There's a tremor named madness,
Shaking the world around us.
He know's your name.
He know's where you've been.
And where you're going.
He know's your secrets
And your innermost thoughts.
He lives inside all of us.
And only those who embrace it,
Truly understand me,
and the others who have done so as well.
The madness that dares us to be strange,
Tells us to be different,
To look at the world in a different perception.
It makes us always question,
Be inquisitive,
Be amazing.
Be human.
Which is what so many of us are not.
They've become the drones society wants us to be.
They follow orders,
They don't think.
At least not in a greater sense.
They all like the same things,
And they don't feel.
Not the way we do.
They avoid pain, love and anger.
When all it really is,
is a release.
A release from the chains who tie us down to the ground.
The chains we're all secretly afraid of breaking.
Because we know that beyond those chains.
Is the unknown, and unfamiliar.
The wicked, the weird,
and infinitely,
Our true souls.
They might lie deep in another dimension.
They might live far, far away in a distant desert.
Or in the Black Forests of Germany.
They might live in your very homes,
Maybe even in your hearts.
But you'll never find them if you don't break away.
When I was young, I was told by my school counselor that I was terribly mad.
Never have I been complimented more greatly.
I've always been considered 'weird' by my peers.
This might have actually scared a couple away.
but that didn't bother me.
I was but a child.
I was free to be me.
And then I grew,
And social pressures started hitting me more greatly.
And I was lost.
I became a conformist.
The spark of insanity I had as a kid,
was doused.
By the sudden hit of puberty and self-consciousness.
It was the saddest time of my life,
I too learned to hide my emotions,
To not feel anything.
I was just another fish in the sea.
I then realized how ridiculous that was,
and gave up.
I became me again.
Let my madness,
My soul,
overwhelm me.
And it was the greatest decision I ever made.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
What Poetry Means to Me.
"You will always be a poet" A wise man once told me.
"Others might not think of you as one, but you will"
'Why?" I asked
"is the singing of the birds not music to some?"
"yes but..."
"make your life an epic poem, as Odysseus or Dante did."
This conversation with Simon got me thinking. What is poetry? The soft spoken word of a sensitive intellectual? The cry of a mocking bird in the early morning? Words of love from one romanticist to the other? Maybe even the cry of a man in danger, asking for help and forgiveness? Then I realized that poetry is all of these things, and so much more.
It's what gives a soldier the will to fight.
What gives the blind man new found light.
It keeps the guilty men awake at night
To some poetry and art as a whole, is just people trying to confirm their own existences, but to me poetry is a way to express myself and my beliefs in a way no other art form can. It lets me take off my mask, the one I use with my family, the one I use with my friends, the one I use with almost absolutely everybody, and simply become me, the me I was born to be. The reckless, mad, and terribly inquisitive me. The me I was as a kid, and still am deep, deep inside the trenches of my soul. If I needed a confirmation of my existence, I would get into a fight, get hurt, get hit, feel the mix of emotions swell my mind, and let them overwhelm me, become me, let me be free from the chains of everyday life. That would certainly confirm my existence.
My friend Robert E. Guerra told me recently that "writing is a bit like talking to yourself, because you're saying what your soul wants to say, and you are your soul." He said that "an artist's painting is like a mirror of your inner thoughts and mind, maybe even his soul. A musician's tones and vibratos are the sound of their soul and such, well poetry is just another form of art, so it's essentially the same all artists can see, hear, read what and who they are.. some might be dark and gloomy.. others bubbly and peppy.. and us, philosophical and questioning and recently I've come to think that it isnt because we are old souls that have come to understand the forces of nature and life.. because if we were we'd be pretty gloomy.. because life is very depressing.. you've got conformity, robbery, lust for power, money and sex.. but young souls, which is what I think we are, question the world and marvel at the beauty of simply and extravagant things together.. they enjoy everything from taking a piss to reading a book to looking at landscapes and even other people." These are probably some of the wisest words I have ever heard in my entire life. Not only because it helped me achieve a whole new level of enlightment, but because of the sheer brilliance of the fact that we're not old souls but in fact young, young and inquisitive, young, inquisitive, and brilliant.
