School Day Blues

I eat my plastic wrap food
in your big white room,
as I stare at the clock
waiting for number to tell me who I am

If I can elegantly imprint
the words from your books onto my mind
Ill be one step closer
to my once upon a time.
Racing ahead, to follow behind.

Being content until it's necessary to change,
is the nature of my being,
society seeks to rearrange.
For the higher you are,
the higher you can see;
This is no-mans land
In case you questioning me.

Simplicity is complicated in the broken homes of today,
dont have time for a context, its already tomorrow yesterday.
Is this art of procrastination,
whose really to say?
Life's a godman poem,
underneath all the silly games we play.

Seasons

Snake inside,

time to shed this sin.

Broken bones

floating in flaking skin.

Trying to capture

outside within.

My new charade,

getting lost again.

MoNa

The funny thing about time is that sometimes it just doesnt even dare to touch the moment.

When the damp horizon is glowing in a misty orange sunset, and your surrounded by a tribe of new friendships, all dutifully working together to build a home upon the sand, no number can define the freedom of that now. Although the faces you see are less than a day old in familiarity, a common stillness of the mind lingers in the connection of pure presence. 

We flocked as one to be captivated by the outside, to learn the lessons of the wandering tides, and to let go of all the fears that inhabit the minds of cities. We are reunited with the truth of ourselves as hunter gatherers. The fire crackles in warmth, as we stew our feast upon a flame, and speak words that we don't pretend to matter all to much.

For when you truly venture far into mother natures arms, you cannot help but feel microscopic. The infinite ocean horizon echoes that truth. A mosaic of beach rocks reiterate the eternal flow in the uniqueness of their form. Meaningless beauty is all that we are.

Memory Games

Everything I had brought was coated in a layer of dust,

but each breath was so thrilling reality couldn't touch my smile.

We were fourteen year old dreamers, struggling to live within the constraints of our adolesence, and we had one thing on our minds.

Freedom.

I went there that day to meet a boy who never showed up. I know that this burned me, but the rum burned more and the gambier ganja high coasted me into a daze of adventure. There was about 20 of us on the harbour dock. All sitting around, different ages, different races, different people, but our admiration for the sacred island we were all camped upon brought us together. The city shut up, and although you could still see its halo of light from across the water this place meant escape.

Billy Joel echoed from a crappy pair of speakers and I danced and sang along. 

What makes these memories so sacred? They will one day be forgotten, and yet I hold on to them.

When I really think back they only cover up the hardship,

with fantasy smiles of a positive past outlook.

I try to learn from it,

but those days just leave me hanging.

A bold case of youth, chasing the truth,

through a blurry bottle of freedom.

I sit here believing,

that the smile I remember in my mind was so true,

and It gets me confused when I reduce those moments

to a happiness i can prove,

Cause although glory days are one hell of a time,

you burry the brokeness under nostalgic sunshine,

and it can torture your mind.

The past glimmers in the illusion of perfection,

don't forget the rejection 

that you faced in that phase,

don't only look back to inhale the glory days,

for life is all about interpretation,

how you can learn from a situation,

how you can embrace the demonstration,

of harmony that nature has destine for your way.

Beauty Tips that Need Some Correction

Truth don't come from the tounge of the feline,

reasons are given by the man with the most dime,

can I call it crime,

don't matter,

history reapets,

climbing up this broken ladder,

society has built for me,

a destiny,

a skinny minny stilleto bikini

tight skin streched around bone,

first world throne

that every man needs to sit on,

secure his broken dreams with,

the broken self esteem 

of a sisterhood that never was,

Made from Adams bone,

eternally enslaved as a drone,

I have to write this mother fucking poem

because I can't wait for another moment

in this body thats bleeding,

raped by the media,

images convieneint,

I just gotta look like her,

Walk like that talk,

cock block every jock

with a gorgeous shock,

that stops the clock,

Caint be myself without

everyone else telling me 

I'm prettty,

enough

been spoon fed the pictures that poison the mind

of a barbie body that looks like a different species then mine,

Never good enough for the mirrors they reflect at me,

injected me with fear since I was thirteen

trying to paint my face worthy,

beauty today has got nothing to do with being healthy,

but I strive to change that,

re arrange the stain 

that has claimed 

the innosence of girls my age.

