The writer dreams, Maker of Worlds,
Director of Life and Reaper of Death,
Creator of Good, Master of Evil,
Under his eye dashes Battle Eternal.
Weaver of Tales, Spinner of life,
Giver of Love, and Bringer of Strife,
Contractor of Pain, Headmaster of Hate,
In his control lies Mankind's fate.
Dare not avert your eyes
lest someone you love dies!
Heart held in his hands,
Deepest is where his blow lands.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Naïveté
For what has come and now has passed,
For deeds been done that cannot last,
Carpé Diem! Seize the day!
And see for yourself what you may.
One day this and the next day that,
Day to day you change your hat.
It's all in the name of happiness,
The reason you endure distress.
Live forever in the Now,
Then look back and wonder, "How?
What is this I find myself in?
Why did I do this yet again?"
Then I hope that you will see,
Happiness is quite easy.
It is found inside yourself,
It can't be bought off of a shelf.
You won't find it in another,
Look inside! Dig deeper, further!
Carpé Diem! Seize the day!
Don't have it any other way!
But alas, my friend, take care, be wise;
For as you know, all's not clear skies.
For deeds been done that cannot last,
Carpé Diem! Seize the day!
And see for yourself what you may.
One day this and the next day that,
Day to day you change your hat.
It's all in the name of happiness,
The reason you endure distress.
Live forever in the Now,
Then look back and wonder, "How?
What is this I find myself in?
Why did I do this yet again?"
Then I hope that you will see,
Happiness is quite easy.
It is found inside yourself,
It can't be bought off of a shelf.
You won't find it in another,
Look inside! Dig deeper, further!
Carpé Diem! Seize the day!
Don't have it any other way!
But alas, my friend, take care, be wise;
For as you know, all's not clear skies.
A Poet is Amungus
Amungus was a Poet,
As plain as day could see.
He wrote his verse,
And he rehersed,
For his salary.
He wove love with his sonnets,
Put sadness in his rhymes;
And then out loud,
He’d please the crowd,
With laughter and good times.
He’d drive home every stanza,
Stomp out punctuation.
His verse would burst,
With deadly thirst,
To etch each situation.
Amungus was a poet.
As clever as could be!
But then one day,
He died away,
Left hanging from a tree.
They say he never left here,
He turned into a ghost.
He haunts the school,
And plays the fool,
To see who he scares most.
Young Johnny chanced to see him,
One morning on the bus,
He cried out, "Hey!
Don’t look but
a Poet is among us!
As plain as day could see.
He wrote his verse,
And he rehersed,
For his salary.
He wove love with his sonnets,
Put sadness in his rhymes;
And then out loud,
He’d please the crowd,
With laughter and good times.
He’d drive home every stanza,
Stomp out punctuation.
His verse would burst,
With deadly thirst,
To etch each situation.
Amungus was a poet.
As clever as could be!
But then one day,
He died away,
Left hanging from a tree.
They say he never left here,
He turned into a ghost.
He haunts the school,
And plays the fool,
To see who he scares most.
Young Johnny chanced to see him,
One morning on the bus,
He cried out, "Hey!
Don’t look but
a Poet is among us!
Beauty Stands Alone
Ripples in the water,
A whisper in the air,
Soft touch,
A silent rush,
Welcoming in darkness.
Stars Twinkling in the sky,
Leaves rustle in the trees,
Cool air,
A growing love,
Clasping in the secrets.
A full moon,
A wolf howls,
Warm carress;
The mind reels,
Grokking in the fullness.
Beauty stands alone,
Calls silently to me,
We embrace,
Electrically
Each knows the other's thrill.
The morn has come upon us,
Crickets sound laments;
Hands held;
Longing comes,
Forbidding separation.
A whisper in the air,
Soft touch,
A silent rush,
Welcoming in darkness.
Stars Twinkling in the sky,
Leaves rustle in the trees,
Cool air,
A growing love,
Clasping in the secrets.
A full moon,
A wolf howls,
Warm carress;
The mind reels,
Grokking in the fullness.
Beauty stands alone,
Calls silently to me,
We embrace,
Electrically
Each knows the other's thrill.
The morn has come upon us,
Crickets sound laments;
Hands held;
Longing comes,
Forbidding separation.
Pixels
We are all only pixels
in the picture of the earth;
when combined we all define
the image of her mirth.
Pixels in a picture,
lines drawn on a page,
words that shape a story,
all in their final stage
The earth is just the first draft,
carved with finite grace--
the image is a rough sketch
of the human race.
As people we are static--
on a world-wide screen--
pixels flashing on and off,
not knowing if they're seen.
in the picture of the earth;
when combined we all define
the image of her mirth.
