Guess Im living,
I doesn't need to dream anymore because life can't get more perfect than this
Bow to love nothing simpler than that.
Work to congratulate reality
A high five, passing life around
Just to give it back
And we all die,
But not everybody lives
Sin is something we all give…
Rhetorically speaking this is a chronic addiction,
An insult, maybe a ploy…
Life is a book,
Too good
Call it fiction.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Dream
Life is not perfect, rather a struggle. To illicit falsehoods of struggle is to illicit a falsehood of reality. One must find acceptance of this world, so to know that all good fades into dream….
Awakening upon a beach, I find pulsation; no one around, an offset-vision of a perfect reality. She is here. So beautiful, I reach out; but feel nothing. Sudden blackness, everything re-fixates itself. She is gone.
A rumble of a song spreads from speakers popping in the sand, “Knee deep in the water somewhere, got the blue sky breeze and it don’t seem fair, only worry in the world is the tide goin to reach my chair.” This is too perfect, for the sun is on top of me and I am atop my towel-covered lawn chair gulping the essence of life with an accepting disposition. A gaze of the harbor, my 47-foot yacht eyeballing me like a dog desperate for play. This is happiness; maybe all is too good to be true, rather all is not good enough. She arrives.
I am alive; this is the life worth living, hand and hand, the journey together begins. The tide approaches and we dive in. Ecstatic, this is what we believe, love at first sight, holding to it by night. It’s ironic when I first met her; that I immediately envisioned a white-picket fence, the suburbs and family. That was the one escape, we found better.
I love the way her hair flows, I guess. Or maybe it’s her skin, glistening moist in every sun lit moment. Life is mighty; opportunity is bliss, hand in hand, kiss matches kiss. Blessed in every aspect, we are; the roll of dice gave infinite chance to our every whim and desire. Elation courses though my body as the memory passes though; life is too perfect. Once hardworking-nonchalant philosophy embellished our thoughts, now only the beach and each other’s presence consume our minds. The last glimpse of night was 100 years ago, a while it seems. Never is there exhaustion as we walk forever; this beach barren of rocks, saturated with the softest sand. Perfection impossible to gain, yet recognized in every aspect around us. The world of no flaws, just me and a girl, an image coinciding passion. Distraught is the morning after, saddening is the recognition of dream.
Awakening upon a beach, I find pulsation; no one around, an offset-vision of a perfect reality. She is here. So beautiful, I reach out; but feel nothing. Sudden blackness, everything re-fixates itself. She is gone.
A rumble of a song spreads from speakers popping in the sand, “Knee deep in the water somewhere, got the blue sky breeze and it don’t seem fair, only worry in the world is the tide goin to reach my chair.” This is too perfect, for the sun is on top of me and I am atop my towel-covered lawn chair gulping the essence of life with an accepting disposition. A gaze of the harbor, my 47-foot yacht eyeballing me like a dog desperate for play. This is happiness; maybe all is too good to be true, rather all is not good enough. She arrives.
I am alive; this is the life worth living, hand and hand, the journey together begins. The tide approaches and we dive in. Ecstatic, this is what we believe, love at first sight, holding to it by night. It’s ironic when I first met her; that I immediately envisioned a white-picket fence, the suburbs and family. That was the one escape, we found better.
I love the way her hair flows, I guess. Or maybe it’s her skin, glistening moist in every sun lit moment. Life is mighty; opportunity is bliss, hand in hand, kiss matches kiss. Blessed in every aspect, we are; the roll of dice gave infinite chance to our every whim and desire. Elation courses though my body as the memory passes though; life is too perfect. Once hardworking-nonchalant philosophy embellished our thoughts, now only the beach and each other’s presence consume our minds. The last glimpse of night was 100 years ago, a while it seems. Never is there exhaustion as we walk forever; this beach barren of rocks, saturated with the softest sand. Perfection impossible to gain, yet recognized in every aspect around us. The world of no flaws, just me and a girl, an image coinciding passion. Distraught is the morning after, saddening is the recognition of dream.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
To be the nouveau riche hark repetition
My’stiques of a long past
Falsehood of a dream complex
That love, in life is strong, can last.
There is little joy in decorum
Entrapped, the stagnant, the mosquitoes bite.
To bad she’s face-up in a river
There must be lacking a rush of light
To raise, to rise, the voice of life
One stands faces truth and does right
Finding answers to questions that cannot be found
Saturated with love challenge fate just to drownd’
My’stiques of a long past
Falsehood of a dream complex
That love, in life is strong, can last.
There is little joy in decorum
Entrapped, the stagnant, the mosquitoes bite.
To bad she’s face-up in a river
There must be lacking a rush of light
To raise, to rise, the voice of life
One stands faces truth and does right
Finding answers to questions that cannot be found
Saturated with love challenge fate just to drownd’
Monday, February 7, 2011
Crash!
Crash!
The terrors of that haunting squeal,
Memories hurtling back
Pain to real
sunup or is it twilight?
Staggering with slurs of incoherency
The drunkard mumbles of the past
To want no future
Known blasphemy
Mental stimulus, incapable to comprehend
Maybe his children miss him
But he is at ends
Pressing cheap vodka
To chapped, chalked lips
His family calls
His need beckons
Leading down a dreary dark black tunnel,
Satisfied seeing such bright light
Meeting family again...
In gaining peace, shedding life
For in a world of sin; without,
Who can win?
The terrors of that haunting squeal,
Memories hurtling back
Pain to real
sunup or is it twilight?
Staggering with slurs of incoherency
The drunkard mumbles of the past
To want no future
Known blasphemy
Mental stimulus, incapable to comprehend
Maybe his children miss him
But he is at ends
Pressing cheap vodka
To chapped, chalked lips
His family calls
His need beckons
Leading down a dreary dark black tunnel,
Satisfied seeing such bright light
Meeting family again...
In gaining peace, shedding life
For in a world of sin; without,
Who can win?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)