His wings are clipped. They hold no air.
Swaying like a strand of hair.

A sad image, mixed with color and tears.
The artist weeps but also fears.

That the image might begin to fade.
To it we become a slave.

He is fallen but he does not fall. To falter in step expected, remain tall.

And as he searches desperately for that which is lost. He burns the earth with his tears. He does not realize that what he seeks is no longer obtainable. Sadly does he flutter to land but not to be a god among men. He has no pride for that. Instead he accepts what fate has written.

And as a sun dies, a star is born.
To outshine that which was lost.
And as a son is born, a father dies.
To free up light for those to come.


Her Name

All I care for is a name. A label to place over the angelic face that I see, do I dare to clothe her in flesh? Is she instead the phantom I know her to be, ever fleeting from my grasp? She has danced away from my arms for years now, wearing a different face, but sometimes the same dress. A devilish red or a flash of heavenly white, it is the same tantalizing reward that I receive. I know her, I know her, but what was her name. My mind shatters from the strain of wanting to solve this mystery, of needing to understand.

She smiles and in those moments I feel the cramping of pain inside. The affliction has been known by many names, first love, love at first sight, and just a general sense of painful love are all understood conditions. Her looks and knowing glances are a testament to her attempts at murder. What a cold smile, the type of expression a killer might have while grinning at the moment he inserts his dagger into your heart. Who would have thought that the world’s deadliest assassins would be women? And to think that they can extinguish a life with a glance and crush a hope with a simple “no.” But still the men long only for a name.


A shadow and a soul

A shadow and a soul stood on the deck observing the sunrise. They argued about the past, how it had really occurred, and speculated on the future and who would not be needed. It is an interesting sight for the birds as they alternate their amusement between the man and the morning worms. The gods laugh at our seriousness and the angels sigh over our frailty in jealousy. And still we stand and ignore it all, we argue.


That Song

This won’t make any sense, my bad…?

I hear it playing, reminds me of the club and the shades of smoky grey. The line between realities, I revel in the feeling now. There it is again, a flash of image sparkling along visionary lines. Taking me there, back. Like a rose found, plucked, and then left… burning the image is simple when revolt of the mind occurs. The brain supersedes the soul and revolution’s banner is raised. It plays a sad song, like a saxophonist on a warm evening. When the mood is right and the feet do dance, how they dance. Dusty floors meet sparkling ball rooms to cascade as fireworks in my mind. And still the music plays, that song… you.


The Rain

I hear it coming in the form of thunder. The coming clouds tell me the rain approaches. It comes to Florida in the sound of skittles hitting the pavement and the falling of a child. It scatters across America as injustice’s banner is waved above our own. The rain pours like the pelting of protest as our military men are offered jobs at Wal-Mart as compensation for their service. It glares as the corporate lawn next to mine gets to water daily, but I am forced onto a 2 day water restriction. It will breed hot with rage when the lower 3 quarters gets tired of being told how to live by the lesser amount. The rain will come.



He wanders about in the landfill searching for lost treasures. Objects that people have discarded and no longer see value in. A half-eaten can of beans, a bag of bread that is only partially molded, and a blanket that looks brand new except for a tear are all the Christmas presents he needs this year. His tears of gratitude are admired by the observant birds above as they turn overhead and watch the best and worst that man has to offer. Here they behold the pure image of humility and they give witness to this man’s conversation with someone he calls Jesus. Whoever this symbolic creature is the sanctity in his name is not missed by the small-minded creatures above. They sing to each other seeming to repeat the spoken gift amongst themselves. Suddenly as one the birds begin to fly low, catching the man’s eye below, as they dramatically shoot straight up into the sky. Their action guides the man’s sight to the one he so eagerly praises and in that moment his faith is solidified in the recognition that the glory he seeks is actually above and not to be found upon the earth that he walks.

The Dark

I feel blind. Without my medication there is no poetry, no desire to write… I see words and thoughts, but they slip from my grasp like smoke. There is just a blank sheet. It feels like a disease… like I am a child again. I hate this feeling. I seem to only be able to express myself in short sentences. I don’t feel like conversing. I hate you. I hate me. It will get better… just not today. Not today.

They walk by the window and observe the closed sign hanging from a chain. It is an oddity, a puzzle. There is just nothing here right now.


The Session

He comes and goes. There is no pattern.

And here I hang, arms tied above my head like a slaughtered pig. Or a pig waiting to be slaughtered.

The door behind me bursts open, the only door in the room. I have thought of the existence of that door for days now, or has it been weeks?

