Tell life it can’t.
Tell life it can’t.
And mud walks on. We smear our hands to feel. Isn’t it nice to know. He tilts the bottle one more time until empty. When I tell an addict they’ll be OK they say, “I know.” We walk toward death with an even pace. I ask, “Does it bother you much?”
I read books as if they’re alive
Each page a different person
and I am forever changed
I’m sitting outside listening to the approaching thunderstorm
The leaves on the trees are completely still
Even individual blades of grass seem to be stuck in time
There is no wind and the air is full of humidity
The vehicles driving by know nothing of this
I’m not in existence, just like the unmoving leaves-
As they drive, they create their own moving world-
Eventually the vehicles pass and again there is no sound
Other than the storm
Now the wind is picking up
The leaves are turning
The grass is moving like a sea full of life
The sky is darkening
Lit up only by a flashes of lightning
Birds are rapidly chirping before settling
Tops of trees are bending at the will of the storm
Claps of thunder are becoming mountains
rolling and booming for miles. Some clashing so loudly,
after crackling strikes of lightening, that I am forced
to stand inside the doorframe
with the realization that the storm is indeed alive.
More so than any moving vehicle
with its created world sitting in ones matillic rapture.
We drove to Mount Washington yesterday
and while driving we passed an abandoned building
At one time it may have been a convenience store
Its roof is caving in, the walls are pushing outward,
the paint is badly peeling leaving scars from weather
It looked tired and sad. I felt a strong feeling of nostalgia
As though the definition of the word was tangible-
as I literally felt the building’s pain of memory, and how it grasped
at the driving vehicles to help push it back to when it was healthy.
Back when trucks stopped, letting out footsteps that walked into
its doorway to view its craft, but that was then, and so we too
left it behind, yet I thought about it and carried a portion
of it with me. Maybe it’s just rotting wood.
Maybe next time I won’t pass. Maybe I’ll stop and walk into
its failing structure to feel anything else it might want me to feel.
Don’t ask someone to be kind
Ask them to be real
And let them find their kindness
This active verse of life
will never seek to rest
with a melancholy mind
Sent from my iPhone
You manipulate your own self into being what you are. So be who you fucking are.
For much of my life I’ve walked a lonely path. This one path was different. WordPress. Spillwords. Being published beyond both. Eyes on words.
I gave an interview. Something I’ll most likely not do again for a very long while.
I play tricks with leaves outside my window. I trick them into being what I want them to be and when they’ve finally made me realize they’ll only be what they are I see them turn over for the wind- While I climb into myself looking for the same things I’ve always looked for. At times I find what I’m looking for and promise to remember, but I forget and need to start all over again with new leaves, on new days with sun pouring, or rain landing outside on the dirt below- I can stand here by myself, or I can fly outside with all of them, as long as I at least look out the window and trick myself into something I can be.