"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.