I think of the beauty sown, rather then the weed plucked.
I refuse to write about the sadness life has cursed us with.
I will build my own forge, with which I am the smith.
I am the pen and life is the paper.
If you’re doing it right, there’ll be no eraser.
Fuck your poem of grief.
I contemplate of things only in sync.
I think of joyous times.
To avoid life’s despondent rhymes.
Everyone has experienced some form of struggle.
Unfortunately, no one pays attention until the rebuttal.
If everyone solely talked of past sorrows,
My heart would feel like old bone marrow.
Slowly loosing density with every wave of grievance.
I pledge my attention to achievement.
I choose to dedicate toward purgation.
Only straying to hydrate with Ninkasi total domination.
Where your mind is, your heart will soon follow.
Explode with adventure, seek not to be hollow.
If all you seek is to feel, then maybe this is the wrong appeal.
I believe in a better life; one I imagine to be surreal.
Wake up expecting to accomplish what was not feasible yesterday.
Astonish the world, laugh and say this is only your Tuesday.
Some say their grief is their lover, but I listen to the beat of a different drummer.
Ten-Speed
Four miles
does not seem very far,
does not sound very far,
even in a city like Los Angeles.
Especially at three in the morning,
when you can safely assume
traffic will be light;
and even on a bicycle -
I was in pretty good shape -
I figured I could be to your place
in fifteen, twenty minutes tops
and told you so over the phone,
telling you to just hold on,
just wait fifteen minutes and I would
be there and we could talk it out,
that I would stay with you until the morning
and then we could go get coffee in
Santa Monica and I would skip work
and spend the day with you, so just
hold on, don't do anything you will
regret.
I love you like a brother, I told you,
and just hang on until I get there,
goddammit. But no matter how hard
I rode, and how many cars there actually were
out at three-fifteen a.m. and how many
nearly ran me over, it turns out that
four miles is exactly the distance
from before to after,
from the possible to the irreversible,
from one side of the world
to the other.
From one broken heart to two.
Strangers
Strangers in the night ; names unknown
Their identities false but not their intentions
Their eyes hold inexplicable mystery
The guitar is strung with tunes of passion
As their bodies collide , feet intertwined in tango
To the beats that matched their heartbeats
increasing with heightened anticipation
The silent moonlight shining upon them
Illuminating the hidden ache , bubbling on the inside
To reveal their faces, their thoughts , their words
To lift the masks ; disguising much feared imperfection
Of losing in each other's touch
To let their lips do the talking, stripping them bare of not just mere clothing but souls
Souls that they had trapped inside of them
Waiting to be set free from chains of sadness
Strangers in the night ; names unknown
A fluorescent light in the midst of darkness
