come only when I can look at you and smile, embrace you and die.”

A life lived for me

Is a life not lived at all.

A life lived for a cause,

Is a death worthy of that cause.

As I race against time, I will meet you sweet Death, but until then hold off, I have much left to do.

Her fingers maneuver effortlessly along the ivory keys accompanied by the sweet voice that mothers tend to have.

I sit in awe, watching her fingers. I mimic the movements and it works. I can play but I understand not and in my lack of understanding, I forget the rhythm of the art.

His fingers strum the strings of the Spanish instrument. I can feel the music as I attempt to sing in line with musicians before me. If God bestowed upon me a talent of singing, I would never be quiet.

There she goes, along with him, playing the six-stringed instrument. They sing, what a lovely tune.

The musical parents play the recorder and the song they play is by my request. The Titanic theme echoes throughout the house and I try to keep my tears from falling.

Disaster shook and the music stopped.

Divorce can do that.

.

.

.

Add 10 years, and a faint song is heard. Sometimes it’s the guitar, other times the piano but funny enough, it is never the recorder.

And now I try to attain what should be mine. Strum, strum, strum… it most certainly has skipped a generation.

So I let words be my music and the pen my harp.

I feel the wind in my hair,

Pushing violently as if to protest.

"Hush" it seems to say

But I have not yet cried for the day.

Perhaps it cannot see the bones under my tattered coat.

If it could, it would understand how hunger tends to gloat.

"One last dance

One last chance"

The wind sings a song of madness,

Mocking my tone of sadness.

A push

And I'm off the ledge.

We swirl

And I'm forced to dance.

I fight

And I've my lost my strength.

The wind howls

How dare it rebuke me?

I howl

I'm hungry, can't you see?

I'm cold, can't you feel?

I'm alone...

I'm tired...

The wind stills

I feel the warmth of the sun on my clammy skin.

A last gift.

"Let's fly little bird"

And together we fall.

Mouth agape. I stare at the embodiment of foolishness.

Minutes pass by.

Will I die from shock?

"You can have a hair tie," proceeds the fool.

Mouth ajar. A fly could rest on my tongue and my shock would not dissolve.

"Oh crap, I should have asked you what you want," the fool goes on. Endless chattering spews from the empty mind and I wail.

"AHH, what is that sound you are making?" of course no fool would understand.

"It is the sound of agony of the loss of a golden opportunity, " I utter looking into the distance, "We can no longer be friends."

Magic is in the wonder.

It's like stardust falling gently on the eyes,

not to blind but to awaken.