Thankful Preparation 再见

Rather than focusing on the end,

I’m taking this time to focus on how I’m in a state of preparation;

Or maybe I’m coming to realize this is a time of preparation.

As a new year begins,

While reflection is needed and good,

It certainly is not a time of completion.

Completion implies that all is done and over with,

But from where I’m sitting

things are far from done.

There is much going on in the world that must be addressed,

Change that cannot be counted in paper or coin.

Part of addressing issues though is through preparation,

It’s never about rushing to the “end”.

How can you travel on a new path,

Before you know it exists?

While there may not be a marked map of starting & finishing points,

It’s for our best.

For our illusory utopia would remain just that;

an illusion, because we either forgot or refused to learn one key lesson:

We need one another.

Not all who wander are lost, they just might not know how to ask for help.

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Tonight’s Words

So much to not say,

The only conversations are with myself.

Remembering all I want to forget,

Muscle pain lingers like debt.

We often obsess about the meaning of things,

But we always view from the shadow of our own apocalypse;

Why are we so caught up with the end when we can’t handle what is right in front of us?

After you say “it can’t get any worse” yet again,

Don’t bother asking why you lie to yourself only when?

When will you do it again?

Don’t take this as a cry or pessimistic thesis,

I just don’t want you to get cut on the pieces;

Pieces of your broken illusions.

Don’t be afraid to dream or aspire,

But keep your feet on the ground.

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Serial Boldness

Habitually hammering away at principles and morals,

Both learned and adopted,

And why not?

Isn’t internal conflict,

The best and most fulfilling type?

I used to believe that if you wanted peace,

You needed to prepare for war;

But our world has been bathed too many times over in blood and gore.

Am I forgetting what has happened or just lying?

Have I finally cracked or just crying?

In the heat of the moment,

At the highest peak of rock bottom;

My ashes have been prepared for storage.

The only thing I’m not guilty of is being innocent.

Fighting ghosts like when Wanderlei knocked out Quinton,

Punch drunk going pound for pound with the wind.

I’m done being down by law,

And I’m up and out of the dump.

I recognize the mess I made,

And I’ll never be proud of it;

But I’m determined to never again,

Let the past what ultimately defines both my present and future.

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Handouts and Bandages

Inspecting what doesn’t belong to us,

Waiting for our hands to be filled.

Is this really what life is about?

Is this all there is?

We the people of generation lazy,

The scum scraped off the boots of the baby boomers;

Originally intended to be those who grew up aspiring to be more.

I may as well kill myself to save myself;

Is this really where I have to go?

Is this only the American nightmare or is it worldwide???

In a world this cold,

I refuse to let my fire be quenched.

I will ask for help,

But never again will I accept any pity.

Not on my most desperate and empty day,

Not out of pride but of gratitude.

I’ve been given more than I could ask about or deserve,

My lungs functioning are proof of that in and of themselves.

I need to continue learning how survive and thrive,

Not just blindly begging to get by.

I don’t need something to fill my hand but someone to take hold of it.

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A Disarming Winter

More shaken than any martini,

And unsure if I can ever look straight ahead again.

Hands feel like sandpaper,

Only it’s sandpaper that bleeds,

And the heat of the stove is the only thing reminding me their still made of flesh.

The smoke from my warm breath is entertaining,

One of the things I enjoy about colder weather.

The visible suffering of those without a room,

One of the main things that grieves me about winters gloom.

Scattered confessions and scar tissue,

Shivering bodies and weakened sinews,

Imperfect humanity in it’s most beautiful condition;

Vulnerable.

Honest and real.

Is it hard on the eyes?

Sweet to the taste?

Pleasing to hear?

Very rarely, if ever.

Sleeping while standing,

Anxiety ridden at the possibility of resting.

Confusing, at the least.

When all is said & done though,

Troubles come & go.

?

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I typically don’t like explaining what I write, mostly because I desire for the reader to interpret things as they see fit and then they can question what is hard to understand(whether within themselves or to me directly). I ended this with a question mark, partly because I had all too many ideas of a final line, but also because I don’t necessarily feel I’m to so definitively give this writing an ending. I want this series of words and thoughts to be in a sense, an open question that can differ for each reader. I’m writing this as I currently am examining the picture of what I’ve known as my everyday life for the last 4 and a 1/2 years(my “adult” life so far, according to some typical definitions of age) I’ve at times despised my being prone to introspection, but I’ve learned I only despised excessive introspection. In all examinations, there must be balance; there is a beginning as certainly as there will be an end or at least a stopping point that must be respected.

Moving Back iN

I used to think that traveling would make me want to be home,

After all;

That’s what I saw a lot in the people I’ve traveled with.

They’d all have this “home sickness”,

Making them long for things they claimed to be tired of only a few weeks before.

 

Traveling for me though,

Had a different effect;

Almost altogether opposite,

If anything it was traveling that made me most aware that I don’t have a clue what “home” is.

 

I’ve been told that I don’t belong,

And I’ve never felt I belong;

Not just in one place,but anywhere.

 

Wherever me and my backpack end up,

That is home.

 

Home isn’t some picket fenced “American dream” house,

And it’s not the apartment projects on the corner that get better business than some McDonalds either;

But, I don’t know what it is.

 

In my lack of knowledge,

And this is where it becomes laughably stupid;

I’ve come to wonder,

If the only reason I don’t know what home is…

Is because I’m afraid to know how to be at “home”?

 

It’s as if I’d lose part of my personality,

Part of my identity;

If by some miraculous nightmare,

I learned how to not want to be everywhere I’m not.

 

If anyone asks,

No story will be given;

“I’m just passing by”.

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Living Outside

“Excuse me!

Would you happen to have some spare change,

Or be able to purchase me a $14 burger?”

This can be a commonplace irony in a few cities,

And it makes you wonder.

Not why the price of food is so high,

But when you offer something a bit more affordable to the person who lives on a street corner;

How they have enough confidence,

Even in the face of what could be described as societal oppression,

To say “No” to a free meal.

Why do we walk through neighborhoods,

Only to complain that we can’t afford to live there?

Why don’t we live outside of our complaints,

And instead live inside reality?