They were just words
Waves with no destination
Looking for home
For a homecoming of sorts
Inevitably looking for actions
But he was not to be found
Brothers searching for each other
Long lost but never forgotten
Both on journeys unexplainable
No need to explain
Was not necessary
Brothers just know
Words continues searching
Endlessly with hope
Actions staggered into a fight
A battle that was not his
He does the right thing
He fights for freedom
For the time being
There will be no reunion
Actions cannot hear words
And words cannot see actions
Maybe one day
One day
Friday, April 27, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Tears
What
once was beautiful is now destroyed
What
once was love is now a consummation of hate
Pieces
of life scattered amongst the ashes
On
display for all
Whether
here or the after world
What
once was a smile is now a black lung
Gasping
for air with a slow pulse
Pictures
of happiness now just ample angst
Retorted
conversations full of vulgarity
Mirrors
broken in my name
Giving
me unfortunate luck for the rest of my life
A
slow death
I
have tears
Monday, April 23, 2012
Limon+Cello
The lemon was not to be sold.
It was ripe for its liking and knew that patience was the way to go. It was not crazy nor did it have any delusional thoughts of grandeur. It did not produce nectar nor did it ever want to be associated with honey or pollen or even bees and butterflies. It is thoroughly satisfied with its own mystery. With no place to call home, the lemon knows that with time all good things happen. With its perfect contention with its citric and acids, the lemon migrates the land like a yellow nomad. Searching in solitude for its meaning of existence. The lemon's juices spill not flow. It is rough in its nature. It has its reasons. It doesn't care about minuscule things like shape or taste or that it attacks opened wounds with a vicious tyrannical attack. The lemon knows of its idiosyncrasies and still continues to take its own path. Sure the lemon can be baked and made into an Ade that children love. But the lemon CHOOSES to engage in these extra extra curricular activities. The lemon knows its core is protected by rind and only a fool would challenge the lemon's soul. Even without a place of origin the lemon is a BACA (bad ass citric acid). And when the lemon's day is over, it relaxes to the sweet succulent charms of Limoncello.
Sip my friends. Sip.
It was ripe for its liking and knew that patience was the way to go. It was not crazy nor did it have any delusional thoughts of grandeur. It did not produce nectar nor did it ever want to be associated with honey or pollen or even bees and butterflies. It is thoroughly satisfied with its own mystery. With no place to call home, the lemon knows that with time all good things happen. With its perfect contention with its citric and acids, the lemon migrates the land like a yellow nomad. Searching in solitude for its meaning of existence. The lemon's juices spill not flow. It is rough in its nature. It has its reasons. It doesn't care about minuscule things like shape or taste or that it attacks opened wounds with a vicious tyrannical attack. The lemon knows of its idiosyncrasies and still continues to take its own path. Sure the lemon can be baked and made into an Ade that children love. But the lemon CHOOSES to engage in these extra extra curricular activities. The lemon knows its core is protected by rind and only a fool would challenge the lemon's soul. Even without a place of origin the lemon is a BACA (bad ass citric acid). And when the lemon's day is over, it relaxes to the sweet succulent charms of Limoncello.
Sip my friends. Sip.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)