Tick goes the clock... there's still time. Hurry? What's the rush? There's still time.
Time to be big time time to be small to take center stage or become nothing at all. The future still holds a questioning stare no directions of certainty or even of "what I'd like to be." Why run? Walk -- savor the moment. Yesterday you felt the same way--want to rush the minute, hour, day. Now look back and wish for times reoccurring. Nostalgia eats a painful hole in an already aching heart.
Don't run. Don't rush. Don't look back the past has past. Some things in this world of ours just weren't meant to last. Don't look ahead the future is a fickle temptress, one minute beckoning and the next dismaying. Don't look, don't leap, just start.
Take a breath, suck it up, start. Remember, everyone had to start somewhere your "somewhere" just happens to be here and now. Where will you end up? Only time will tell.... tick-tock
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Book Fog
Wake just to fall to sleep once more. Destined to yearn for destiny until old age ravages all hope of tomorrow. Fantasies blend into a mixed hue of reality to be painted over the harsh chill of these white sterile walls. Some are not meant to live in a box as, remember, containment drives sanity crazy sometimes.
Adventure flaunts herself -- sluttish -- from page after page in novel after novel telling of life as it has never existed. Sure her image looks great but, its all been airbrushed! So why dare to dream for the morrow in a bland unexciting world? Nothing can compare to imagined imagery of another's overactive imagination. If only 'friend' existed outside those library scented pages.
However turn the last page of the last chapter in this the most recent of life's distractions. No sense holding on to little letters strewn about on a few hundred pages or so. Besides there are many more lives yet to live... escape anew.
Adventure flaunts herself -- sluttish -- from page after page in novel after novel telling of life as it has never existed. Sure her image looks great but, its all been airbrushed! So why dare to dream for the morrow in a bland unexciting world? Nothing can compare to imagined imagery of another's overactive imagination. If only 'friend' existed outside those library scented pages.
However turn the last page of the last chapter in this the most recent of life's distractions. No sense holding on to little letters strewn about on a few hundred pages or so. Besides there are many more lives yet to live... escape anew.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Tired Grind
Too tired to write--
to pick up this pen
think of these thoughts all over again.
I'm too tired to write
to tap on these keys
the words they come slowly
sleep comes with ease.
Worries and worries
worries and woes
Stress keeps on churning
it ebbs and it flows
Still carry on
hoist the main sails at last
no time to tarry
The die has been cast
To tired to write
I say this, "the end"
Tomorrow comes quickly
The grind starts again
to pick up this pen
think of these thoughts all over again.
I'm too tired to write
to tap on these keys
the words they come slowly
sleep comes with ease.
Worries and worries
worries and woes
Stress keeps on churning
it ebbs and it flows
Still carry on
hoist the main sails at last
no time to tarry
The die has been cast
To tired to write
I say this, "the end"
Tomorrow comes quickly
The grind starts again
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Sing Song
Forget the unforgotten dreams, it's over now. Hush babe, hush. Listen to the song on the wind close those aching eyes and lift that rusty voice and sing along. Sing. Let out all of yesterday, pour that heart into the wind and let the pain just blow away.
Dissolution, fading softly into nonexistence. Who is the writer behind these words? Find truth. A weak echo in the basement of long locked off memory. No luck? Fall into a role, slip on that costume. Pull down the mask and walk on, walk on. Walk out? Already heading down the hall. Lucky to have the life fallen into, walk away? Maybe...maybe another day.
It's the same old story written to a different rhyme. Love so simple and pure has fallen on a rusty nail. Ah the snags in life. Another problem created by the faulty psychology of over thinking and underachieving. Potential spoils and rots before passive eyes. Take action! Forever the spectator? Then loose this mind to the mob. Choose. No regrets, the creator of one's own consequence, don't complain.
Answer me! Who, what, when, where, why, and HOW? A heavy sigh, and we move back to square one again. Fear is the beast of burden, you know? Fear sends you running, fear makes you hide, and fear...fear makes you stay.
Dissolution, fading softly into nonexistence. Who is the writer behind these words? Find truth. A weak echo in the basement of long locked off memory. No luck? Fall into a role, slip on that costume. Pull down the mask and walk on, walk on. Walk out? Already heading down the hall. Lucky to have the life fallen into, walk away? Maybe...maybe another day.
It's the same old story written to a different rhyme. Love so simple and pure has fallen on a rusty nail. Ah the snags in life. Another problem created by the faulty psychology of over thinking and underachieving. Potential spoils and rots before passive eyes. Take action! Forever the spectator? Then loose this mind to the mob. Choose. No regrets, the creator of one's own consequence, don't complain.
Answer me! Who, what, when, where, why, and HOW? A heavy sigh, and we move back to square one again. Fear is the beast of burden, you know? Fear sends you running, fear makes you hide, and fear...fear makes you stay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
