Poetry

It’s All Here but It’s Not

Of all the waves that flow upon this ancient land
They all fail to touch the heart of it all
Human soul is not eroded by water
The heart does not die to a flood of nothingness

Apathy grips a man
And the man does not care
It’s all waves of pitiful emotion to him
Ceaseless bothers not worth the time
Nor worth the effort to control them

Human life defined by measures
Set out by humanity
The medley and the symphony
Defined by our own rules
Not defined by their beauty
But by their ability to redefine the world

“As I gaze around at all the strangers in town
I guess the only stranger is me”

Do we dream of a better tomorrow or of our own fears?
Is our reality simply nothing or completely something?
We grasp at the sun
And at the moon
Towards the edge of the universe
In hopes that something else is out there
Something better that gives us the answers
When it’s been here all along

“Though you ride on the wheels of tomorrow
You still wander the fields of your sorrow”

To find the answers
We all wander our rubber souls
And mourn for our lonely hearts
Hopefully there will be something out there
To help us
Perhaps someone
Someone better and more powerful
Someone who made all of this
Maybe he can help us
Maybe

Well isn’t that quite an idea

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Poetry

The Disillusioned King

On the precipice of the boiling war
With bombs exploding
And rifles sounding
The kingdom is falling

Invaders draw closer and closer
These old timer armies stood no chance
Stuck in their past
Led by a man long disillusioned

He’d given up many years ago
Life simple was a bore
His country went to ruin
All because he was bored

The reign of his majesty
Born out of burning revolution
His father’s noble compulsions
Not inherited by his children

There was no hope for longevity
No one wanted to admit that
It was a revolution
With no reason

And when the countries’ mother
Came calling back for dinner
Of course they came running
Crying for their mother

Doors burst open
Through the ancient castle halls
It’s empty, nothing remains
Except for the wallpaper on the walls

The triumphant soldiers ransack every room
Searching for whatever still lives
A simple light remains lit
On the highest tower

Alone in the tower
Stands the disillusioned king
Smoking his fancy cigarette
Holding his final glass of wine

“So they’ve finally found me
Brought me to the final day
No chance for all those dreams
That had long ago died

“I’ve reached it all
Nothing left in the now
My kingdom burns
And my heart does not grieve

“You violent men should know
Before I die and you leave
Continue what you’re told
That my misery is not my own cause”

With his final words breathed
He throw his cigarette
On all his countries’ art
That surrounded him in the last minutes

The tallest tower burned
Spitting fire through its windows
Every man saw the beacon
The final torch in the dying land

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Essays

As someone who enjoys writing, I struggle with which medium is best to write with. I try to keep a little notebook in my jacket, in case of sudden inspiration. There’s a red, spiral-bound notebook that is always with me throughout school and close at hand around home. Sometimes a notebook is purchased purely for the reason that “I might use it” or “this on looks nice, so it’ll definitely make me write in it more.” It all seems rather vain and wasteful, as I’ve never actually filled a single notebook ever purchased. It is rather frivolous, but it’s also defeating. Can I ever be that prolific of a writer?

Almost eighty-five percent of my collective writings is poetry. I’ve tried to write a “novel” but my own self doubt gets in the way of that. Poetry is fantastic, but it doesn’t exactly help fulfill this arbitrary goal of filling up a notebook. Poems are on average small, compared to a story. Filling a whole poem seems to be quite the feat. It’s impressive that anyone is able to fill up an entire book of poems. There’s always the opportunity to make a longer poem, but at what points does a poem just become a ramble? That question is a poisonous, but also a reality check. Many poems are cut short by the crippling doubt that goes with it.

There’s probably a few reasons that I feel so strongly about filling a notebook. Is it the pursuit of fulfillment as a writer, an attempt to prove myself to myself, or just plain vanity and pride? The doubt felt as a writer is consuming, it halts many a creative endeavor. Maybe filling a single notebook will help this doubt go away, at least for a while. Except that I know, eventually, the doubt returns. Doubt always returns. People spend a good amount of time trying to prove themselves, to others and sometimes their own mind. Completing this goal might prove something, or it might not. The only thing it really proves is that I can write a whole lot. And a small part of it all is vanity and pride, because something like this does give a sense of accomplishment, even when it might not be truly deserved.

This goal in the end is arbitrary. Filling a single notebook only leads to the next notebook. But I think that no matter how many reasons I make to explain away the problem, it does give something to strive for. Most writers would agree that having a goal of some sort is conducive to good work. All of humanity is looking for a place in this world. I think completing a goal, no matter how pointless, gives us a tiny place in the world. Filling this one notebook would give me a place, at least in my own world. It’s a noble goal, I think, and I hope one day I could say that I’ve filled a notebook.

The Pursuit of Filling a Notebook

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Poetry

Depression’s Road

The winding, bending, road stares back at me
Eyes look on as the path spirals down
The sky above remains dark as a funeral gown
Pulsing blood sends pain straight to the knee
And as my feet exchange their places
For no certain reason they increase their paces

Each step of this snake bring me closer into the tunnel
Dark and foreboding, like the mouth of a beast
On my being soon it will feast
All remaining hope pours out through a funnel
Those gazing eyes absorb my being
I wish not to feel as they can sense my feeling

Nearing the end there seems to be light
In fearing the dark I thought up my fate
It seems obvious that it was far too late
But perhaps there is an escape from this fright
Forevermore I seem to walk
My only desire is for someone to talk

At last the darkness fades
The beautiful world finally shares its love
A tiny bird flies, the image of a dove
How great it is to be gone from those shades
To be alive among the splendid grandeur
Grateful that I was able to endurea

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Poetry

Life Isn’t the Pursuit of Depression

I’m sick and tired
Of people being sorry for themselves

Because life is not the pursuit of depression
And people aren’t meant to hate themselves

People were made in the image
Of someone more beautiful than themselves

So no one should ever dislike who they are
To embrace your identity is better

If who you are isn’t perfect
I wouldn’t regret it, no one is

Life isn’t a jail
But rather an opportunity to be good

Everyone is beautiful
And I think they should accept it and move on

There is so much more to life
Than hating it

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Poetry

The

The pursuit of wealth
The pursuit of fame
The pursuit of love
The pursuit of happiness

The declarations of independence
The addresses of Gettysburg
The manifest destinies
The American dream

The love
The joy
The death
The modern

The lost
The gone
The dead
The forgotten

The missing
The dancing
The creating
The discovering

The dreamers
The writers
The lovers
The makers

The musician
The artist
The politician
The lawyer

The innovators
The cavemen
The dogs
The cats

The world

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Poetry

Wrists

The strings so old
Colors still fading

The bracelets on my wrists
Some may disappear

Long ago created
In times still remembered

Those lovely times
Times dead but not forgotten

My bracelets are not for fashion
They hold memories

Memories I love
Love in nostalgia

Even when I write
I look at my arm

And there it is
Bits of my life

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