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Sitting in a theatre seat,
While colors cast on canvas; now the motion entertains me,
I used to believe it was real,
But it’s just science at it’s best; deceptive paintings on a reel.
So much for imagination,
The truest philosophers and poets have long since died.
I cannot write or play guitar
so at my best I’ll take a swing expecting nothing less than a scar.
And maybe this is how
An artist dies;
He cuts off both his wings,
And learns to drive
And maybe this is how
A man survives,
He stops with foolish things
And builds a life.
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| a.day.to.think(and be alone)
I took a day off work to rest,
To ponder all of life's regrets
I sat in my old rocking chair,
To give the scene and vintage touch.
The idea was to catch up on things,
To learn to trust the other human beings,
They seem so inconsistent though,
Going places they don't care to go,
All the men that stive for leadership,
Just to say they never gave a shit,
What then of all the followers?
Can I really trust their promises?
The politics or business men,
The pasters or bottles of gin,
Only one gives what I feel is right,
But I feel that's not what's due tonight.
Vulnerability never made itself easy,
So I attempt to rationalize caring hands
into gestures of unfulfillable kindness
taking them to corners where they feel most comfrotable being left alone,
then leaving; as to say "thanks, but I'm really not emotionally prone." | | |
| the.beauty.of.us.all
EDIT: due to contraversial statements that aren't worth fighting over.
| | |
| words.better.left.unwritten
Give me something concrete. give me peace, give me something other than this; which is so unbearably sad...
THE UMBRELLA OF PHILOSOPHY IS BROKEN over my head, and the down pour of
uncertainty colled my angry face. My intellect; my rationality called
for fixing the tear in belief; in philosophy, and theology.Though,
strangly, i was content with the discomforting flood of unassured
answers, and unbelievable beliefs as provided by pulpits that warrant
men, who are just as broken as myself, to state their of exegetical
findings as fact.
This
is a rant, and this is misunderstood... Because one cannot know from
which perspective I appeal to this idea of believing in that which is
unbelievable... How can one honestly believe in the Bible, and
maintain any sort of intellect? The two ideas contradict eachother in
their very nature. They are two pieces of two completely
different puzzles, nay, they are so far separated that one is a puzzle
piece and the other is a brick, both build their own structure, though
they are nothing alike....
Faith and intellect, show me a way to use them both without have one
negate the other, or having the other overcome the one. They cannot
meet in the same sentence, nor paragraph, or even page. For they are an
argument one to the other... How can one settle for this sort of mental
mutany of intllect versus faith? "Rely on the scriptures" says the
pastor. Furthermore, accept his words faithfully and fall blindly to
ink and paper? My mind sneers at this suggestion. Though the thought of
dropping the Bible to amend broken thoughts and misguiding teacher's
words inspires a feeling of rebuke from the very pits of my soul! Where
is TRUTH?! Is the answer faith or intellect? Or can they fall
artisticly onto one canvas revealing a very natural, very
conrete, absolute?
WHERE is peace, when peace is the answer to the questions one is
asking...? Is it merely and idea, a hope that one strives for and
gradually comprehends as he is dieing moment to moment from a lack of
it?
The cure for pain is in the pain....
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| I sign my name as a farewell.
The days sort of move like leaves on trees... they
are comfortable for a while. Swaying and twirling as their stem holds
them fast to the body of the tree.... Though in due season, leaves turn
to a crippled brown pain, and they begin to push away from the home
they had so unconditionally made for such a long time.
Then comes departure. A farewell to all that
was know, and a welcome to that which is new. Now not as strong as the
past made them, they fall to the ground as a piece of paper so
old that touching it might destroy it's use.
Here i sit. Brittle due to time's decay on my mind
and attitude... I've left my "home" and fallen to the ground. I sit
here striving to make a difference before a speculated winter brings my
decomposition.... In my death, i pray that I might feed some other
tree's growth... I pray my walk will not be a futile attempt to find
happiness... though sometimes its so hard to accept that happiness is
seemingly traded for maturity, responsability... Freedom....
Zaahkri
-Out
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