"Finally a Break"

I wish someone could see how long the road has been. Tumbling a and dirty I trudged the narrow path. I feel as though I've had to prove myself every step of the way. In the end I think I was only trying to prove something to myself.

"Redo"

It is true that I am often two people at the same time. One part of me bides its time, frozen in fear of losing face in the presence of all I admire and fear I cannot attain. The other part of me speaks boldly with a scalding tone so fearless I do not require nor invite the approval of others. The starving light of a fearful soul can easily be extinguished. Yet, I suspect within us all resides the magnificent opportunity to envision what we could be. It burns behind the dim lit door that shelters the true and momentarily hidden heart of every hero. As a parent nurtures the best qualities in a child, fate and circumstance release us from the guilt of failure by proving our capacity for change through the process of living. .

"Slowly We Decline"

Those that have the power to take somehow blame poverty on those from which they steal. The dominant horde claims that if you are poor it's because you chose to be, or that you are unfit to survive. I contend that if a man is too weak to fight for his food it's because he is forced to eat too little, not because he doesn't deserve to eat.

"Fuck It"

‎"Some days I feel nothing. Without memories there are no scars. Regrettably, this absence of passion also feeds the delusions of the calculating monster I can become. This is why I crave the darker side of living. It breaks the numbness of my desperation with at least an arbitrary intention. Though sick and shaded, my world becomes a sensual nightmare, spiraling like shots of cocaine through the blood of a madman."

help

"Soft voices rise, playful as a baby's smile, holding time in check. The child like tellings of our daily toils, carried by the agency of the wind, free us if only for an instant. Above us, in some strange embrace, the humility of our condition colors the night sky while the timid mystery of our existence unfolds. Star crossed lovers and children pray the hardest, begging whatever god may be for that which may or may not save them."

"Short Timing"

I used to stand in the cold, watching the rain drip from the brim of my hat. I wanted someone to notice how stoic I was. In these moments I imagined my life had a soundtrack. As the music played, I stared toward the horizon like a man wandering around in an echo. I heard only the rain and the narrator's voice describing me to the audience. I lived in this intoxication, hiding from the squareness of reality.

In hindsight, the truth about me was that I was just scared. Creating a place inside oneself that feels safe is not the worst a person could do. I never wanted to hurt anyone; I was just trying to survive the internal battles that came in waves. Sometimes I felt like the world operated on a different frequency than myself, pulsing with a slanted rage that was too powerful to survive. If fighting is futile and surrender means you become what you hate, you learn to cultivate a private impropriety of sorts. At this point, It doesn't matter whether or not anyone ever notices that you seem lost. At least what's inside is yours. No one has the power to clip the wings of a bird that only flies in the imagination of a desperate man.

"When Will it Stop?"

"If you see me standing alone with my back against a wall; I am trying hard to look the part. I lean on one foot, one leg folded, one Chuck Taylor planted on the bricks behind me. Like a soldier, I square my shoulders, arms folded chin fixed and forward. Each bare knuckle hosts a scar, an episodic record of entanglements. My past has posed me this way, outside the margins, ready to die for respect. When we meet,if you lie like you know, I'll know, believe it. Detecting that which I consider "fake" keeps me alive. Real knows real and the world at large hates a hater."

"Change Is Not an Event"

Be it by the process of growing up or just forgetting, in some way our magic spins away, shallowing the places inside where the extraordinary color of laughter hides. Sometimes, I think I hear my name whispered as a warning; only it is often behind me, or uttered like someone passing me by is urging me to change direction. On the coldest days, when the grey wind drapes the brittle world inside my head. I can hear the whispering tones of an unsettled audience, hushing one another in anticipation of my demise.

"Every Day"

Somewhat nowhere,
slack in a chain.
The machine that pulls,
shortens poverty.
Supposedly I walk,
I breath,
I retire,
from a greater cause.
Who's cause is it?
Mine?
Yours?
This death is slow,
convincing,
seductive.
Escaping poverty means?
I leave the earth behind.

"Too Much Too Soon"

I watched the saddest man in the world while he watched me. Intent and terrible, ailing and willful, he finally cried for more than himself. With all his weightier plans resigned, his fruitless gambles had broken him. Fallen like an empty wish, his secret hopes had silently become an immovable regret, painting hindsight with all he'd left unsaid.
When his children needed food or shelter he complained about politics, incessantly studying inequality while practicing neglect. An idealist with no follow through is a fallen hero of sorts, a babbling madman whose followers, in the end, doubt only themselves. In time, he may bury this legacy with more lies and new children. Yet, those that bear his name feel the foreword of their fabric bears an envious tone. Small and pitching, slow and sullen they hate the world as cynics do.

"Coming to"

The truth is a delicate thing, pointed yet easily dulled, fixed yet giving. If it hurts to remember the past, we lie, coloring it to our advantage. The finer details we forget, if only to console ourselves. To walk this hidden way darkens the shade, separating us from true kinship. Like the orphans of lesser gods, we walk between two worlds, ashamed of our humanity while withholding the power that might save it.
There are many things that bring a person to feel powerless over their life. Too many traumas strip a person's dignity, causing them to internalize a reality where all love has conditions. If you can never deserve the benefit of kindness, every outstretched hand becomes a threat, regardless of its intention. If the threat is real, people's reactions vary. Some fight while others sing, alike in that each hope to find peace.
In between the heart of revenge and creativity there is a common artery, the tumbling insistence of regret. Often, those that flee carry the misguided guilt of abandoning the struggle while others stay and suffer. This is the way the past tampers with a person's future; worrying you sick that if old pain catches you in the present, it might incapacitate you. Or perhaps the contrast between past and present might expose the most human parts of a person's nature, proving the existence of all we've chosen to ignore.