Years Better Erased than Written

I have enough words to tell you I don’t have anything to say,

Not now and not ever again.

 

What’s the point?

What does it matter?

Does anyone actually value being literate,

Or is it merely a convenience?

 

Buried in megapixels,

Whored out for micro SDs,

If only you had a brain.

 

For the fact that change has occurred,

Life remains the same;

Yet because hardly anything is the same,

It’s only then we recognize there has been any change.

 

D          I         E


 

 

Compromised Focus

Screaming in basements to avoid being heard,

Typing out thoughts so patience doesn’t have to be tested,

It’s all become so routine;

Figuring out how to make the loudest noise yet remain concealed

In an absent-minded and loud world.

Exhausted at the resonance of criticism,

Flattened by the glare of chosen ignorance,

My disdain for sleep is tested by my stronger desire to avoid people.

While my body will be in far worse pain if I lay down uselessly,

It’s better than the pain of being surrounded by people

whose interactions feel like they’re done out of duty rather than hospitality.

Why believe you’re in a group when the people make you feel lonely?

Why sit next to someone who seems as though they’re deaf to your voice only?

I’m confused as to what relationships are actually supposed to do,

Especially since people seem to favor conversations on screens involving icons and abbreviations,

Rather than human engagement and sound.

Why should I see you in person when I can see you just fine on my phone screen?


Don’t waste your touch You won’t feel anything

 

 

Au revoir, à mon coeur et à mon âme

Walking pathways of death as respectful as one is able,

You find an occasional numb in the midst of being overwhelmed or unknowing of what to do and how to feel.

Faces of those who might know the area as home are illumined and regarded,

Faces of those visiting are studied as well out of curiosity,

And then those who are seeking a new home in this unfamiliar land;

They are the ones who you do your best to assure they have been seen,

While the world may seemingly pass them by.

In a world on edge,

Below ground can be a place to find peace.

When walking caverns that have become hallowed halls of history,

A certain stillness is found even when actively observing your surroundings;

knowing you’ve temporarily escaped the chaos and noise of society above.

In refining one’s self, you find that you also lose pieces of your “self”;

It makes you wonder if it’ll all be worthwhile,

or if it will be just another phase or season.

Something meant for a scrapbook rather than a defining step forward as a human,

Compulsion rather than immersion.

My critical eyes have been poked many times over,

But I believe the time has come to gouge them out.

For I’d rather gain knowledge blindly and objectively,

then have the privilege of sight but also the handicap of unneeded critique.

With bones dislocated, emotions suppressed or dead, and a mind rather empty;

What good would I pose as just another spoon fed oaf?

As I prepare to leave,

I don’t have a final destination.

As the mirror reflects a face that is familiar,

I don’t immediately acknowledge it as my own.

Maybe a shadow of someone I knew,

Or someone I’d rather forget I met.

Just a sketch of someone or something,

From a place no longer existent.

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Retiring from Performance

I had a most empowering moment of powerlessness today,

As I sat hoping to find calm in a cold Autumn breeze.

For as long as I can remember,

I’ve felt like someone or something “other” than most anyone you could meet,

As if I was some sort of twisted concoction that ended up becoming human.

My otherness hasn’t faded away,

but I don’t see it as anything of significance.

No longer is it a burden nor is it something to be proud of,

It is just part of my existence.

With this, I’ve also found that all wonderment of why I may not be able to connect with people has been spent.

I’m not saying there isn’t a single person I connect with,

And this isn’t a melodramatic cry of woe is me.

But I continue to show kindness to people that I all too often look at in the midst of maybe our fourth or fifth conversation,

And I can see clearly that they’re ready to exit as long as they can do it “politely”.

If they want to be polite,

Don’t waste my damn time.

If I’m just not your “type”,

Please just say from the beginning,

I don’t even care if it’s a pre-judgment that ends up being your tool to judge me;

The quicker you decide there is no need to know my name,

The longer I have of my day to use in a more practical way as opposed to feeding your ego.

It may be called a “first impression” but if you’re waiting for me to impress you,

You might want to sit down and get comfortable.

It’s not that I’m boring,

But I’m sure as hell not a circus monkey.

