Worlds (Part 3)

while stuck between worlds
and beautiful notions
of current heart's delight
and past's destruction

a sharp dagger flies,

"what if I'm not enough for this world?"

what if there exists within me something else
something wrong
what if in this middle space, there lies not a pearl
but a void.
It still stings. It smarts. it pains me to think.
to think that just maybe it's fault is
just me

I look to my insides, all I see is a mess of
cogs, and wires, and premade destructive
tendancies.
I have lived for destruction with the will of a
zombie.
Crying to be fed
And never doing any feeding
All I do is whine and moan
and feel such things alone
but in this middle place, between this one and that, I wish that what I wanted most was to want something of
worth.
that mattered.
that meant something more than self-satisfaction
and feign
and falsities
and delusion
and destrucion
without lasting
without meaning

I realize that i love none but myself
and that in doing so, I am alone.
The world that I've entered into, then, is not much more than the one I left,
The pitiful pity of preferential
me.

...waking from the nightmare, he dusts himself off. this traveler of worlds
he's something of a moth.
he fears darkness,
and loathes the empty
he clings to the light
and he's much too much
like me.

Sunshine (Old FB Stuff)

The sun is hanging on the ceiling
It's your Second chance to sing
It's floating, just above our heads
Your Second chance to fly
As I look to the smile
I know
affixed to your face
I realize the power
Second chance to feel
not a cloud in our sky
not a moment left to lose
a chance for us to love
and not a moment too soon

Worlds (Part 2) (Old FB Stuff)

While thinking of worlds and worrisome notions
of past heart's destruction and present's fixation
And rummaging rummaging through nostalgia's collection
A thought chimes out,

"I need a new world"

Strikes like a siren, first loud then numb
a painful realization, soon turns to conclusion
bringing forth heavy glances at life and love and why
I have discovered that that world was not big enough
for you and I

So I amble about
making sand castles
kicking dust in the wind
building, burning bridges

And in this little shell, that was once filled with life
is not but crushed rocks, and knick knacks, and strife

So packing my bag and waving goodbye
I pretend to hear cheering
instead of my cry
I look around, back turned, for one final moment
then exit stage left, for new horizons, that look most imposing

I embark with the intensity that comes
from bullet through chamber explosion,
Running from erosion
fleeing from corrosion

feeling wind against my skin again
Flying through the darkness
fearing what my heart missed
breathing in the sea mist

I stop. And look. and what do I see?

An utter completeness
In a world that was made for me

Worlds (Old FB Stuff)

Well, while thinking on worlds and worrisome notions
Of past heart's delight and present's forgotten
And rummaging rummaging through nostalgia's collection
A thought just dawned,

"I wasn't meant for their world"

Troubling sounding, rolling off the lips,
I fear not it's ire, sound, or lament
For not Death, sentenced for we
More liken to a tune not befitting to our melodies

Yours, not bad, not even a bit
In fact seeming wonderful, a grand jubilant
How I wish my stringed whosit, my unique instrument
Could enter your company, could enjoy your accompaniment

So with a sigh I do leave you
Though no tear to shed
If we do meet once again
Be it then my greatest delight
If not, alas (woe upon woes),
There however are no mortal perils
No breakings or tearings or big detonations

Just the emptiness of an emptiness
In a world where I do not belong

-A Friend

Nostalgia (Old FB Stuff)

Nostalgia is a funny thing.
It allows you to look at things past and realize what once was.
And implications of the changes that abound come forth, brought to light by contrasting then and now.

It really is strange.
How one can leave without leaving, to be five feet from something and on a different continent simultaneously.
And all this time being away I thought that I couldn't come back

So now the question:
Can I really come back?
Can this soul be as it once was, like scraping rust from the kettle
Or like shining light in a once forgotten room

Does it need to be as it once was at all?
Or is this the next progression
Like a tornado to rally the town
The murder to show people they need to love one another
The death that helps us see a need for life
The Christ that showed us how it is to live.

Essentially, what I'm trying to say is that nostalgia is a funny thing and that I seem to be back.

Talk to you soon,
M.

Needle

needles poking holes
in the surface
of me
tearing when their
sharp intrusions
come together so very
tightly
Why is it then in the onset of the needle
puncture
that I find myself enjoying the beauty
that comes when life wakes
these limbs up
and I find that the waking of arms and legs
is much more satisfying than the numb.