And Always Learning

forgive said pains of paceless progress
forget the crawl of time
relive your ego’s baby steps
and laugh as it’s maligned

there’s little more here now than thought,
scarcely less than half a soul -
it ran, it stayed, it tore in two,
disagreed and paid the toll

‘But light returns, this time as glue!’
the silly sophists cry
hey i’m confused – how is it used?
i’ve no money left to buy

‘All that happens here and now
is relative, you see.’
there exists no truth besides your words?
i have to disagree

how lonely it must be for one,
believing we’re “unique” -
the social connotation
kills the challenge when we think

that’s not to say we’re bland as dirt -
we’re as special as can be
but the extreme of either end of this
are locks and not the key

‘Tell us then, where is this key
if you’re so goddamn smart?’
i’m sorry friends, i do not know -
what do you think? that’s a start

‘But how,’ they say with leaking smirks,
‘How can you know it’s real?’
ever felt your soul ignite?
it’s something you just feel.

‘You hypocrit, you’ve shot your foot,
try to practice what you preach.’
i am no good at either, friends -
i just listen while you teach.

15 hour work days

i hope you’re singing in your sleep
i hope when you walk outside the stars cheer
and sparkle against the cotton wisps of night
and you know ive told you these things
but every time you just don’t seem to get it
but i’ll keep trying i promise don’t worry
because my soul fucking bleeds with this happy
because i ooze this golden nectar of moondrops

did you know that eyes are nothing without lids?
did you know that sunsets can dance?

Shut up.

Break my sense of sound
With familiarity
I need to listen

hiatus

the most beautiful
thoughts are the ones i forget
to bring a pen for

If You Call a Gun an Instrument

If you call a gun an instrument,
then war must be a song -
we fight and sing with everything
we get both our hands on.

But if war is nothing but a song
the maestro is the key -
we have some skill, but it’s his will
that governs you and me.

And if we are nothing more
than players playing out his song,
then fuck this band, give me your hand -
let’s show him that he’s wrong.

okay

“I swear I felt rain”
you look to the sky, but you’re
blinded by sunlight

rememberwhen

Shock after shock, like the hands of a clock ticking and picking and choosing the doubts you’re refusing to let stand. I gaze at this paper for minutes then days waiting for words to appear like invisible ink -

But they won’t. Have I used up every one of my rhymes? Are the lines that I lace together, fine and intricate as silk, growing stale? How the fuck am I speechless?

Rhythm and flow of my internal monologue drop on a conveyor belt and usually just seem to flow out, static and methodical until I feel relief.

But isn’t that the issue? That creative release now seems obsolete? That my poetic aggression moves away from an obsession? That the necessity to see truth is replaced by a face as just a face? Maybe.

But I have found my KALLISTO, my muse. And with it, the keystone of my faith. I write now in dedication to the perspective of my potential, as it is considered with the highest possible standards and expectations in mind. I will never have enough to give in return…

but the truest beauty of all is that, though I will try every day, I know that I don’t have to.