Monday, November 16, 2009

Spaces

When I'm with you, I dare not remember,
Memories were drowned, if for an entire September,
Lest two months end, and this pen I'd dismember,
If not for you, be it not a start... to grace this December.

When I am without, words are easy to find,
A wall of poetry... that I am likely to hide behind,
What have I created... within the spaces of my mind?
And yet... be there a difference... had I two pens combined?



Writer's Notes:
I haven't used any j3concepts art in a long time, so I decided to use one for this piece.
His art might seem kinda wacky and bright at first... but if you take a deeper look into it, it will tell you a world of different things...

This art piece is called "Self Portrait", and to me it kinda shows an interesting paradox...

At first glance, you see a guy that is all about sunshine, rainbows and smiley faces!
He's even telling everyone that he's "Doing good, thanks!"

Take a closer look, you'll notice he's wearing a hat and a hoodie... his beard and hair are a little messy... he's almost looking down on the ground, ... etc..

Verdict: He's actually cold and sad.

Not too far from how we go about our public relations?

Friday, October 30, 2009

The King's Song - First Edit

"I am a king," "I order you to sing."
"You shall not disobey," "'Tis obedience that you will portray."

"I ask of you my king, my song for a piece of earth?"
A king would speak truth, "Your songs are not nearly worth."

"Am I to have robes made by your tailors of renowned expertise?"
"You shall have gunpowder, fired at you by however a manner you please."

"Perhaps then, my king, a quilt, so that I may rest at night and sleep?"
"I offer you a jail cell, deep within the dungeons of my keep."

"I beg of you my king, might my song be rewarded with food?"
"Never have I come across a servant ill demanding and rude!"

"Spare my life, all ruling king,"
"What would you have me -to your ears- sing?"

"A great man of men! Undefeated by whatever the tide ought bring!"
"Unyielding and callous! To that, my insolent servant, you shall sing!"
"Forget not, filthy servant, that I am your king!"
"And by the light, It is your head that I may string!"

"I sing to you my king, but where lies your place of stride?"
"Dare you question me servant? Servants are merely destined to abide!"

"I sing, but I know not of that in which you take glory."
"It is of war and battle that people speak of when telling my story."

"Excellent my king, and what of your pride?"
"I take it in my name, and in my kingdom at which I reside."

"What of existing men, said to be born and destined for your seat?"
"A close enough man will have his bones severed from his very meat!"
"I am unmeasured and unmatched, insusceptible to any form of defeat!"
"Such insolence, servant, I shall have you strung out and endlessly beat!"

"Forgive me, my king, for your answers bring forth inspiration to this song."
"Very well, insolent servant, but I'll have you know where it is that you belong!"

"Is the king not a man of his people? or so the people's whispers would speak..."
"Unknowing and pitiful! Take not the truth from those who are frail and weak!"

"Perhaps, a story unheard, of what makes his highness so remarkably elite?"
"Stories matter not, when mountains tremble in fear at my very feet."


"Most great you are... and yet, what of your days, sire?"
"I have lived a proud fifty three years, far too great to retire."

"Then I shall sing words to a man so fiercely feared,"
"Whose ruthlessness is well known and admittedly revered."

"I invoke words that are neither for the fragile nor the courage-departed,"
"Fortune favors us both, my king, as you are neither feeble nor halfly-hearted."

"But my words will not be those of a mere servant,"
"For I am the angel of death, king, and I have been observant."

"Your part has been played, and you have perfected your role,"
"Mine has yet to begin, as I have been sent to collect your soul."

"If I were to choose words to the song I would sing,"
"They would be not nearly worth long live the king."

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Sculpture

I've arrived to the day of trepidation and embodied dread,
It shall all finally come down to mere words spoken and said,
If I am now a sculpture whose art was drained and fatefully bled,
Then I am now one that portrays the precise stillness it takes to be dead.

Yet, a pulse, inside this sculpture strives to chaotically beat,
This pulse is of metaphoric substance, thus meaning is concrete,
But how can this one pulse deem a sculpture to be whole and incomplete?
When only of it, does this sculpture seem entirely independent and discrete.

Maybe I am no better a sculpture than I am alive,
Take this pen, and rewrite how I shall come to revive,
Plot how it is... how I struggle with all that which you contrive,
And when all is over, just leave a sculpture of how I came to survive.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Clover

It's all finally quiet...
For too long... you've battled this riot...

But it's all over...
And your prize is... this common clover...

Emptiness left and right...
Was it worth such a passionate fight?

What a crying shame...
Had you known the end... to this crying game...

I think maybe now...
You shall choose to disavow...

But don't lose this clover...
Lest you forget... that it is... all over...

If there's one thing you've found...
Buried deep within harmonic sound...

Should you choose to disown...
That's fine... just... leave it alone...

Because... at the end of the day...
Our feelings convey... they crash and display...

They decay... long after they delay to portray...
They lead us astray... they hurt... hurt and betray...

It doesn't matter...
These words will soon fall... and scatter...

You will forget...
Light turned silhouette...

The one thing I need you to remember...
Long... long after the end of December...

Is this clover...
Because its finally... finally all over...

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Conviction

The freedom within living in perfect consistence,
Questions this peculiarly strained twofold of an existence,
A world in which I can dance to perfect persistence,
And another in which I can perform to a twofold resistance.

Rivers of asphalt form the pathways of my convictions,
Tell me, son of man, were these not your initiate predictions?
Am I to remain uncorrupted by these consequent moral afflictions?
And yet... we are only as real as these condescending words and fictions.

I cannot be anymore than I already believe,
I am the embodiment of every meaning I've come to perceive,
I shall die in a time when lies can no longer conceive,
I shall die in a time when truth, instead, is destined to deceive.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Anomaly

There is not a more dark and mysterious place,
No way out, and yet I find comfort in your beautiful face,
My chest feels tight, my breathing takes not a steady pace,
And yet, here I am... breathing your beauty to my steady embrace.

No one knows that you and I are here,
No one knows what you and I can hear,
While my surroundings instill my being with pure fear,
All is unseen, and yet seeing you makes it all too clear.

Paralyzed before an anomaly of a duplex domain,
There is but only one absolute that I can come to explain,
I am of tears and coping, all so seemingly mundane,
You are of love and hoping, all so undeniably arcane.

Little by little, demons and angels gather round,
They do not speak a word, they do not make a sound,
Awed in silence at the confusing sight that they had found,
Amazed at a paradox of forces by which you and I are bound.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Dimension

My mind speaks of specular infinity,
But it knows nothing of definite inevitability,
My heart speaks of secular affinity,
But it knows nothing of definite divinity.

My surroundings fall perfectly into place,
A select dimension to fit an imperfect brace,
In the midst of a disorderly perfect space,
I am the one imperfect being that I wish to erase.

I am certain of nothing except that I am filled with doubt,
After all, I was indeed the liquid born of sheer drought,
Should I choose purpose, what should you be about?
Flickering lights choose persistence... as they fade and die out.

The culling begins, and to none shall it avail,
Where will you and I be... when they speak of our tale?