Rain Upon Me

Rain upon me your discontent, your hatred, your emotion. I dance amongst the falling cruelty with my eyes closed and head back. Catching droplets of conviction in my mouth, I savor the taste of humanity for a second and then spit it out. I stroll past dead paintings with moving images and feel a closer connection to them than to a beating heart. Loneliness felt when the lonely begin to truly comprehend the word. At least I do not have to share the rain.


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.


Painted Sadness


I draw lines of remorse upon my flesh and collect puddles of life on the floor. They reflect the image of a man in a moment, a moment that is winning. Strangled by the here and now, we seek release from ourselves. Peeling back our flesh to understand the pain, it is not about the action. It is about the reaction and the fact we know we live. If only for a moment. And so we let that moment win.

I get it.

Midnight Rain

Raindrops falling from above, give their souls up with a splash upon my windowpane. Selling their lives for my visual appetite, how selfish am I? And still the angels weep for joy and sorrow and cause the sparkling showers that come at inconsistent hours. For who can place consistency on the hearts of man. Not even the gods can.


Falling Pearls

My dreams bounce out of my reach like falling pearls as they hit the floor. Reality of the moment gives them an extra bounce and makes them seem jubilant as they scurry out of my sight. Neither a wave, nor a nod in farewell… simply vanishing like so many other dreams before.

Where do you go when you realize my fulfillment is never going to come? Where do you fold up your tent and walk to as you trod away from me in disgust. Is it right for me to wish you might stop and turn just one last time. If only for a moment we might look at each other… like we once did. When we cared.

Reality of the moment and that moment draws near. I feel the warmth of realization, as the steel of resolve begins to burn bright in the night. Would it but stay through the darkness or will it instead quench its thirst with the coming of the sun.


Original Me

There is no one like me in the world. I am original me. Guess what? You are original too!

In a world where we are continuously seeking to stand out in some way people all too quickly forget that they are as original as original can be. We all have something worth sharing and that is why we take the time to create blog posts with no guarantee they will actually be read. Recognizing your own worth is your responsibility though and if you can’t find a personal satisfaction from sharing then you probably are best off not sharing at all.

No one can ever live a moment like you have or see a sight the way you see it. I love reading posts about people’s hometowns, but it can get annoying when the writer adds lines such as “this is my boring room” or “this is my crappy town.” Bloggers realize that the mundane to you might be the very definition of exciting to another. That is why sharing is so important because you have no idea who you might connect with. Who might be affected by your words. Is it such a fantasy to believe that another lives your life, deals with the same struggles, but has a different view outside of their window or wears a different skin tone? Take comfort in knowing that the normal and routine to you might just be new and fresh to someone else.

Writers and bloggers seek originality each day. We slice and dice our daily habits to construct visual orgies that might entice our readers. But who are we really lying to? Where is the pride if we hide our eyes in shame from our reality and instead blindly publish fantasy? And through the praise we are captured by one glaring and obvious fact. We are being lauded for another person’s life.

Stay true to yourself bloggers and just blog.