Pixels in a picture,
lines drawn on a page,
words that shape a story,
all in their final stage
The earth is just the first draft,
carved with finite grace--
the image is a rough sketch
of the human race.
As people we are static--
on a world-wide screen--
pixels flashing on and off,
not knowing if they're seen.
Lines
lines on a page
written by my hand
do nothing but look pretty
and sound pretty too
meaning is where you look for it
words say what you want
an empty carton for your sorrows
is best filled with flowers
be mine to entertain
be mine to show the way
be mine to enjoy
be mine so i can be yours.
poems are as dust in wind
thrown out to the world
then swept away
going places before settling
I can write for love
i can write for hate
humor comes too
and also tragedy
what is structure but a cage?
better to be free
write what comes
don't worry over minor things
the mind dparts the text
just to see what's next
in places people never go
only imagination dwells
it doesn't have to make sense
it doesn't have to rhyme
it doesn't have to sound good
or even be on time
a poem is as poem does
just that and nothing more
don't look to deep
or you might drown
analize and synthesize
break apart and rearange
particles floating free
only to collect in bins
lines are written
lines are lost
lines are followed
and lines are tossed
don't think too much
if thats not hard
just let it flow
and let it die.
written by my hand
do nothing but look pretty
and sound pretty too
meaning is where you look for it
words say what you want
an empty carton for your sorrows
is best filled with flowers
be mine to entertain
be mine to show the way
be mine to enjoy
be mine so i can be yours.
poems are as dust in wind
thrown out to the world
then swept away
going places before settling
I can write for love
i can write for hate
humor comes too
and also tragedy
what is structure but a cage?
better to be free
write what comes
don't worry over minor things
the mind dparts the text
just to see what's next
in places people never go
only imagination dwells
it doesn't have to make sense
it doesn't have to rhyme
it doesn't have to sound good
or even be on time
a poem is as poem does
just that and nothing more
don't look to deep
or you might drown
analize and synthesize
break apart and rearange
particles floating free
only to collect in bins
lines are written
lines are lost
lines are followed
and lines are tossed
don't think too much
if thats not hard
just let it flow
and let it die.
Coming Home
"What is Home?" Cried out one soul,
Embarking on a journey for truth, if there is such a thing...
No two have e'er matched in definition.
Finally inside she looked and found what she had craved.
Home can only be -- as one's philosophy -- a dearly personal thing.
While looking deep inside herself she seemed more to open her eyes
than to close them to the outside world.
Hiding there in the corners of consciousness...
a mansion of her past. It holds the ends of her red strings.
Though rooms are always adding on, they never really leave.
just as all those bright red strings are forever tied and impossible to cut.
What can be in one's mind that one cannot divulge?
Only everything. Only nothing.
But more of the former.
Embarking on a journey for truth, if there is such a thing...
No two have e'er matched in definition.
Finally inside she looked and found what she had craved.
Home can only be -- as one's philosophy -- a dearly personal thing.
While looking deep inside herself she seemed more to open her eyes
than to close them to the outside world.
Hiding there in the corners of consciousness...
a mansion of her past. It holds the ends of her red strings.
Though rooms are always adding on, they never really leave.
just as all those bright red strings are forever tied and impossible to cut.
What can be in one's mind that one cannot divulge?
Only everything. Only nothing.
But more of the former.
Existence
Atop an unsung hero's peak,
across the golden sky;
Diving down to waters deep,
and crying; so shall I!
Enfold me within pain's embrace
and allow me my own strife,
I can find no better place
to live this lonely life.
In this I find that I have found --
inside this warm blanket --
a shield that wraps me mostly round/
that death can't reach me yet.
across the golden sky;
Diving down to waters deep,
and crying; so shall I!
Enfold me within pain's embrace
and allow me my own strife,
I can find no better place
to live this lonely life.
In this I find that I have found --
inside this warm blanket --
a shield that wraps me mostly round/
that death can't reach me yet.
A little nostalgia, among other things
I wish I could recall that floating feeling I used to have...
These days it seems gravity has too firm a hold on me.
I remember the times I could have touched the clouds,
Remaining on the ground in sheer defiance of my feelings.
Now it seems I've not the energy to jump.
It isn't that I'm in a bad way, no.
In fact I hope to never live worse.
Reality, if that's what you want to call it,
has come in out of the rain and is drying itself in the living room.
With my only towel.
I miss the days I felt everything was just as it should be.
I miss looking into the future and seeing everything in technicolor.
Now it's all just bad TV.
I know this is what Life is, and I expected it...
But just this once can't I be wrong?
I know, I think, no, I BELIEVE I know what love feels like.
Why is it so hard to find?
