Shatter Me

Shatter me with your passion and send my soul into the wind. That I may fly towards another and share your words. Cradle me against the torrent of humanity, the tears of anger and sadness of others wash over me. I close my eyes to the pain of the world for a second, a second just to myself… Laying down the boulders of others, I take up my own cross and begin to climb The Hill. Inadvertently I follow the footsteps of others, but I do not share their trials or their story. The mud from their tears provides a fresh pavement for my own footsteps to leave their impression. A trail of humanity for the next.


Random House

Our rooms are painted with emotion as we live our life within them. We play our parts well under sun and stars. No script is needed as our hearts spar daily with one another. So passionate is the act our shadows join in the dance. They smile maniacally back at us as they observe the scene of the day. Random House… you present both ends of the essence of feeling and tie our humanity in a knot. Our hands meet and pause while we consider the mood of the moment. Moments spun together presenting life, the life found within the Random House.

Goodnight WP,

You are my Sin

You are my sin I stir you with a thought as I savor each taste. I smoke you in a pipe and exhale you into the breeze. You flutter in the wind like a squall, I wave as we sail away into the palpable darkness. It hangs like a shroud trying to separate us from the fortunes to be found. I sip from a single glass that has tasted many different waters. They make small waves within my cup, different shades of amber, the miniature icebergs scream for help as they slowly melt and die. I swallow quickly to save a single life. Only one life is worth retaining an ounce of pain. I owe mankind that. And in his image do I spear the demon I behold before my eyes. He squirms like a pathetic worm as I flick him off with disdain from your spear.

They come in with the tide on ships built upon dreams and the backs of men as they sweat dead dreams out of their pores. The terror that follows is swift and deadly. I dream of days past as I stare in the embers of the fire and wish vengeance on my enemies. You come quietly to comfort me. Our comforting leaves me satisfied for the brief seconds it takes to buckle on my sword. I step out into a nightmare… and face it with a cold smile. Glancing back at you as the door slowly closes with a movie scene theatric, we smile for a moment in chaos and share one breath together. I turn around and stare my first foe in the eyes. He does not blink as he rams his saber into my body. I begin to laugh and grab the sword blade with my left hand, it bleeds as the metal cuts into my palm. I pull my new lover closer and thrust my sword into his throat. The moment could never have been so sweet, the sweet taste of death.



I want or do I need?

I seek as I begin to feen.

Irritation bubbles like a cloud.

Deciding who I hate from the crowd.

I see a red mist before my eyes.

Compassion, love… it all dies.

Cheerful laughter of children does not help.

It is all about me. Myself.

I shout within, hidden behind a mirror.

One day it will shatter. Finally bringing forth the horror.



They will always have something to say. They will try to compare and contrast your actions to their own lines of thought. Similarities between lives become instant points of contention because we as humans take different things to heart from each situation. One person focuses in on the pain, another praises the presence of God, and still the third mumbles that at least the devil wasn’t involved this time. Separate points of view focused on the same scene, we all reach for the white elephant and feel different portions in the night.

Do we live a single life only to try and impress our lessons upon another? Is each step walked in hope that an opportunity will present itself to give a lesson instead of merely living our lives? I see doctors and professors in every direction, desperately they seek a student to teach each day. We scream at the wind without concern of sound because our action is just that… an action. There is no will for reception from them.


To Kill a Light

Would I kill a light to light up a fire? To create a pyre that burns my wishes in the night air, blowing smoke into the face of god so that he knows I am here. A religious man for an hour, when there are twenty four hours in a day. A sad thought is considered upon sips of Russian vodka and American made beer. I stir thoughts and dreams together, they melt like ice cubes in my cup of life. Wishing for a cigarette to calm rivers of thoughts. I say rivers plural because there are too many to count. I pick one like a sailor picks his voyage and upon selection a choice is made. An adventure like a “choose your own adventure book” we once enjoyed as children. What will our story tell?

Jal ja,


Finding Yourself

The past unknown can be bore, when no knowledge is had of that which was tore.

When the seal of history is cut, A piece of your heart can be seen to jut.

From that wound so small, so infinite. All you knew is surely bent.

Pain deeper than any well, can surely seem like the fires of hell.

But that pain, that gift, although so small, Starts the pieces of the puzzle to fall.

That puzzle, the key, to finding yourself, Is the inner soul’s manna, its being, its health.

That stranger that walks a different life, with whom you have so much strife.

Your identical twin, your brother, your soul. Whose relations with you takes its toll.

It is his place you wish to be. To be able to say, hey this is me.

But his life is not your path to take. The Gods have rolled their dice, it is their choice to make.

What trials and tribulations each shall endure, we should rejoice we don’t have more.