Hands grab me and place me into a chair. The same chair, possibly once part of a nice dining room set, now used for man’s evil deeds. The types of sin we only do behind closed doors.

It begins.

The punches are expected, the session normally begin with them to wake me up. It isn’t to break me, they know that won’t work, instead it is to humiliate me and show they can. It is like a slap in the face.

A hand slaps me in the face. I try to grin but after days of this the swelling has made it hard. You never show fear to your captors, they feed off the emotion like sharks.

It goes on for hours and I begin to scream very early into the session.

“What is the answer?”

I do not know, I truly wish I did. My voice has long since gone hoarse from the continuous yelling in pain. My tormentors are kind in that they allow me a brief sip of water in between sessions.

I never see his face. It is a man, no woman could be this cruel… at least none I have met. It might be the same guy or a different individual each session, but it is still the same result. Pain.

We begin again.


Steady Hand

I do not know what time will bring. What sunrises may be seen or songs we might sing. I do not worry about the ending of a story until it comes. When your eyes are always focused up ahead you tend to trip over the smallest stone.

Being caught by your steady hand allows for some divided attention. For when support is felt, courageously do we strive on towards common goal. Let us never feel the weight of the vanguard, for there is no lonelier soul than he that guards the rear.

You will never keep the company of only a shadow as long as I live. For a shadow has no soul and you lose a little of yourself when you willingly connect with the soulless.

Choppy waters turn into placid lakes of calm. We bask in the peaceful bliss of being unafraid. Your hand steadies my nerves and calms my demeanor. The sureness of your touch is equal to the solidity of your presence.

I will miss you.


The Rain

A concert of nature takes place today. It starts with a steady rhythm of tears from the clouds of above. They strike the window in death and the sound that comes forth joins the rest of the chorus.

Queue the thunder now. It rumbles in the background trying not to outshine the rain. And yet it will willingly block out the sun while turning face to darkness.

Sound and light are needed. Where is the lightning? Ah, there it is. Steady, powerful, and yet we love the unpredictable nature of it. The lightning presents a variable for this symphony and the crowd is delighted by the display of aggression.

Through it all is the main duet. A waltz between the beating of the heart and the consoling rain from above. They sing to each or are they actually competing for your heart?

Who can say… but today there is still the rain.


I Dream

I dream a dream within a dream.

Like falling through an onion’s rings.

There is no fate, there is only me.

Who am I meant to be?

I drink a drink to help me think.

Until the cup’s bottom does wink.

What was I meant to see?

I tell a tale of past and present’s hell.

There are no lovely wedding bells.

And yet happiness can be seen.

I write to write something for the light.

The darkness holds no right.

And through it all a life is lived and here I sit in between.


An Ounce of Finality

He pours an ounce of finality into a glass. The action lasts a lifetime and memories flow with each drop of liquid. The whiskey lays waiting with memories floating like ice cubes. The harsh touch of the alcohol forces away the inhibitions of the waiting beverage. Before a sip has been taken, secrets have been released within its amber depths. Dreams, fears, and regrets float lifelessly under the surface, frozen in surreal poses of imagination and reality from the past.

Like a museum I am surrounded each night by the shades of the past. They form a silent line while I choose my sleep’s companion. I glance up periodically in frustration at the waiting faces. They make neither sound nor motion, instead content to wait upon my recognition of their existence. As the memories held within my glass crack and break apart, they dissolve releasing their contents into the amber abyss. Another skeleton can be seen descending to join his brethren below. He takes the crown I toss to him and places it upon his head.



Do not waste your tears or concern over me. A shadow does not need sympathy and rarely acknowledges it, even when presented with the kindest of intentions. I float between scenes, never the main character, but more important than you and you. I have played my part in tragedies, in stories of happiness, and in tales of shame. Amusing to think that the hero can also take on so many other roles and yet willingly do I accept the mask that is given to me. For when I wear the mask no one can see my grimace of disgust. No one can truly see me.

Singular am I as I stand by myself and enjoy the companionship of the wind. Company does not bring comfort, but instead causes a feeling of claustrophobia that threatens to overwhelm me. This is when I am appreciative of my loneliness so that my focus is not divided. No I do not have time for your troubles or issues; they will never supersede my own. My problems stand in a long line of succession and present a lineup one might expect in prison. Their names are even more ridiculous than the vices that they own, but still at least they are mine. At least the decisions were made solely by me alone and because of that I can accept the consequences.

I will never try to justify who I am. I don’t feel the need to and I don’t think people deserve to know all the “whys.” If you want to know “why” something is the way it is go walk the path yourself. Do not attempt to pick the lock of a closed chest simply to satisfy your own selfish curiosity.