I want to walk the earth again with a feeling like nothing can touch me.
Like nothing is real and too vivid at the same time.
Like a technicolor dream where everything goes according to plan and the villain is not so bad after all.
But I know this is not possible.
Reality hands me a towel which is now badly in need of drying.
I'll have to take it to the laundry.
I'll have to take this wet towel, this soggy rag of a life used and discarded by reality,
and throw it in the dryer.
I have to throw in the towel.
I have to give up.
But after I've let cold hard reality wash over me like a mountain waterfall for a time,
I can take the towel out of the dryer.
I take it back.
I can take it all back.
I can,
and I will.
My life will be warm and fuzzy again, sometime.
But like a roller coaster, it has it's ups and downs, if you'll excuse the cliche.
I hope this is one of the downs.
That would make the ups that much higher.
I've seen things that most middle class Americans would prefer didn't exist.
Things they might even deny existed.
I know I'm not bad off.
But it won't stop me from pursuing better.
From dreaming of a higher life.
From finding the floating feeling again...
For now it escapes me.
So much can be expressed in a word: Love.
I like to think I know what that means.
Maybe I don't.
What I do know is that I need to find it again.
I have this base biological urge to mate, for life, and it consumes me.
But I also have a need to learn, and love what I'm learning.
On top of that, I have this perverted drive to write.
To put down my thoughts in poetry, if you could call it that.
I put myself to shame by writing these things in such basic "verse".
It's bullshit.
All of it.
Who can truly understand?
Even if I spell it out for you, would you truly understand?
No.
It's Impossible.
But then, when have I ever listened when I was told something is impossible?
These days it seems gravity has too firm a hold on me.
I remember the times I could have touched the clouds,
Remaining on the ground in sheer defiance of my feelings.
Now it seems I've not the energy to jump.
It isn't that I'm in a bad way, no.
In fact I hope to never live worse.
Reality, if that's what you want to call it,
has come in out of the rain and is drying itself in the living room.
With my only towel.
I miss the days I felt everything was just as it should be.
I miss looking into the future and seeing everything in technicolor.
Now it's all just bad TV.
I know this is what Life is, and I expected it...
But just this once can't I be wrong?
I know, I think, no, I BELIEVE I know what love feels like.
Why is it so hard to find?
I want to walk the earth again with a feeling like nothing can touch me.
Like nothing is real and too vivid at the same time.
Like a technicolor dream where everything goes according to plan and the villain is not so bad after all.
But I know this is not possible.
Reality hands me a towel which is now badly in need of drying.
I'll have to take it to the laundry.
I'll have to take this wet towel, this soggy rag of a life used and discarded by reality,
and throw it in the dryer.
I have to throw in the towel.
I have to give up.
But after I've let cold hard reality wash over me like a mountain waterfall for a time,
I can take the towel out of the dryer.
I take it back.
I can take it all back.
I can,
and I will.
My life will be warm and fuzzy again, sometime.
But like a roller coaster, it has it's ups and downs, if you'll excuse the cliche.
I hope this is one of the downs.
That would make the ups that much higher.
I've seen things that most middle class Americans would prefer didn't exist.
Things they might even deny existed.
I know I'm not bad off.
But it won't stop me from pursuing better.
From dreaming of a higher life.
From finding the floating feeling again...
For now it escapes me.
So much can be expressed in a word: Love.
I like to think I know what that means.
Maybe I don't.
What I do know is that I need to find it again.
I have this base biological urge to mate, for life, and it consumes me.
But I also have a need to learn, and love what I'm learning.
On top of that, I have this perverted drive to write.
To put down my thoughts in poetry, if you could call it that.
I put myself to shame by writing these things in such basic "verse".
It's bullshit.
All of it.
Who can truly understand?
Even if I spell it out for you, would you truly understand?
No.
It's Impossible.
But then, when have I ever listened when I was told something is impossible?
The Machine
This is written in three parts that could be presented independently as standalone poems. Their individual titles are: "A Well Oiled Machine", "Big Old Machine", and "Breakdown".
Albatross
Friends have come and gone again
Leaving a hole I can never fill in
People I love and those I loathe
All swirl around my memories
Sometimes I'm groping in the dark
Afraid I'll lose my fingers to a shark
And pain-fully bleed to death
Clutching my love to my breast
(chorus)
This is a mourning of the past
Reminding me that things don't last
This is a mourning of all loss
I can't rid myself of this albatross!
I am alone within myself
Surrounding me with all that's left
These walls of stone that are my home
Chafe my skin as I fight within!
