The Dust – Apathy exposes your cracks

“Even when I try to stir myself up, I just get irritated because I can’t make anything come out. And in the middle of the night I lie here thinking about all this. If I don’t get back on track somehow, I’m dead, that’s the sense I get. 
There isn’t a single strong emotion inside me.” ― Banana Yoshimoto
 

 

 

You see beauty everywhere, your supposed to be happy. Your not.
You see people laughing, your supposed to be a part. Your not.
You see tears falling, your supposed to feel. Your not.
You see beauty everywhere, your supposed to be happy. Your not.
You see people laughing, your supposed to be a part. Your not.
You see prayers offered, your suppose to do that. Your not.
You see tears falling, your supposed to feel. Your not.
You see life passing, your supposed to do something. Your not.
And worst of all, you just don’t care. I mean you really, really, don’t care. About anything.
It’s death you feel in every little crack of your soul.
Like dust collecting, this death accumulates in the small areas of your life.
But wait you walking dead! Be encouraged!
There’s life again, a spring cleaning as it were, rising from the dust of death in your life.
You must quiet yourself and stop running to the next thing that will numb you.
You must quiet yourself and wait to hear the voice of your maker calling after you.
You must quiet yourself and pray to the one who has the love that will make you whole.
I’ve felt the death that living life can bring, and I’ve felt the arms of my Father,

Those arms have made me strong enough to live and be safe from the dust.

 

Also published in Broowaha Magazine
01082011

Love In Hiding – Why is love so evasive?

“Maybe it’s just hiding somewhere. Or gone on a trip to come home. But falling in love is always a pretty crazy thing. It might appear out of the blue and just grab you. Who knows — maybe even tomorrow.” – Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
hop3lessdreamers

Why is love so evasive? It hides behind impossibilities. Dancing around dashed hopes and crushed dreams, it laughs, seemingly immune. Attempts to force its hand are met with indifference. It scoffs at the futility of such manipulations. It can appear dead, then, resurrect itself in spite of all logical resistance. Contrary to reason, it brings to madness the mind of the genius. Delighting in the bafflement of its adversaries, it raises strong arms to show defiance of prediction. Having disarmed reason and logic it takes the journey into sweet insanity, a wandering exploration through places beyond imagination. Struck with its seduction, a mere touch becomes a fire of uncontrolled passion. A whisper transforms itself into an echo that continues long after the source had taken its leave. Having then all power held in suspension at its will, surely the proverb is true, “now abide faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” I would have to agree, and that is the reason for love’s evasiveness – it is because it can.

Also published in Broowaha
Also published in Wingposse
10252011

My Girl Manny Quinn

“Art and love are the same thing: It’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.” – Chuck Klosterman, Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story
thestuffispoison
Pressing my lips to yours…the coolness soon gone with hardened kisses. Inanimate style, making me hard. My hands trace over your glossy skin, swollen to meet my design. My fingers skip across your seams, more oil makes it easy. I carry you to the room, your long hair falling across cheeks blushed with my paint. I fall on you with unrestrained fervor, wild horses in my blood. Turning the music up loud, and dimming the lights enough to cover your dead eyes, I leave you there, lying still in my bed. Taking enough time to adjust the amount of blood in my alcohol, I come back to you. It never matters how long, still you hold that position for me. Never being able to scream means you can’t moan your pleasure over my illegal intrusions. I love you my sweet. I think tonight I’ll make you a blonde, and tomorrow a brunette. Then, I’ll tie your stiff arms behind you and in my final thrust, I’ll feel your soul drain and you’ll lie limp in my arms. My tears wet your flattened breasts, your misshapenhead makes your eyes point in crazy directions. You are my everything, you never leave, you never complain, you never reject me, your are mine and I love you, Manny Quinn

(’tis all in jest my faithful readers)

05052013 

Poetry Is For The Dead – Words beyond an epitaph

“Let me tell you how the story ends, where the good guys die and the bad guys win. It doesn’t matter how many friend you make, but the graffiti they write on your grave.”
  Gerard Way
lblairphotography

Poetry is for the dead.

Mocking, that’s what he said.
As life pours from my pen,
His word echoes, poetry is for the dead.
Life breathed through the written instead
He repeated, poetry is for the dead.
New beginnings from what is read
Poetry is more than for the dead

11262011

Death Brings Life – Breaking down faith

 “Unbeing dead isn’t being alive.” – E.E. Cummings

There’s something that happens when a man loses everything he believed in, everything he trusted, and stares death in the eyes. Emotional death, soulical death, mental death. These deaths have meaning when you fight your way back from them and find a faith that saves you. You must have a “death” experience for your faith to find a life changing foothold in your life. Unless you face this death, you are doomed to have a superficial and potentially meaningless faith. Don’t be scared when all you know dissolves into nothing. In this mess life is born, you’ll be beautiful when your “death” pushes you to a faith in God that no one will ever be able to shake and that will transform you into a beautiful being, the image of your Father in heaven.

Dead Tree? – Appearances can be deceiving

 “A cold wind was blowing from the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things.” – George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones
 

c-4-r-n-a-g-e

The tree throws off its leaves, drawing in its energy, preparing for the battle.

It appears dead and for many months, no life appears.
But beneath the surface, vitality runs, coursing through its toughness.
Don’t be fooled by the appearance of fallen leaves,
for deep in the coldness the tree yearns. Soon
the leaves will return and I will
find shelter under the branches
of what appeared
to be, a dead
tree.