Go. Do.

I want to go.
I don't want to go anywhere, nor somewhere
Nor everywhere, nor nowhere,
Simply to go.

I want to do.
I don't want to do anything, nor something,
Nor everything, nor nothing.
Simply to do.

I want to move without destination,
I want to be as sporadic and random
As the digits of e, of pi, of phi.
I seek to exist transcendentally and physically concurrently.

I want to act without cause,
I want a purpose, but one to act desultory,
Like an algorithm attempting to be random.
I attempt this to no avail, as every road leads somewhere,
Every action has a cause,
And every life, must have purpose.

The Ravings of a Poet

What once was, forever taken it is.
What rises from the sea, will someday return.
As the sun was born from dust, so dust shall burn the sun
And the cycle of birth and death continues.

The words I write will last a while,
And slowly they'll reenter my mind.
A thought once forgotten, dead in my head,
That lived in my writing comes home.

A reunion between mind and thoughts,
A somber celebration, as the scribblings are lost
The ravings of a mind relayed to others now dead,
Born again in the mind of the creator.

A leaf falls off of a tree
As it decays, it becomes the soil,
the soil that the tree consumes through its roots,
Funny, as the roots of the meal are in the tree itself.

So then we look at the roots of the route
Through which the mind has traveled,
A path, like a pathogen, almost contagious in nature,
One nurtured through thought, and forever increasing in complexities

Yet the complexity must peak, and entropy must ensue
The mind will degrade until it returns to its infancy
The path will loop to its beginning, and this pathogen affects all.
No mind is immune, and the end is the beginning, emptiness.

An empty mind has the capacity to learn all
But has no special features itself.
A cargo box is useful, but pointless without cargo.
The dead have no cargo, but death to life it goes

From ashes to ashes from dust to dust, from clichè to petty clichè.
The repetition, is true, but false.
The ending is just a beginning, but the beginning is not the same as the start.
The ending of a star can be a burst of light, but its new life is different.

Uniqueness is the difference between the ashes
Difference keeps the dust unique.
No two things are the same, even if they are the same thing.
As the end begins, and the beginning ends, the cycle of rebirth becomes a a vector

A vector of progress,
Showing that there is no cycle of reincarnation
Rather a cycle of change in a single thing,
Aimed towards an ultimate uniqueness.

As that sun burns out, and releases its last spec of energy,
Small dust particles are born.
They are not the hot mess that made the sun,
But a hot mess made from the sun.

A birth to one is a death to another
A new beginning is a much-needed end
To all perspective, and to none the tunnel,
Drawn with perspective, but representing a lack thereof.

Contradictions are everywhere, yet nowhere can you find them
For something true cannot in itself be false.
But the falsehood itself is a truth, and so the truth is a lie.
The cycle is a truth that lies to those involved.

The you after you is not the same as you.
The you, you are now, is you; you aren't you in the future.
Change is inevitable, and all change is bad
(All change is good as well) Where do you stand, in the well, or above it?

The life of life is long and prosperous, but its death will bring a new age.
Is there a different life to come from the life, life once lived?
Yet at that time, these ravings of a poet will be long forgotten,
And have returned to my mind in a new perspective.

Organized Chaos

  The world is made of glass, and a rock has         just broken through
     The           world has shattered, as if by          some revolutionary         breakthrough.
The rock         is a revolution, and to us           he just threw
A pebble        from the moon,          on            a trip now through.

            But as t    he shards collide, a new standard is set
As the grains divide,       the shards, land in a set
     The pattern of               chaos      is order, order chaos set
And so a bridge was           built, but a rock won the set

                                         And so begins the race
Two distinct in race
                As chaos        thrives my heart will race
                                                    But the expansion of order will too race.

        From order,                       chaos comes through
And the sporadically              changing norms show that nothing is set,
And once you see beauty in entropy, you find that chaos and order are of the same race.

Friends No More

Friends No More

 

 

Once I was your friend, 

But it seems that's reached it's end

The world is a bowling ball, 

And we are both just pins.