I've also come to realize that there is no good or bad poetry, poetry is your soul speaking. Some people just need to learn how direct their thoughts in a more clear manner. And to learn how to write you must infact start writing. There's no need to be discouraged, because "You might look stupid" I myself, had never written a poem before my dear friend, Carina Martinez, got me into it by saying she wrote poems herself. This inspired me in two ways, the first being me wanting to impress her, and the second was of course mere curiosity. I wanted to see how well I could write and how far I could take it, and that pushed me to go as far as I've come. I've made a lot of friends through out this journey, such as Paul Soto who deeply influenced my writing style, and was one of the first to enlighten me into greater thinking, and Simon or "Suffered Sage" who has given me some of the greatest advice I have ever gotten, and has enlightened me much more then anybody else.
What I'm trying to say is that Poetry is not just a bunch of rhyming words on a piece of paper, it's a way of life people need to learn to embrace, live and love. Because it's inside all of us, just like our blood and our arteries. But it's thicker, it's thicker because it's real. Real not in the material sense, but in the spiritual, which is what really matters.
"Others might not think of you as one, but you will"
'Why?" I asked
"is the singing of the birds not music to some?"
"yes but..."
"make your life an epic poem, as Odysseus or Dante did."
This conversation with Simon got me thinking. What is poetry? The soft spoken word of a sensitive intellectual? The cry of a mocking bird in the early morning? Words of love from one romanticist to the other? Maybe even the cry of a man in danger, asking for help and forgiveness? Then I realized that poetry is all of these things, and so much more.
It's what gives a soldier the will to fight.
What gives the blind man new found light.
It keeps the guilty men awake at night
To some poetry and art as a whole, is just people trying to confirm their own existences, but to me poetry is a way to express myself and my beliefs in a way no other art form can. It lets me take off my mask, the one I use with my family, the one I use with my friends, the one I use with almost absolutely everybody, and simply become me, the me I was born to be. The reckless, mad, and terribly inquisitive me. The me I was as a kid, and still am deep, deep inside the trenches of my soul. If I needed a confirmation of my existence, I would get into a fight, get hurt, get hit, feel the mix of emotions swell my mind, and let them overwhelm me, become me, let me be free from the chains of everyday life. That would certainly confirm my existence.
My friend Robert E. Guerra told me recently that "writing is a bit like talking to yourself, because you're saying what your soul wants to say, and you are your soul." He said that "an artist's painting is like a mirror of your inner thoughts and mind, maybe even his soul. A musician's tones and vibratos are the sound of their soul and such, well poetry is just another form of art, so it's essentially the same all artists can see, hear, read what and who they are.. some might be dark and gloomy.. others bubbly and peppy.. and us, philosophical and questioning and recently I've come to think that it isnt because we are old souls that have come to understand the forces of nature and life.. because if we were we'd be pretty gloomy.. because life is very depressing.. you've got conformity, robbery, lust for power, money and sex.. but young souls, which is what I think we are, question the world and marvel at the beauty of simply and extravagant things together.. they enjoy everything from taking a piss to reading a book to looking at landscapes and even other people." These are probably some of the wisest words I have ever heard in my entire life. Not only because it helped me achieve a whole new level of enlightment, but because of the sheer brilliance of the fact that we're not old souls but in fact young, young and inquisitive, young, inquisitive, and brilliant.
I've also come to realize that there is no good or bad poetry, poetry is your soul speaking. Some people just need to learn how direct their thoughts in a more clear manner. And to learn how to write you must infact start writing. There's no need to be discouraged, because "You might look stupid" I myself, had never written a poem before my dear friend, Carina Martinez, got me into it by saying she wrote poems herself. This inspired me in two ways, the first being me wanting to impress her, and the second was of course mere curiosity. I wanted to see how well I could write and how far I could take it, and that pushed me to go as far as I've come. I've made a lot of friends through out this journey, such as Paul Soto who deeply influenced my writing style, and was one of the first to enlighten me into greater thinking, and Simon or "Suffered Sage" who has given me some of the greatest advice I have ever gotten, and has enlightened me much more then anybody else.
What I'm trying to say is that Poetry is not just a bunch of rhyming words on a piece of paper, it's a way of life people need to learn to embrace, live and love. Because it's inside all of us, just like our blood and our arteries. But it's thicker, it's thicker because it's real. Real not in the material sense, but in the spiritual, which is what really matters.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Childhood.
I look back upon my youth,
How I long for those days.
My innocence.
My recklessness.
Everything was new to me.
The people.
The Smells.
The Sights.
But I mostly look back on the way I loved the world, and everything in it.
How I long for those days.
My innocence.
My recklessness.
Everything was new to me.