My feelings drip like sludge
Down these walls that never budge
And then they circle down the drain
Leaving me alone in pain
(chorus)
I know you have your demons
Some of them are more hideous than mine
Life is made of pain
We're all living masochistic lives
I love this albatross
He's all that left when love is gone
When love is gone
When love is gone
When love is...
(chorus x2)
I love this albatross of mine
He's been with me since the dawn of time
Life is pain but it goes on
Leaving me with brand new scars
I love this albatross of mine
He's been with me since the dawn of time
Life is pain but it goes on
I remain here standing strong!
*Chords available on request*
Leaving a hole I can never fill in
People I love and those I loathe
All swirl around my memories
Sometimes I'm groping in the dark
Afraid I'll lose my fingers to a shark
And pain-fully bleed to death
Clutching my love to my breast
(chorus)
This is a mourning of the past
Reminding me that things don't last
This is a mourning of all loss
I can't rid myself of this albatross!
I am alone within myself
Surrounding me with all that's left
These walls of stone that are my home
Chafe my skin as I fight within!
My feelings drip like sludge
Down these walls that never budge
And then they circle down the drain
Leaving me alone in pain
(chorus)
I know you have your demons
Some of them are more hideous than mine
Life is made of pain
We're all living masochistic lives
I love this albatross
He's all that left when love is gone
When love is gone
When love is gone
When love is...
(chorus x2)
I love this albatross of mine
He's been with me since the dawn of time
Life is pain but it goes on
Leaving me with brand new scars
I love this albatross of mine
He's been with me since the dawn of time
Life is pain but it goes on
I remain here standing strong!
*Chords available on request*
Friday, November 5, 2010
Succubus
This poem is something of a mystery even to me. It was late at night, I had a couple lines running through my head and -- for some strange reason -- a desire to imitate a drug-induced writing style. Maybe I'll turn it into an acid rock song.
I lost myself last week
To my vices and pain;
I went for a walk
And didn't come back again.
Soul searching, | Something stolen from me!
Trouble Finding | What I've always been missing.
My way | To the bottom of this.
In the night came a woman:
She was sexy as sin.
Her hair was like fire;
Skin white like cocaine.
She told me to sit down,
Then she nibbled my chin.
She had such a light touch;
I wasn't sure it was real.
Soul searching, | -I lost something dear-
Trouble Bringing | -Another mistake-
Me down | And back up again!
I lay in the open,
And stared at the stars.
I felt myself drifting;
The moon calling my name.
But when I turned to answer,
I fell right back again...
-- Break my fall --
And wake me from this dream
-Matt
Monday, November 1, 2010
Demons
Demons haunt from yesterday, hunger for tomorrow.
Demons watching over me as I live for now.
Demons salivate and mewl at prospects of fresh meat.
Demons creeping through the night, chewing on my feet.
These demons are a special breed, these demons are my own.
These demons never go away, I get no time alone.
These demons spawn from days gone by, they lurk in wait ahead.
These demons often torment me as I lie in my bed.
I never know when they will strike, or from which direction
I only know that they exist; and they're quite a collection
I begin to like my demon horde, for without them I'd be not.
I love the demons in my head, they're the only ones I've got.
Demons watching over me as I live for now.
Demons salivate and mewl at prospects of fresh meat.
Demons creeping through the night, chewing on my feet.
These demons are a special breed, these demons are my own.
These demons never go away, I get no time alone.
These demons spawn from days gone by, they lurk in wait ahead.
These demons often torment me as I lie in my bed.
I never know when they will strike, or from which direction
I only know that they exist; and they're quite a collection
I begin to like my demon horde, for without them I'd be not.
I love the demons in my head, they're the only ones I've got.
Obligatory Introductory Statement
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And why not? The peons below all do their part,
mechanically performing any task put before them.
Automatons grinding away until they're used up,
they are cogs in The Great Machine.
Squeaks are silenced with grease;
worn out parts are thrown out, replaced.
Impurities are cleansed and defenses erected.
The Machine must NOT break down.
it manufactures all the parts,
generates all the power,
and produces the lubricants it needs to run.
taking with them the years of our lives.
Mindless cogs, replaceable parts of a whole,
grind against one another endlessly.
Inside this mechanical behemoth,
oft neglected machinery deteriorates,
needs to be refurbished, rebuilt, reinvented...
before it breaks.
--Spinning lights spinning eyes--
--Acrid smoke burns the nose--
--Flying debris crushes bone--
Tendrils of smoke rise from one section as it billows from another.
Bent and twisted metal bits lie scattered around.
Lifeless bodies clog the orifices of The Machine.
little does she know it now, but she'll rebuild it all.
Though the sirens pierce her ears and lights stab at her eyes,
She is free of The Machine, for better or for worse:
~The Choice is Yours.