Kill the image you wish to be, Your fate before you never flee.

Until those gates you should climb, Be glad of the days that you may dine, On the fruits of life and wine.

Until you dance with death and die, To spit in the devil’s eye.


My Friend

DSC_0923I knew your touch before I knew the feel of flesh. You are my strength and display of resolve, whatever that resolve may be. I tuck you close against the weary eyes of man, they would stare in envy at your sweet curves. Let no one else’s hand touch you or feel the weight of your compassion, let them instead find that out in times of need. For drawn you are for a purpose and only a fool would cut himself. Sharpened you are daily with a tool bought from a Sporting Good store, I prepare for your every need. Like cutting those plastic price tag rings that are so damn hard to get off.


A Father’s Promise


You will never know the pain of being unwanted. The fear of arriving in a foreign world alone and being told that it is now your new home. Not everyone is as lucky as your father was, but luck will never have anything to do with your safety in this world while I am around. Guardian angel take a rest, while I am breathing my daughters will always be watched over.


Liquid Glass

I cannot see the light as I stare into the night. I stretch out my hand and rest it on a prayer. It flutters beneath the failing strength of my belief. Bottled hope is sold within buildings of sand and stone. Beacons of guidance that shine with splendor… blinding the very ones that approach on bended knee. Look up fool and see the god you kneel before.

I ignore the praise that is freely given. It clatters upon the cobbled courtyard and bounces oddly like fool’s gold. Value washes away with the tide, I lament the need for sorrow at its passing. Still, I care not.

Each morning I see you. We look deeply into each other’s eyes… the same damn eyes. We struggle, we accept, and we struggle again. The intensity of our bond causes the glass to melt. It forms small puddles upon the floor that reflect different images of my inner struggle. I stomp on them, but with each victory I am rewarded with more awareness of my failure. I weep my soul from my eyes. It falls like liquid glass even as it struggles to keep a single fingertip upon my queevering eyelash.

I blink and another dream dies without a sound.


To Kiss the Rain

I kiss the rain to hide my tears. Drowning in sorrow, I present a smile to the sky as I float amongst my fears. We present a collage of humanity against the despair that seeks to break us. So much effort to destroy a single spirit, take heart in knowing your importance. I am a single candle that shines against the coming torrent. Even when the rain comes and snuffs out my flame in that final moment… I will still attempt to kiss the rain one last time. If only in the hope that the smoke will carry my story on for a second longer.


Morning Sun

I meet my fears daily. They stand upon the deck with me, I feel their hands upon my shoulder. Their added weight does not comfort me, it in fact causes me to lean slightly to the left and may cause future harm to my knees. I think I will ask my doctor about that.

The coming sun does not portray a singular shadow upon my unswept deck. Instead I see a crowd behind me. I turn my head, there is no one there. Their voices are clear in the morning air, we pause in debate and watch a duck fly by looking for the lake a block over. It captures our attention for a moment and we forget our prescribed parts in this play. Reality quickly fixes this momentary lapse in attention.

I look down and see their eyes upon me. My eyes. A new day begins.


Jack in the box

Sleep begins the turning process. What surprise shall we observe tonight? Apprehension meets foregone conclusion as my hands turn trembling page. Balance found in imbalance of life, the mighty of the day tremble beneath sheets of pure white. We soil them with our humanity as we sweat our pride from open pores. What does the box of dreams hold for me tonight…


Drinking Tears

We drink tears in the morning, to hide the face of shame from those that look to us for guidance. I would never wish upon my children a guide that sees only through the sorrow of a continuous torrent. So I hide those emotions with the coming of the sun and sneer in disdain at the weakness that made me break, if only for a moment.

We drink our tears with coffee, tea, and whatever fills our cup in the morning. The bitterness sweetens stronger than sugar and awakens us faster than pain.



Weightless perfection is captured in suspended beauty. Fearlessness painted in the face of a courageous mask, worn by young braves as they bounce off the walls of reality. Limbs and body as flexible as the will that sends them spinning through the air, they shed their cares with each rotation. Many names for the same act of joy that is clearly pictured in the combinations of life that takes on this art form. Like gladiators they spar with their shadows and attempt to leave their past behind. And with each moment that their two feet hit the ground… another act is soon to follow.


Unfilter Me

Unfilter me with your honesty. Crash down these walls being built on all sides. Stay the hands that lay brick by brick the inhibitions to my imagination… my needs. I kill them.

Savor the moment of freedom from obligation. A subservience to his rules, her rules, and most definitely their rules… curse your rules world. Lay not your chains upon my feet. I will walk or run at my own will. Sharing freely or sharing nothing at all.