The people.
The Smells.
The Sights.
But I mostly look back on the way I loved the world, and everything in it.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Hope.
"When Prometheus stole fire from heaven, Zeus took vengeance by presenting Pandora to Epimetheus, Prometheus' brother. With her, Pandora had a jar which she was not to open under any circumstance. Impelled by her natural curiosity, Pandora opened the jar, and all evil contained escaped and spread over the earth. She hastened to close the lid, but the whole contents of the jar had escaped, except for one thing which lay at the bottom, and that was Hope."
The Hope we feel when we first fall in love.
The Hope we feel when we smile.
The Hope we feel when we experience success.
The Hope we feel when we experience sadness.
The Hope we feel when under new leadership.
The Hope we feel when we win.
The Hope we feel when we lose.
The Hope we feel when we discover something new.
The Hope we feel when we're enlightened or inspired.
The Hope we feel when when when we witness the birth of a new human being.
The Hope we feel when we are forgiven.
The Hope we feel when we hear, "Maybe"
The Hope we feel when a couple is newly wed, and fully in love.
The Hope we feel when one is complimented.
The Hope we need, to survive.
When I'm Dead.
When I'm dead,
the world's going to keep on spinning.
Children will keep on starving.
Guidos will keep on partying.
When I'm dead,
Wars will still be waged.
Tabloids will still lie.
MTV will still control our youth.
When I'm dead,
People will still laugh.
People will still cry.
People will still sing.
People will still die.
When I'm dead,
My job will be filled.
My children will get over it.
My wife will remarry.
My friends will forget.
When I'm dead,
Alcoholics will still be Alcoholics.
Prostitutes be Prostitutes.
Liberals will still be liberals.
Conservatives will still be conservatives.
I made some money,
Worked all day.
Was the nicest person I could be.
But, what did I change?
Nothing.
Absolutely Nothing.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Trapped.
Overload---
My mind's over worked.
And my thoughts are having trouble being processed.
I'm stressed out--
Tired,
and overwhelmed.
Don't know what to do or what to think,
Because everything I seem to do is wrong.
Can't think for myself.
Can't say what I believe.
Can't do what I want.
Can't experience life the way it should be experienced.
I'm trapped in a box.
A box I call home.
A box I call School.
A box I call Scheduals
A box I call work.
A box I call life.
Instead of finding myself,
I feel like I'm being destroyed by social pressure and anxiety.
My Parent's expectations.
My Teacher's discipline.
The Pressure of my peers.
I wish they would all go away.
Go away.
Go away.
Go away.
No matter how many times I say this,
It won't.
I know this--
Because I'm trapped.
And there's no way out.
My mind's over worked.
And my thoughts are having trouble being processed.
I'm stressed out--
Tired,
and overwhelmed.
Don't know what to do or what to think,
Because everything I seem to do is wrong.
Can't think for myself.
Can't say what I believe.
Can't do what I want.
Can't experience life the way it should be experienced.
I'm trapped in a box.
A box I call home.
A box I call School.
A box I call Scheduals
A box I call work.
A box I call life.
Instead of finding myself,
I feel like I'm being destroyed by social pressure and anxiety.
My Parent's expectations.
My Teacher's discipline.
The Pressure of my peers.
I wish they would all go away.
Go away.
Go away.
Go away.
No matter how many times I say this,
It won't.
I know this--
Because I'm trapped.
And there's no way out.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The American Dream.
His Name was Robert Paulson
He lived A Happy Life
He was an everyman
He Worked a blue collar job
He Earned about $67,000 a year
He would walk around pompously with his cheap tie and suit
While carrying a leather brief case he had no need for
He was slightly overweight,
He was Partially bald,
and He smelled faintly of Febreze Air Freshener
His wife was a stay at home mom,
She cooked,
She cleaned,
She raised,
And She took care of his three kids,
And their pets.
He drove a honda civic
Scented with Cough Drops and Cigarette smoke.
He lived in the Suburbs,
He lived next to a Preacher and A High School English Teacher,
He lived In a modestly sized two story home.
And he went to church every Sunday,
Would watch some football, to watch his favorite team play
And after that he would go catch a couple drinks with his friends
Bob lived the American Dream.
The Sad Monotonous American Dream.
