To Be Heard
The man without a voice, obtains one.
A life full of deaf ears,
never being listed to.
He lived on the fringe;
Out of their trash-bins,
feeding off the scraps they shoved into him,
like he was a baby bird,
yet he was hungry,
and ate any piece of meat,
regardless of its authenticity,
He was either stuck in the nest until he died,
or forced to jump out.
A spiral straight to the bottom,
he fell flat, but now had a story to tell.
His written words carefully chosen,
inked into a font that sets the mood,
and placed on uniformed paper as if he’s in control,
as if there is order in his life,
as if he is preparing his last Will and Testament.
The importance of detail is crucial,
this may be his only shot.
He layers his compilation like a baker building a cake.
A life full of stories, oven set to 450.
A speechless assault on society,
An examination of the human soul,
an autopsy of himself.
An opportunity to entertain, to uplift,
to speak from the heart without ever having to say a word in front of a crowd,
because people scare him;
Trust doesn’t come easy anymore.
He unclogs his arteries,
filled of repressed suffering and inflicted pain,
then soaks the pages with new blood.
Sealed and bound into a time-capsule,
he then shares with the world.
He gains a watchful eye, attached to a mind, attached to thoughts,
and can now send sparks of inspiration directly into their souls.
An electric connection of black and white;
A static symphony of contrast.
The simplicity in his words forms a complex message,
asking questions and demanding answers.
and a man who never had a voice,
now sends shock-waves around the world,
to be heard.
The Certainty of Chaos
I twist my fractal mind,
attempting to align with something I recognize,
but only fragments of me are revealed;
Some genius, a little beauty, and piles of hate—
I’m a scattered jigsaw left feeling unsatisfied and missing pieces.
I rotate again,
assuming that if I continue turning, I’ll somehow find the answers,
but all I find are more shards of glass and strewn pieces.
There are no real messages hidden here, are there?
Just more of myself.
I cannot be my own answer, can I?
The shapes of me continue to corkscrew.
I’m a crystallographic enigma caught in an egocentric trance.
Mesmerized by all my colors, I begin to lose time.
I become lost, inspired, and curious, yet constantly pessimistic about my existence.
Is that even possible?
Another turn and I feel I am meeting a stranger,
yet every part of me has lived here all along.
I think. If only I had met myself earlier, where would I be?
but then I must be reminded, I am here now.
I squint inquisitively wondering—
What's the meaning? What's my purpose?
Maybe with each adjustment, I change for the better,
and sometimes for the worse,
but change happens regardless.
If that’s true, then aligning to perfection will never work, can never be achieved,
and the answer lies within chaos itself.
Chaos...
…It’s the only certainty.
Perhaps I can come away with a deeper appreciation,
of who I am, who I was, and whom I have yet to become,
and maybe love is the same way.
Perhaps that’s why they say you should love yourself first.
So, I twist my mind once more
and greet me for the first time in a while.
Hello stranger, it’s time we met.