  

Never again will we laugh and talk 

And never again will I be mocked 

You've severed the rope that connected us,  

And now I fall towards rocks 

 

My emotions are just a string, just twine 

That you twist and that you wind, 

That you light aflame most days 

And that you treat as grime 

 

My jokes to you are dirt 

And to me that just hurts, 

So I dug a hole through my jokes 

And buried myself so you'd smirk. 

 

The others you speak of, you treat me the same. 

I am a cat in the ocean and you are to blame 

For the ocean comes from me, 

And from you the emotions came.  

 

My mind is a stone and you are a drill, 

Into the stone you went a little. 

At first it felt good, but then the stone cracked 

And there isn't a cure because I am not ill. 

 

You are a truly sick man 

You are just an empty can 

After I remove the cover the lies you told are clear 

So I've just one demand. 

 

Please sir, next time drill into yourself show us all the scam. 

I do not regret knowing you, I regret that our friendship was a sham.

Deleterious to Health

I've got a cot with shingles wrought.
I clean each drop off of the cot
But still, I find so many blots.
I work, I ache, I sleep, I wake,
And yet, I find, my cot, still breaks.

They talk of how my hands turn black
With soot, from keeping it intact,
yet me my cot has sought attack,
I fight, I lose, I yield, I lose,
It seems, I've lost, the will to move.

My work, in vain, caused great disdain
to me, my name, and all in this game.
Each day, I claim, it bursts aflame.
I fix, I change, but it's ephemeral.
I never will escape the peril.

I want simply a chance to lead
A day where once I can be free
A day where once I can attack ,
I choose, I pick, I aim, I miss
There is never a day where I get success.

Yet friends, they come, they lift the load.
To me their worth is more than gold.
They are what I would not forebode.
Family, and friends, and love, they send.
They keep my life from bitter end.

Winter Wonderland

I once lived in bliss, as if a cloud floating in the sky,

But one day I was forced from my home.

It then became a distant memory, a lost file.

Then, there was only the fall and the cursèd groans.

Others from my home fell with me, and many would cry,

"Why? For what purpose have the stitches of our lives been sewn?

Who dictates these events, and when will our tears dry?"

Some tried to answer but I did not; I simply fell without any word or protest.

During the journey from my home there was much chaos.

I looked left and right and watched my friends burn,

As it became much hotter than my home was.

I looked up and down and saw my friends blown,

And ripped to shreds by the fierce gusts.

Soon the many became the few, and the protests were heard more:

“Who dictates these events, and why must our gold rust?"

Some tried to answer but I did not; I simply fell without any word or protest.

Eventually I could see the ground, and the screams of the others around me.

The fall was coming to an end, and it seemed that even after this fall there is winter.

As I closed my eyes, I waited for the inevitable end, yet death seemed to let me be.

The piles of bodies around me softened my fall, and allowed my flame to flicker.

The survivors began to call out for their families, but unfortunately,

Paralyzation is the disease of the survivors. I heard them roar,

“Who dictates these events, and why aren’t we free?”

Some tried to answer, but I did not; I simply watched without any word or protest.

I have now sat in the pile of the dead for three months.

I have seen my friends thrown into the air by growling machines,

And every day I can feel even more the warmth of the sun.

But now I feel the burning spreading throughout my being.

I hear the others’ screams and grunts,

“Help me, I can’t feel my body. I’m burning up and I can’t see anything!

Who dictates these events, and why can’t we triumph?”

Only I am left to answer, but I can’t; I simply fade away without any word or protest.

Silence

Why is it that we always feel strange
when there is no sound?
Have we become so strangled by noise
That we cannot stand quiet in a crowd.
Even by oneself, you hear a wide range
Of rhythmic patterns or ones of cacophonic poise.
Society rushes and makes din so constantly, that we only feel comfortable when it's loud.

Yet what is truly precious is the silence.
People need to learn how to appreciate quietness
As they often feel breaking it to be a necessity.
Quietness is a time of pensiveness,
It is where you become entranced with remembrance.
There are no cares or dangers in this serenity,
And people need to learn to enjoy the and precious moments of silence, rather than find them and grimace.

Silence is when your other senses are at their strongest
You feel more, vividly remember the touch, the smell, the beauty, and the emotions of the moment.
Silence is not awkward, it is what you will cherish the longest.