I’m better at saying goodbye than I am at saying hello,

I’m not withdrawing or refusing to try;

I’ve just never had time to waste and I have places to go.


Tolerant Smiles & Body Piles

On the surface I appear to be but one thing,

But really I’m a mixture or combination of many.

It seems my skin,

Or at least its shade of pigment,

Is both an advantage & deception.

But much like everyone else could say,

It’s just how I was made.

On that note though,

How some were made has led others to take the life out of them.

And that isn’t right.

Saying it isn’t right,

Isn’t even right in and of it self!

It’s not strong enough to describe the real wrongdoing committed.

You see I come from two different cultural backgrounds by birth,

And a melting pot of another via my place of living.

But because the color of my skin,

Is that of the shade or color that is considered “normal” or “typical”;

I can typically go unnoticed and unharmed.

This isn’t and hasn’t always been the case.

When I was younger,

My “culture” was a little more easily seen,

You could say my “true colors” were on display.

Realistically I just got more sun than I typically do now.

Not making light of something that has literally started wars,

I want to admit my own shortcomings;

I want to say that I’ve been the offender as much as I’ve been the offended,

If not more.

And for that,

I truly am sorry and what to say that I am committed to doing better.

To living differently, & not tolerating anything else.

That doesn’t mean I’m judge jury or executioner to society,

I am only these things to a slight degree unto myself.

But I also won’t be silent,

That I may be confused as someone who is in approval of hate being spread;

Spread like the virus it is,

Akin only to the most violent of cancers.

Circumstances aside,

The only reason the world could truly crumble today;

Is because of the waves of hatred in human form,

That we (myself included) have decided to wash our society away in.

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This in response many things, but I finally was beyond being compelled to respond when I read this blog entry from Austin Channing-http://austinchanning.com/blog/logical-conclusion You all don’t have to, but I’d ask you to consider reading it as well. I am of Mexican & Italian blood, but an American born young man; to most though, I’m considered just another Caucasian person at least because of skin pigment. Interpret that how you will, because I don’t think I need to explain what goes into that description of people; and unfortunately it’s not just on a small scale, it’s a worldwide scale.

Just Short on Change

“Goins! Goings! Gongs! Goings!”

Amidst these misunderstood yells,

An empty cup is identified as an empty shaker.

Whether my pockets are empty or full,

Much to the dismay of the person clearly shaken,

They won’t receive the change they actually need.

When your mind is on a journey,

That somehow your body missed the invitation to;

The changes worth considering or needed,

Don’t typically jingle.

As the shopkeeper laughs insultingly,

While giving a glare that is almost parental;

Change is desired from the situation.

But for once,

a jingling of a pocket would be hope ringing out.

As buildings fall like tears,

And prices grow almost as fast as children;

Transition is inevitable,

And yet your white knuckles grip something that need not remain.

It’s ironic how that which we put forth most effort to keep,

Is exactly what prevents us from reaching our true & highest potential.

Whether it be habits of abuse or excess,

Mental paths darker than winter at the North pole.

In our twisted & misguided plan to be true unto ourselves,

We valiantly lie & cheat in order to find comfort.

Would you,

Truly,

Like some change?

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Don’t ty

Coffee Time – Bold Roasted

Sipping upon earth grown fuel,

Attempting to regain some sense of being;

My being alive may not be a mistake,

But I’m damn skilled at making mistakes in my life.

If anyone asked,

I’d say I want to smash windows and really anything I feel is in my way;

But truth be told

I’d rather float down a river of my own tears.

Melodramatic, yes, but here’s a bit of reasoning-

When your emotions feel as though they exist light years away from your life experiences,

At least the appropriate emotions;

You eventually reach a point of confusion mixed with desperation,

Because it seems what you feel doesn’t actually matter.

I’ve reached a rather interesting point of exhaustion,

I’m basically so tired that I’m energized;

Exhausted so far past the point of fatigue,

That I can’t help but need activity.

Stimuli is key,

Rest is both foreign & futile.

Ground me coarsely until there’s little remnants,

Bathe my ashes in the water,

That I may be poured out as a roast stronger than I could ever see myself as.

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