*Smiles with in Solitude* - Page 5

Thank you, but I think that you've captured the depth and though long before I did.

Those two long ones I personally don't like, I despise writing from prompts or beats. Too confining for my taste. I think I did get the meter down alright, however, so hopefully they've worked out. (Everyone says that I did awesome reading the Chaucer piece, so here's hoping.) So much sweat and frusteration all for a scratch of a red pen giving me a number on how well I performed a lie. Meh. Grades.

Life is a river, flowing gently at times
dripping over cool mossy stones
rippled at the surface by fish and the ever-present current.

At times, life is an ocean
wide and vast, with no foreseeable limits
foamed waves crawl up the sandy beach.

At times, life is a waterfall
suspended in nothingness, falling freely
then crashing upon the landing with a roar
that sends chills up and down my spine.

Sometimes, Life is a hurricane,
blowing harshly and steadily, with no end in sight
for everything is in a gigantic circle of unimaginable scale
which leaves naught but destruction in its wake.

And occasionally, life is a rainshower
depressing to some, calming to others
who sit by the window, and lean against the glass
and feel the coolness on thier burning forehead.

(Thoughts while I was sick.)

Walking home on a spring day
with the sun at my back and my shadow in front
and a breeze blowing across my face, ruffling my jacket
and sending twigs skittering across the sidewalk.
They snap as my feet land upon them, a quieter gunshot
which interupts the silence of my mind as I continue thinking
continue dreaming
Children play up the street
further along, I'll pass them later but for now
I can look ahead and see thier joy
as they sit on the sidewalk with a bucket of colored chalks
happily scribbling away sweet nothings on the concrete ground,
bringing color to the dead pavement, breathing life to the cement
in the form of dyed powders in innocent hands.
I look to my feet, where I stand
begins a long dashed line of bluish chalk.
It is not straight, it wanders from side to side,
and loop-the-loops and spins, it is not flat
but I can see it in the air, leading me onward, a child's scribble
leading me towards home.
I put one foot afore the other, progressing on
and following this dashed line.
The makers come closer, I can hear laughter
in the thoughts of my mind, which now is one with the world
and I follow this line, until I pass the children
then the line ceases to exist before me,
behind me it waits for the next traveler
but I don't need this guide anymore, for I am a man,
one who blazes his own trail.
But as I kept walking, I found myself wishing I had in my pocket
a piece of chalk.
Not to guide those behind me
but to remind myself of where I've been.
So that when I finally reach my home, I can look back over a shoulder
breath in the spring breeze, sheild my eyes
and, from my front step,
see how I got there.

Progression forming life in the ought most ways. Complex creatures who become parasites of the world. Resources drained, life gone. Turning the corner to see new roads of life ahead. A stampede of animals tramples through lifeless corps. Motionless figures that still feel pain that still shed tears. Helpless and afraid, these giants of our time are imprisoned in our goal to capture everything insight. Lonesome parasites whose clarity of right and wrong is rippled by oceans dyed in blinding red and grey. Life has lost its colors, which are hidden under rocks and trees. Colors, which fear bleaching of those distinct characteristics that makes them individuals. Indistinguishable parasites devour the music of life that carries with in the sweet symphony of life. Corners destroyed, roads engulfed by chaos. A river of shadowed tears surrounds the sphere that we've created. A world of unparallel mayhem is born. Creatures of light consumed by the vultures we call brothers and fathers and even our mothers. No farther do I have to look than to my own back yard to see the blood of innocent vanish with the light of false hopes. Anger and rage are of no use for those are the main features that make each parasite. Apathy for our families allows us to see facts devoid of lies. Empathy, something as fickle as love. No use for such empty words, which makes excuses for unnecessary actions and unexplained events. Events that hold destruction deep with in. Mountains become buildings, our forests parked cars. And our giants become soulless puppets, whose homes we've now made our own. Our new sphere has no corners. No new roads to pave the way. Progression ceases to happen, our resources a thing of the past.

Fatigue.
I haven't slept a full night in a week.
My eyes are dimmed, my thoughts more so
the world looses it luster and there's nothing but darkness outside my window.
Running, running, you never can stop;
childhood, teenage years left in the settling dust behind-
you never even saw them before you stepped over them, never can enjoy them-
for the world needs a man, being a boy can wait
until when? Until you're a man? And the world needs you more than ever?
What is the present? Is the present an embodiment of the future?
As you see it?
As I see it?
As you want it- want me- to be?
What is the past? Remember nothing, wish for everything
learn nothing by your follies, eyes blinded to the scars
only the future holds the answers, at present one must strive for tommorow.
What is now? Now is the tommorow you've waited for since
yesterday.
What was yesterday? It's in the past, I don't know.
What's going to happen tommorow?
I'll be a man.
What are you now?

Getting there?
What happened to the boy I used to be?
What happened to the boy I am? As I sit here with reports before me
responsibility weighing down on my shoulders-
carefree? What language is that? It's not the one I speak.

Wait till tommorow- wait all today.
For today will be yesterday tommorow, then you'll wait another day.
Wait.

