Sunday, December 13, 2015

Your World is Your Reflection [Poem]

The mini meadows of green grass that are scattered, strangely, amid the concrete chaos of our cities, emanating simple stillness.


The ruined relics of steel structures in the ominous outskirts of suburbia, which make for amusing adventures to ascend.


The wondrous woods when they are sunny and sublime, or when they are shadowy and secretive, perfect places for reflection and reverence.


The bountiful bookstores filled with timeless treasures on every conceivable concept, visited voraciously by aged, amiable souls.


The blissful beaches where the opulent ocean and the splendorous sky meet, giving tantalizing tastes of a promised paradise.


These are the sort of scenes that I meet myself in, and I often wondered why.

I realize, now, it is because these are the places that are my soul's likeness.

 


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Wednesday, December 9, 2015

To Live is to be Marked [Poem]

To live is to be marked. 

When we are born we are a fresh motion of the universe.
We are born an energy of overflowing newness
unleashed upon an ancient complexity of causes. 
We are thrown into a world of people who have been marked, 
and we delight them with our marklessness.
“All children are kind and forgiving” I have heard us say, us marked ones.
They speak of marklessness with a voice both joyful and sorrowful.
Joyful, 
because marklessness exists.
Sorrowful, 
because they know it is transient,
because

To live is to be marked. 

When we grow up the universe changes us as we change the universe.
Some of our markings are like scars from daggers, 
and other markings are like the sweet moisture that remains from a kiss.
The shadows of our memories follow us everywhere we go, 
conditioning our experiences, 
and those conditioned experiences themselves become new memories,
which further condition our experiences. 

To live is to be marked
to change, to become, to be wounded, to be touched,
to live is to be-born-die-and-be-reborn-again and again.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Indoctrination [Poem]

Some kids play sports, some kids cry, 
all I did was ask “Why, why, why?” 
All my nights were vivid dreams, 
All my days I played by streams.  

*

Some kids did physical activity, 
but I was stuck in thought-captivity. 
Playing with forms and stories in my brain, 
no one ever built brakes on my thought-train. 

The society outside was neat, organized, 
everything fits into a box and gets analyzed. 
Inside me was an invisible place of genesis, 
unformed mind-stuff, nescience, and desires endless. 

To me, the mission of all adults seemed to be: 
make my soul like the society outside me, 
something labelled, boxed, with rational utility.
But why? I couldn’t understand this mad futility.  

I resisted this with all of my might, 
something about it just never seemed right.
They wanted to transform me into an adult - 
But tired misery seemed to be their result. 

But punishment is a persuasive teacher. 
I ceased being an innocent, chaotic creature. 
I took on the guise of the diligent student, 
and subjugated enjoyment to being prudent.  

I rebelled silently in the imaginary  
the space behind my eyes was my sanctuary 
But I couldn’t blur the world into a lie for long 
soon reality would face me sternly and strong.