He lived A Happy Life
He was an everyman
He Worked a blue collar job
He Earned about $67,000 a year
He would walk around pompously with his cheap tie and suit
While carrying a leather brief case he had no need for
He was slightly overweight,
He was Partially bald,
and He smelled faintly of Febreze Air Freshener
His wife was a stay at home mom,
She cooked,
She cleaned,
She raised,
And She took care of his three kids,
And their pets.
He drove a honda civic
Scented with Cough Drops and Cigarette smoke.
He lived in the Suburbs,
He lived next to a Preacher and A High School English Teacher,
He lived In a modestly sized two story home.
And he went to church every Sunday,
Would watch some football, to watch his favorite team play
And after that he would go catch a couple drinks with his friends
Bob lived the American Dream.
The Sad Monotonous American Dream.
Monday, November 8, 2010
In the Rye Field.
There we are,
alone in a rye field.
Me and you,
Hand in hand
I stare into your eyes,
And see a sudden sadness.
I ask you what's wrong,
While I Hold you tight.
You look away, push me.
Clearly Disgusted.
And you run.
20 years later,
I now stand alone,
In the very same rye field.
Wondering what went wrong.
I ask you why,
You don't reply,
Because you're long gone.
alone in a rye field.
Me and you,
Hand in hand
I stare into your eyes,
And see a sudden sadness.
I ask you what's wrong,
While I Hold you tight.
You look away, push me.
Clearly Disgusted.
And you run.
20 years later,
I now stand alone,
In the very same rye field.
Wondering what went wrong.
I ask you why,
You don't reply,
Because you're long gone.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I think of you.
While I'm watching the sunset, I think of you.
Brushing my teeth, I see you
Asleep in the classroom, you're all I think about.
I think about How you've always been there for me,
I think about all the times we spent together,
I think of all the things we could be,
I think of all the things we'll never be.
Brushing my teeth, I see you
Asleep in the classroom, you're all I think about.
I think about How you've always been there for me,
I think about all the times we spent together,
I think of all the things we could be,
I think of all the things we'll never be.
Taking the wheel.
Heavens, Dearie let me take the wheel
We'll drive towards the sun,
Damn you'll have fun.
The world is our playground,
And our lives have just begun.
We'll drive towards the sun,
Damn you'll have fun.
The world is our playground,
And our lives have just begun.
I am.
I'm the leader of controversy
I spike the interest of the insane.
I start fights, even though I always lose.
Just Because I like the thrill.
I steal from the poor.
I also steal from the rich.
I spit in the faces of Phonies, Impostors, and Fags.
Even though I am all three.
I am a racist, even though I pretend not to be.
I hate little kids.
And the Elderly.
I Don't believe in love
I don't believe in compassion either.
Fuck the Rain forests,
We need a new What-A-Burger here in America
Fuck the ozone,
It's not like I'm even gonna live to see the world flood.
Fuck Haiti,
It's not like anyone's ever donated any money to me and my crippled bank account
Fuck The Starving Children of Africa,
I didn't even eat breakfast this morning.
Everyman for himself, fuck the rest.
I call this Capitalism.
Work 15 hours a day, here's 5 bucks for the rest of the week.
I call this Communism.
King rules, everyone else can go to hell
I call this Monarchy.
Do you like them?
I created them.
I created all forms of government.
Religion too.
No I am not the devil,
I am not god either.
I am mankind.
Mankind at it's darkest hour.
Mankind when it needs the most hope it can possibly get.
I am you.
I spike the interest of the insane.
I start fights, even though I always lose.
Just Because I like the thrill.
I steal from the poor.
I also steal from the rich.
I spit in the faces of Phonies, Impostors, and Fags.
Even though I am all three.
I am a racist, even though I pretend not to be.
I hate little kids.
And the Elderly.
I Don't believe in love
I don't believe in compassion either.
Fuck the Rain forests,
We need a new What-A-Burger here in America
Fuck the ozone,
It's not like I'm even gonna live to see the world flood.
Fuck Haiti,
It's not like anyone's ever donated any money to me and my crippled bank account
Fuck The Starving Children of Africa,
I didn't even eat breakfast this morning.
Everyman for himself, fuck the rest.
I call this Capitalism.
Work 15 hours a day, here's 5 bucks for the rest of the week.
I call this Communism.
King rules, everyone else can go to hell
I call this Monarchy.
Do you like them?
I created them.
I created all forms of government.
Religion too.
No I am not the devil,
I am not god either.
I am mankind.
Mankind at it's darkest hour.
Mankind when it needs the most hope it can possibly get.
I am you.
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