Now.

that was nice. Wierd that about four days ago i wrote a about the night sky and sleepless nights, but it wasn't as nice as yours

The life has left my eyes.
the light is gone, as I stare into my reflection
only to notice the glimmer is lost.
Black coal surrounded by red veins of frustration,
no hope, no life.
Marks, which mark the surface, a trail to the night sky
the silk covering of dark oceans that seem to last a lifetime.
A mask that covers shames appears through out the wake less nights.
A pain through out the posture of withered old trees,
which looking closely holds the answers of all ages
and the secrets of the unknowns.
The roar of innocence as it gains its strength,
the silence of courage as prepares for new days.
As fear and insecurities lurk through the dreams of the hopeless,
of those who claim to have no guilt,
feeding off their sadness, living off their pain.
The light is on, the door slightly close,
as beasts hide with in other rooms hoping to be unseen.
The time has ended my task complete.
I'm off to conquer new worlds for the days that are yet to come.

Beauty, it's an ugly thing. It is found everywhere and yet nowhere. Golden strands of life, which can be miraculous, become tainted with soot. Dim powder, which hazes the vision of loveliness.

Are there such words as beauty and loveliness? Haven't they been killed by the eyes of the beholder? Hidden from destruction, they hide in our minds. Never to be spoken but visualized. Allowed to rain havoc with in us, they are sheltered from opinions.

Thoughts that differ release these words during moments of pride, joy, and anger. Momentary escapes through tears and arguments. Roped back in with shame and sense of sensibility. They have no limits, yet always seem to have restrictions. Unmade minds, which confuse the unskilled soul.

Emotions, which can make blood flow through the rivers of time. Words that in the end mean nothing to anyone.

Your 'Beauty' poem is absolutely fantastic, Neutered.

Pictures, pictures, we're captured by a lens
our smiles, our tears captured on a strip of film
negatively imprinted, white is black, black is white.
why can't our smiles remain smile and tears become grins?
Darkness become light, and light become still more?
Why? I wonder, as I dip the line of frames in developer fluid
and watch them slowly become as memory serves,
memory captured by the lens of my eye
the smiles the tears captured in the frame of my mind.
Imprinted as served, white is white, black is black.
Why can't the film act as my recollections? I wonder this
as I hang them on the wall for all to see.

I watched the sun set for the first time last night
looking up from the pages of numbers and letters
to the glass window before my desk
curtains fluttered in the breeze as it flowed through
the screen- tiny bars of my personal prison
cannot hold out the fresh scent of cut grass
or the gentle bite of impending night.
The streetlights were dim, thier yellow glow
held no candle to the silky fireball sinking in the west,
orange and blue streaks of satin coat the skies
as a ball of fire dies.

Ah well, It'll be born again tommorow.
I reach over with a marker and with a slash
eradicate April 16 from my agenda.

Toothbrush, floss, soap, shampoo, that aftershave that the ladies love-
won't need the aftershave, not down there, not down in the pits-
throw it away.
Alright, five pairs work clothes, two relaxers, one dress, boots, shoes, gloves-
where's my army boots? Those should work better than these things.
The fountain in my room bubbles softly as this man packs for his next journey
down to where hell has come and gone
and trying to bring a little bit more light to it in the form of hammer and nails.
Got my books, digital camera, PDA, keyboard, cell phone- I"m a tech geek
but it still works better than a laptop and a payphone.
Here's my shades, I'm going down south, it'll be hot, it'll be humid-
better pack the rubber contamination suit just in case I get hot
go figure- I'll be twenty pounds lighter when this week is over
sweat shall pour off my back like water over the falls
and like the ghost shall evaporate to nothingness from my skin-
and recondense on the rubber and send me swimming.
I have the facemask- such a cumbersome piece
oh yes- I need the picture. Where is it?
She hasn't given it to me, I'm geussing my memory shall have to serve
she's busy, as am I...ah, well, calm your heart
there's work to do down there, you're no longer man
you're machine.
but you're still more man than anything.
and when you come out of this, you'll be different.
You'll go in there wanting to help-

you'll come out saved from yourself.

Thoughts prior to New Orleans Relief Effort Excursion 2006

As we expand, the world around us contracts.
The ground shifts,
as our wings, unravel through the fiery storms of life and light.
Sounds of destruction, which creates homes.
Creation of life, which absorb us whole.
Plagues that save the nation,
as Music guides us blindly through the world,
Protecting us from the harsh visuals, which block our roads.
The nectar of harmony magnified with red storms,
which thicken as the nights grown longer.
Cries for mercy, overwhelmed with cried of Victory.
The tears of the hopeless, absorbed by foreign soil.
Diffused from reality, seeing only what's in front of us never looking back.
Conquering everything, as we lose our selves in the process.

A great civilization,
You see their memorizes through your eyes.
Hear their actions through your soul.
Sense their hardship through every fiber in your being.
Nothing has changed.
The land is a replica of what once was,
Soon will be forgotten.
Voices that echo through shadows;
Where ancient tree once made their homes.
New ecosystems of technology are born,
Replacing life around us, making us obsolete.
Canvases of history, ripped from our fingers,
As black paint seeps from our souls.
We have given up our beings, civilizations forgotten.
Memorizes lost through the struggles of time.
We justify our actions with lies,
When in the end we're just trying to ignore reality.

If I came up to you one night,
would you know who I am?
From the letters that I've written,
would you recognize my smile?
Those drawing that I sketched,
would they lead you to my eyes?
My words, my sentences, my paragraphs,
would they paint a pretty picture?
I am an image on the screen of your mind,
if you met me, would you realize that we met.
Or would that image be idealistic of the woman you wish to meet?
Would the puzzle pieces in your mind construct just an image,
which no woman could compare to.
Or would I be a reflection of your thoughts,
which can only be washed away with tears.

[I was writing my lab report and my mind started to wonder...]