Listen to me,

don't got to chase the man with the money,

don't got to settle for just being somebody's honey,

your hobby doesn't have to be building an identity,

Never doubt that you deserve to be happy

with the who that you are,

because you are who you are,

don't got to look so far,

and I hope someday we won't just be competing

where we can respect ourselves,

and embrace a sisterhood of freedom

overcome the race, and break out of the chase

for the direction of a mans affection,

for the approval of errection,

for the fucked up standard of perfection,

for beauty tips that need some correction

intercepting misconceptions of a self deception. 

One upon a time, cycle of my mind

People,

I love people.

Everywhere I go I feel captivated by the beauty of human beings. Always running through my head is the social deconstructions of human interaction, the implications that follow behavior, and the wisdom that can be attained. As these theories and philosophies mingle blood around my skull, another observatory sits housed in my being. Beauty. Angles of beauty. People are angles in motion. I see people as wonderfully unique, and when I look around I can’t believe the physical landscape of bodies that is so magnificent and pristine. I am in love with the shadows of cheekbones, the lines of hips, figures I trace in my mind and burn into my bones. This is my art.

There are also times when my blossom of social consciousness boils me into despair. I think so deep I feel my face slapped with the bedrock of reality, and I am paralyzed from the neck down. I lie in a pathetic puddle of optics and mind and melt into the jagged cracks of loneliness. However, at exactly the right moment, the beauty of people becomes more than just an observed masterpiece. Moments of shocking clarity gather up my muddy name. 

I am actually alive.

I can move my fingers if I want to. There will one day be a final second of life where consciousness turns to plant fertilizer. Death. Life. It is within these nirvana awakenings that I begin to evaporate out of the caverns of daily mundane to do list illusions. Then I am part of something. Decisions feel relevant, purpose is recognized, and my hope for adventure carries me back to the reality that I am here. Only in this moment.

This moment that lasts forever. Though my mind wanders in sun setting nostalgia, and re-do escape plans, my fingers grasp the purity of timelessness. I just am. This rebirth shows me that I am part of the beauty I see. Life can be fucking magical, as tempting as it is to chase and hold on to those enchanted moments, they will never be real until you let go. Surrender to hope, and trust with all your heart that the universe is no doubt unfolding, as it should.

Lately I've been doing some thinking.

And what Iv come to know is that above all other notions of reality, is this:

Theres all these things made out of stuff.

And within every pore of matter is a breathing intelligence. And everything is just one big coincidence. Human beings have evolved to be able to witness this intelligence on an extended form of consciousness. However many do not perceive this capability, and instead confuse the essence of who they are with the collective storyline that society feeds them as their reality.

Your self.

Just be yourself.

They scream this mantra so loudly in my mind, 

Where can I find this being,

When will there be a time that I can finally define the reflections of my rind,

Am I taking this to seriously?

I spent my childhood striving to see who I was, like I was searching within a big box of dominoes. It's fun to sort through in youth, but then time grows you, throws you into the manifested realm of nothingness, gripping the past trinkets of identity like they mean something. Like I mean something.

I see how large this set of dominoes really is. The game I thought belonged to my own name quickly reveals the truth of my shallow existence, as a piece in a line waiting to be knocked over. Comprehensions so explicitly real can barely be accepted by the inflated ego I have been pumping air into. The rectangles of ivory that once stood so tall and true seem stale and chipped, so I shined the pieces up, and I tried to step outside of this line, counting the number of black dots that have been stamped on my dominoes face, trying to add these numbers up into a summation of you, you , you, who are you! 

The question still lingers like a tumor on the shrine I have built myself. I want to be still, I do not want to fall with the wind, I crave something more that this slow decomposition into the dust that I was once.