2/23/10

Like most of the stuff I post nowadays, I wrote this during Science.

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Some days the words come out easy

Other days a look is like a scream

Some days call for death

Same days to forget

Filled with regret

Nothing left

And yet

Every day begins

As if there was something worth living

For

Every word I write summons more

Used to say rhymes limit

Now they are a blanket

Avoiding the word "I"

Avoid having to cry

Sitting under a tree in the rain

Why can't we all remain

Asking if everything must change

And they don't hear these words

Trying to drown them

Live without them

Is it so impossible to rise

Create a compromise

Between

Time and me

Hate and Hate

With no debate

What's dead is dead

What you see is what you get

But not forever

Security

What is this destruction that is bringing down the structure of our lives? What is this communal "our" that is supposed to put us all in the same position? Why are there scars on children's faces that can only teach them about the darkness in people's troubles? Those liars who don't preach to raise awareness, but only to hide their own problems...

I don't know what someone could say to put together these pieces I'm holding in my hands. See those fibers like paper ripped apart that were once a face. And not the face of anyone I know because security doesn't have an identity. Security is a liar too - preaching examples of places where you can be unharmed. But everywhere is dangerous because you can always get hurt, but to say you're safe hides how vulnerable you really are. Every step taken is putting your entirety on the line, and we are more easily destroyed internally, before anything external can touch us. So as I hold these pieces that used to be Security, I am thankful that I get to breathe, and to stare down at my bare hands thinking. Because like those liars who are hiding their own problems by trying to act like they're solving everyone else's, I am sitting back and letting knives dig into the weakness of my own soul. Because I am the greatest example of one of those liars.

Satisfaction

I do not function well under happiness. I think I've mentioned this before in some other post, but I guess I'm going to reitterate: when I'm happy, my productivity level sinks. Some people, I've heard, are more capable to commit to things, and be creative, when they're happy. My problem is, when I'm happy, I'm too distracted to be creative. When I'm happy, the sun is too bright in my eyes, my heart is too light my head is flying, and I can't actually focus on creation. For some reason, when I am left dissatisfied with ANYTHING, it becomes a drive for me to write, or drum, or just to work. There suddenly seems to be more inspirtation, and a deeper view on the world - which sounds like bullcrap to me when I say it, but it's true. I'm not one of those people who will purposely throw themselves into a depression "for the sake of their art", but I will admit to being frustrated when I'm having a really great time of it, then I sit down to write, and I just can't. It doesn't come out. I guess writing solves my problems, and creates little safety places for me to be comforted or for me to work them out. When I have no probelems to work out, when life is satisfying, the creativity slows down. Still, it makes more sense to me, that being sad/dissatisfied would be too much of a downer or distraction.

Wall

Like staring at the outside wall

Of my own world

Last time I was here I was inside

Now staring at red-brown bricks

I hear the sounds of the club from within

The bass like a heartbeat

Drums are like a voice

Heard faintly

Whispering

A reversed setting to dwell upon

An awkward vacant room

But that story is beyond us now

Winter draws to an end

Didn't want to see time go

Tried to stop from

Slipping away

Slowly I allow nature to take it's course

Promise I'll forget one day

Future

Pain is a barrier

preventing motion towards your future.

Happiness stimulates

progress towards the future.

Memories exist

to allow the future to be the future

and not a repetition of the past.

Before

I wrote this in Latin class.

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Remember when the world was so hopeful

Nobody could know

What would happen

Remember before anyone knew

Not even me

Amo tu

Spring was so young

The sky was so high

Things were just beginning

Happy still will be

Little left for me

Stories so old

can't be told again

This springtime

All things end.

Traffic

As far back as I can remember, there was a fruit roll-up, a snowball, a confused smile, and a traffic light. There were no words being said, only images. While most will remember words, and I of all people, should be dwelling on the words, I stared at my shoes, I stared at the pigeon, and then the traffic light. I try to listen to my memory, but I only hear the sound of wheels on pavement, if anything. I try to remember feeling, but the cold didn't bother me by then.

While the world was being set back on it's pedestal, I was blanking out, words spilling out without a security check, because the guys we have in charge of that, got distracted by a light. Security check had a sudden emergency - a fire in the main control center. Fire estinguishers were blown in vain, as the visual receptors were staring at a traffic light. The verbal printer went through unedited, and the guys on security check were struggling to keep the base from burning out. They called for help from the guys they have in charge of sound. So while the main base was burning, the visual receptors, verbal printer and auditory center were all left unattented, and the memory was damaged. Instead of wise speculation and response, there was nonsense being said. Instead of picking up the most important message yet, there was nearly absolute silence. And instead of seeing a face that spelled out - everything - the only image to be found, is that of a red, flashing, traffic light.