Marbles

Let's say we're marbles --
mirror-spheres spread
ad random 'cross black free-form abyss.
This is the tabletop
where life erupts
and then folds back from the fray.

And the table does rock,
as shapes trace through space
formed by silk twixt the dots which roll on.
These threads weaved by days
and memories made,
glow up and are etched into place.

But these bonds can break,
when pressure applied
distorts shape and contorts the rays.
- Where marbles collide
and rebound back
in an inevitable pinball charade.

Facade aside, shifting,
this spiderweb construct,
connects the world taut at its base.
The blackness was made
to facilitate change
and the magnetic attraction between;
but links will still shatter,
when forced to bend farther
than the line was defined to endure.
And when marbles cease
to weave through the bleak
darkness, they cut out on their own;

revolve and roll on
a free-form ballet
to attract or repel as they may.

Contorted but stable,
starred sky paints our lives,
until each marble rolls off the table.

...and they all do.

(Untitled III)

He told me he knew someone who tried to make him feel bad; like the past wasn't past and instead should be dragged, back through his head until he couldn't forget, the sound of Her voice and his pulse pumping dread, so sick to his stomach -- wasn't it: She will never let go. There's messages daily so the whole world will know, and that's what he sees, that She's a disease, now he's falling ill, and She's falling for me, tells the world She's sooo happy, he found me at night, took a knife to my heart and, stared burn-circles into my eyes; I didn't think twice, I opened my veins and spilled out all my truth: "If this has happened to you then you'll feel like I do." This happened to him now he feels life anew, a feeling so few, have felt this until, She forgets all about you, and maybe She will. But maybe she won't, and aren't you so lucky, that the catalyst sits atop a mountain of bodies. He told me a story, but I knew how it ended, because there is no ending, when its Her you've befriended.

(Untitled II)

Now,
Don't call me worried; I'm just a bit flustered.
I've used all the patience I've mustered.
A feeling best described watching people walk by.
Then there's a reaction; add this subtraction -
a feeling of warmth when you're near.
This inkling I've had has invaded my head:
who are you to betray - double-cross - enslave with your gaze?
We all know beauties age. You won't get away.
Cyclical self-preservation meld down to a girl.
It isn't you. It's probably this world.
This place. Where tradition's at stake.

Here's to my hope that we'll meet one day in the rain and orchestrate -
I still have hope in the hopeless, a rope for the rope-less,
the off-chance you'll notice: I would be true.
Off-meter you've made me; now erratically awake - I wonder
was I wrong all along?
or is wrong relative?
when white lights flash
flaws emerge in the negatives
I'd guard against being proved wrong
but my fingers'. been on. the shutter. all. a long.

(Untitled)

The was an artist once, who did what he does, best placed in the race, behind best laid plans, alone on the street, alone in his craft, but he still keeps his peace, there's still life in these rags, torn and tattered by weather, hang lifeless and fray, he still keeps creating, whatever come what may, scorn does comply, with the weight of the world, by the blades of the weak, and the sneers of the small, of heart there's no equal, in rear view he's liquid, understood but rejected, mis-respected in the cold, oh! the aching bones, but there's hope in the fold, break ice but salve wound, if only you knew...
but you do, don't you?

I'm tired.

As I browse through pictures,
I turn so jealous, so discouraged at what my peers do.
I haven't been handed,
a thing in my past, while others just coast on through.
And here I am, grasping,
my early years yet - already a figment of peoples' past.
But a word for my father,
who has taken things harder. I know this is nothing but me.
Shake my head, blink,
squint; dig fingers in, buried - until this soreness is rid.
And here is the thesis:
the reason I write. It feels like steering into a skid.

I Can Wish All You Want

There's a partition in the mind which grows amidst the static,
caused from over-exposure to our own thoughts and habits -
the culmination of being alive in these times,
so perfectly aligned with what we "want" and "what's right".
This pokes me awake, right at the edge of sleep,
where I wonder where you are and if you're awake,
do you think of me too? I know you cared once...
and once is enough to ingrain.
I know this is foolish, this wishing game.
We all grew up knowing our lives would just change,
mold, and grow old into wrinkles then dust -
even metal rusts.

But metal we're not.
We're broken and battered from this norm we all breathe,
shaky slip-steps up the stairs to the grave,
oh there's no reason to lie when your time wastes away - - ->

They say you can't feel,
after a certain amount of love.
They say you can't love,
like you loved your first one.
They made you believe you're one of a kind.
But you're not. Sorry. You're not.

In this cryptic place, there's hope in my state -
I know I'm still young and I'm not going away.
And I have plenty of love, for the one(s) I will meet or have met,
knowing til death -
my hope
won't let
me quit.

The cynic now sleeps,
pulls up the sheets,
up to her nose - she's uncovered her feet...
she shivers; it's cold for a heart.

It's cold for a heart with no heat.

Definitely

You might not know me, or say that you do -
but I'll ask this one question: Would you really want to?
But here's my decision; it came through the quick -
where the lightning strikes ground and we build houses of sticks.
"Run away with me!" See? The wind sings me to sleep,
"Get away from this town!" down, the roadway still speaks.
"And never come back." The trees lie a lot,
and when no one is near they mock all our thoughts -
of running away. Of sweet sanctity.
"All work and no play" bores the Hell outta me.
But, oh, Heaven help me! All cliche's melt away,
and those who don't know me let their sorrowed heads sway.
If life is a battle there's not near enough action.
If life were a movie it'd be 'Fatal Attraction'.
If life were a song, it'd sing itself hoarse.
Since life is a boat it will sure sail its course.