A Cathedral of Fire

I flick my pen in the direction of the walls and the ceiling above.

A Cathedral of Vocabulary is formed around me.

Like the splattering of paint, words fly forth from my baton.

I direct a Fantasia like chorus, full of meaning and hope.

Mantras we recite and in those moments we are the moment.

I wonder my room can contain it all, as the jumbling ideas create a cacophony.

And like a climax my Cathedral catches fire and begins to burn.

I drink my Famous Grouse and savor the warmth of the burning words.

As I inhale them they form nicely with the flavors of my whisky.

I savor both and join in with the flames.


Giving Birth to Death

The screams can be heard from outside the home. Not surprising in this small village of straw huts and tin garages that serve as humble abodes. Strangely, despite the poverty, the place feels like home.

Soft voices whispering comforting words rise from the small window from the bedroom. He looks in quickly so as not to be noticed. Men are not allowed during these times of… trial.
He sees his wife, glowing as the sun. Her face is full of pain, such pain. He desires only to go to her, but knows that he should not. His outstretched hand falls limply to his side. He can only serve as the spectator that he is.

The village “doctor” murmurs and shakes her head. She turns and whispers something to a waiting girl who quickly darts out the door for some necessary object. On the bed his wife pants for breath as if she has run miles and still has further to go.

A shriek pierces the night and torments his ears. He will never forget that sound. Missing is the commotion of joy or happiness. Only terror at what might be happening, at what is to come.

And as the doctor bends down she can be seen to remove a body. A small body that does not move, and yet still it glows as his wife does. A piece of heaven, a piece of perfection, untouched by the hate and the fear of the world. The baby will forever sleep in peace.

In this knowledge, in giving birth to death, a father can find some comfort.


Exploding Butterflies

I walk amongst the fallen and still falling. They pause for lifetimes in the air, just long enough for a tear to form. It does not drop, but instead hangs like a cliffhanger… for just another second still. From that drop of lifewater twirls reflections of reality and like a chandelier of chaos it dangles from my eyelash like a flambeau leading my vision by example.

I blink…

And in doing so I shatter the illusion that had begun to form and like a splash of cold water I awaken to exploding butterflies around me. I dance amongst their carcasses like raindrops as I spread my fingers between their lives. Such small droplets of insignificant identities, worthless now, and weighing no more than the wind’s breath that carries them. They flutter for a second as if desperate to matter for just a moment longer… but eventually they continue to descend upon their preordained path.

I step…

Within my motion I strive for emotion. I push myself to want to feel for that which I have seen and that I am currently seeing before my eyes. I begin to cry. Not tears of ideology or circumstance, but real tears that come from a connection to a moment. A moment never lasts though and like fog it vanishes before the fury of desperation. Desperately I take another step.



They touch with thought. The desire is felt physically through their eyes. Music is in the background… something soft and unobtrusive. Nothing matters but the present.

He raises his hand and touches her cheek. He does not caress her, he is afraid he might mar her beauty. Instead he lightly touches her and whispers in her ear.

A hint of a blush, a small nervous giggle, those are the rewards for the right words. That is what he is given.

Their eyes meet once more. Desire has been replaced by passion and fear. The passion is for the emotion; the fear is that the moment might slip away. They embrace it.

As their lips touch they do not lose eye contact, they do not lose the present. There are no fireworks, no magical lightning bolts that come from their kiss. The effects are internally felt though, a slow throbbing of need, and want, has replaced given heartbeats. Their hearts seem to be one.

He leads her through the door. She hesitates… but only for a moment. She is already there. As she takes her first willing step she sheds her doubts like a robe, placed upon the floor next to her clothes.

And above the moon closes his eyes and wishes for the sun.

Have a good weekend everyone.


Mountains and Steps

Accomplishments can sometimes be a hard thing. You conquer a mountain only to find yourself on top of it with your hands on your hips wondering what is next. Sometimes this can cause a momentary lapse in motivation. I have always wondered how artists and painters that seem to push work out with incredible speed do it. Do they not sit for a second and contemplate and appreciate their work? It isn’t a total mystery to me, however, since I view blogging with much of the same respect. I do not sit back on my accomplishments and smile… at least not much. Doing that is only a temporary satisfaction to me, the end goal is the true satisfaction in life for me. I am thus always pushing and driving towards something in the distance.