Peeling Daisies

Peeling daisies, I have peeled them all.

From the small to the tall.

Until I happened upon a rose.

Able to stand toe to toe.

Finally an equal I had truly found.

For were there not two crowns?

Why do all the work yourself?

If you can have someone else to tell.


The Killing Field

The children run and play amongst the broken bones.
Roses grow and butterflies fly above our fallen foes.

We cannot escape as much as we turn from the past.
Our feet shuffle and toes squish amongst the fallen ash.

Tears of the dead have watered those many oaks.
They pull in each drop as the rag does soak.

And with each sun more souls are added still.
Into the killing field until the ground is fully filled.


Burning Rain

Burning rain floats, it does not fall.

Gently gliding, it brings no pain at all.

Chasing dreams with a net.

We slip, we fall, “Get up you shit.”

Driving ourselves because no one else will.

Walking like zombies, is this world real?

And yet we know that it is each day.

As the burning rain floats along the sun ray.


When the Candle becomes the Sun

I promise you the sun and instead offer a candle as light. The force of my will alone seems to strengthen the light shining from it. Bright as the sun, the stars they weep in envy. I take pride. I take pride in the joy I have brought you, not in the deed that has been done. For what strength of one cannot be accomplished by many? Ah, but there is one. It comes to mind as the sun hides his eyes and scurries away from his chasing mistress. She beams down with pride upon our accomplishment. For you see the candle is not feeding off me alone. No my dear… together we empower this flame and our mirrored smiles will turn to greet the moon as our candle becomes the sun.


Color by Number

You predefine where I can draw a line.
Or tell me how to write a rhyme.
But you cannot choose the color of the day.

You tell me what goes with what.
If I am silly or acting a nut.
But a question I have if I may?

Who has the final say on matters?
On this, that, or the later.
Whoever made these rules we use.

For rules are at the root of the issue.
I despise them, I will never miss you.
For with them I feel the abuse.

You confine my creative nature.
With your color by number legislature.
Free me from these external constraints.

And with the bonds now loose, I walk free.

To soar like a bird, whatever I want to be.
To color anything, free of restraint.


Amber Glow

I see the shards of light sparkle off the waves within my glass. I slosh the liquid truth around seeking answers, seeking why. The “why” becomes the bane of my peace. I watch it melt like an ice cube, consumed by truth’s sweet desire. I do not just drink the amber glow. I consume it.


A Writer’s Contemplation

I am the last person that should preach on self-doubt. I have enough of it to share with the world and then some. Perhaps that is why I should speak on self-doubt because of my own experiences with it. I have finished very few things of meaning in my life. Some of that is due to motivation and attention disorders, but mainly I chalk it up to the fact that I haven’t really involved myself in anything worthy of note. I have experiences as does anyone, but that isn’t necessarily what I am speaking of. How many of you are currently working on something that you will consider an “accomplishment” upon completion?

I don’t struggle with writer’s block, but I do have the same battle as many writers in deciding what to work on. Sometimes I don’t even know what I will type until I press the first key and that to me is the beauty of writing on a blog. The freedom. It is also why I have struggled with just the idea of writing a book. The consistency of hashing out the same topic is really boring to me to be honest. I find even the tedious nature of book writing to be frustrating, annoying, and often times boring. It is not frustrating because I struggle with writing (although it could be debated upon whether I write well or not) because I write every day. I probably type 10,000 words a day just in posts, comments, emails, work emails, personal emails, work projects, coding, and everything else you can think of that I can use as an excuse to hear the tap, tap, tap I so love to listen to. It beats hearing the sound of a human voice on any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

As I pen each word of my current project I have felt great, until yesterday. I ran out of meds and because of that I stopped writing. That is going to be an issue. Without “trees” I can’t see a word three dimensionally. It stays in a boring two dimensional state and no amount of mental concentration will make that fucking word turn. Turn dammit. I refilled today so I will be good for a few days. I will try to press on and take my time with it all.

Sometimes I sit on my ledge of solitude and I observe the chaos that is the world below. Above the atmosphere of stress and human concern I am able to breath. Gone is the demand of response, gone is the doubt of a loving wife, gone is the self-doubt of writing a book, gone is the constant chatter that I love and yet need to separate from, it is all gone up here. Up here there are only words and they are fucking turning.

-Opinionated Man

Tai Chi

Balance of mind meets perfect stillness.

The waves within my mind are placid and calm.

I do not allow the sun to shine here.

Instead I find solace in complete darkness.

I work the forms the way he showed me.

His guiding hand corrects without correction.

I am the current motion extended to the horizon.

My arms push heaven and hell without remorse.

And in perfect solitude I find hope within each form.