I have to stop to remind myself to appreciate the now and the current moment. I have always had an issue with appreciating the moment I am living in, too busy focusing on something in the future. I don’t have a huge problem with worrying overly about the past, it has happened and I move on, but the future is so intriguing to me that I sometimes find myself living there… instead of here. Driving into work today I noticed a beautiful sight from my normal drive in Broomfield, CO. I glanced towards the mountains and noticed a perfect postcard scene. Dark clouds had surrounded a distant mountain top, but had parted enough to allow a halo of light to illumine the top. The surrounding mountains were perfectly darkened, as if in homage to the single peak in the distance. It made me stop and wonder if anyone else had appreciated the scene like I had, or were they too busy trying to get home for the night as most people are during that time of the day.

One mountain at a time, one step at a time is how I am trying to live my days. Appreciating each moment for the moment, it is a hard concept for someone with my personality traits. It can be done though.


The Night

And do I dare to challenge the night? To take my candle into the rain and hope that it will survive. Will I roar at the thunder and tell them to bring their pain, judgment, and condemnation? Do I wait for the judges’ tap of his gavel to hope for mercy, or do I scream in his face and tell him to save his mercy for the weak? Why do we seek the comfort of the night when humans roam the day? Is the separation from the unnecessary, necessary? Do we test our metal to see if it breaks, or to temper it with fire? Tested and challenged, but never defeated, do we hide in the night from defeat?

I spar with the evening and dance in the dark. For with the closing light, the evening is still connected to the fear of the day. A feeling of glee erupts upon sight of shuttered windows and extinguised

This won’t get finished for 2 weeks… and I hate drafts. Just going to publish, excuse the amateur hour.


A Mistaken Light

Is that the light I see ahead? A way to an easier path and an escape from the perils that haunt previous footsteps which I have taken. Is one light the same as the other? How confusing it must be to test the sanctity of a ray of sunshine. And yet we taste and sample the differences continuously throughout the day. It is a wonder that the taste buds of our tongue can differentiate between the good and the bad when we are continuously assaulted by the unknown.

We glance at bending stream of crystalized essence as it spreads across the floor before us. The pureness of the beam gives its edges a sharpness that steel would be jealous of. As we pass our hand through the illusion it cuts in half, broken immediately by the touch of human skin. Have we broken the perfect picture, or has the picture retreated from the imperfection that has touched it. We can but stare and wonder in tears at the hint that we are no longer as pure as the image in front of us. We are instead the shadows that define the light, and any goodness that others see in us is simply a mistaken light in itself.


Honor Lost

I have given my word I say. I will be there on that day. The price I will pay. Nothing can turn me away.

The days have passed and the night has come. Honor is lost.

I live my days a shadow. I am no longer what I was or am worthy to call myself by the same name. I don’t give my word, because my word means nothing. All the passion and anger inside matters for naught when the world doesn’t trust your voice. Without honor I am bound to nothing. When you are bound to nothing you are unpredictable and a rogue. The world hates the unpredictable… the uncontrolled.

And thus without honor I live. The one thing given, the one thing now lost. Who cares about material things when the one priceless thing was wasted for nothing? There is no price that could make this emptiness worth it. I am now the soulless, for the soulless have lost their honor.



You called the sun and screamed when you were burnt.

Another day gone, another lesson learnt.

It is amazing that we must learn through pain.

Sometimes that is the only way to value the gain.

Conclusions drawn through mistaken assumptions do show.

How lazy humans can be and even how low.

That they may go to discredit a stranger.

Such misplaced hate, such wasted anger.


The Leap

He contemplates for seconds what we would for years. There is no training needed. His only motivation is instinct, birth, and a need to be over there, and not here. A sudden noise behind causes a torrent of emotions overwhelmed by fear. There is one escape. Had anyone below cared to look up they would have stopped in awe at the feat. And in that moment of destiny the squirrel leaps for the distant branch and fully understands why he was made.



Nameless. Identified by a badge or a number.

When did I start becoming known by my “mother’s maiden name?”

Sad, unimportant, so much so that no one cares our personalities are being stripped away.

Society is now known by the few privileged individuals that get to keep their names.

I want my name back!

“Yes Sir, 4312, we will take your complaint into consideration.”

At least the famous robots have cool names.



I cannot see through the sand. As time is swept away by the wind.

It carries me as well and takes me from my sin.

I have done good things; they weigh less than the bad.

The scale is unjust I say, but internally I am still glad.

At least it was I that did those actions. It was me.

I cannot lay my faults at another’s feet, I cannot turn and flee.

We run in the night, blinded by the tears of knowledge.

Even as we kneel down and pray, as we do pledge.

He nods every time, he understands even us.

We pour forth our past, we feel we must.

No one cares about you, just die and be done.

But to stick around when not wanted, that does sound like fun.