Something good has to happen before a new life can be made. Does it really make any sense, but the absolute sense? Stuck in a rut, I can't get out of the despair my uncontrollable conscience dug. The pit has sunk so deep, that you can only look down and spit. But one day someone's hand shall reach for mine and that will be my redemption: a life lived with spiritual beauty. Such strangeness as to leave me behind. Such persistence as to lift the solemn mask from my shining smile. Such childlike innocence as to lift me from my swing, so we might grow up together or live as children, holding one another's hand.
Might happiness come from some miracle, where love and light collide into such a rainbow as to lift my head and make me speak of things only known to lovers and poets? Might emotions be wrung of a child, so that an adult might know their meanings? Might some soul know of a child's suppressed laughter, which grows more and more just because it's being held back?
Don't understand the ways of the world, which suppresses its laughter and laughs at the Grim. I wish laughter seemed aligned with those people around me. Even when the Child is around, can he really fit in? I don't believe he can. That is where it hurts. For no one understands the Child, except for other children. But, like me, they suppress the Child and always hold up their silent facade
Search me out, silent children-learn that together we might grow. Don't crouch, hiding in the den or lying somewhere in the nightglow. Nothing can come of us, but what we receive from each other-I suppose. But I don't really know. Maybe an adult will take me by the hand and teach me a love that might bring forth the Thinker and the Child. Then I might be a human-close enough to an adult. But that's where lies my fault, love will never come to release me from this shell, which sits so untuned as not to reflect in my soul the face of Adam. No one sees a reflection or even the faintest part of me, but one day they will see. Someone will come who shines like the sun, smiles like the butterfly, sings like the brook, walks like the doe, talks like the cloud, and comes alive in the storm.
There is a redemption, I believe. Though my faith lies in the Lord, I know of the good faith I have in myself, which lets me know that I deserve to be me (the way I once was). I will have a revival when some mind may unlock
my own.
Chapter II: Long Lost and Looking for Love
I never have really found myself in the mirror. Looking in the mirror I often mistake other reflections for my own. I am slowly learning of a dormant child, who comes out at night among friends or family. Also, of the adult, the Child's big brother, the Grim, who always seems awake, yet he is so boring as to appear asleep. These people are me, but there is also another. The Thinker, who comes alive while I write or when I talk with people with whom I feel comfortable. But the Child remains concealed. For the Child is my real soul, and to show him to the wrong people only leads to his death. My death.
I speak of things that minds might never know. But someday love might speak to me. Then I will grow. Perhaps I will meet a soul, beautiful and persistent, having the acceptance of a child, so the little boy might come forth from the mirror, where he is often locked away. Instead of making him go to bed early without any supper, he will be allowed to laugh and live within the despairing world as his big brother can only hold a stone visage over the world that has calloused him, the Grim.
Speak to the Grim and know if he might show you his little brother, who laughs and loves in life-his playground. Those who might know him are saddened that no one else will know the-boy-in-the-man, the smiling soul behind the Grim.
Love lives, where interest lies. But just interest and the Child dies.
Speak sunshine into my life, oh Love, who walks past me daily, telling me that I don't want you yet. I must wait for someone that's perfect and great. Sometimes I wonder if it's too late. Too much love existing within the spheres I touch. Too many loves, I've loved lying now in others' arms. I just want to be held and cradled. The Child wants loving comfort. The Thinker wants to think about love and ponder upon its wonder. But love-like hate-loses its thunder, when I find the words to speak and the emotions to oppress. All this confusion existing in other countries and homes, is making us a mess. Just look all around you and talk to your friends and family-just feel the sightless-stress.
Can I wonder that if everyone loved and had just one to love, might there be happiness? Might there be just enough happiness to bring a rainbow from the fallen tears? Might a person be a person, if only two-of-the-same-soul were together? Heaven seems hard to grasp, especially with happiness existing forever. Unimaginable to those of us who suffer, loveless with such heavy-hearts we must cart them around. Until someone comes running by and knocks our hearts on the dirty ground. It may still be beating, but it'll never feel the same. The worst thing is that it feels as if we're the ones to blame.
Someone asked me, "When did you begin desiring love?" At the age of four, little blonde took me atop the tree and kissed away for free. But the down-side was my best friend throwing pine cones up, missing their mark. That was a long time ago, when love was easier to find in the dark. With all this light making heavy of the confusion, which encircles-separated-souls with walls which won't break. But that's really just an illusion, look past all this pain and rules and love is yours to take.
High in the mountains, where mighty trees lose their strength when winds blow them away and fire reduces them to black cinder, there is the power. This power separates us all because some of us accept it, some of us adapt to it, some of us warp its existence, some of us misinterpret its intentions, but none of us ever listen to it.
This power lies everywhere-within ourselves, if we have opened our door to it. But most of us open the door to strangers and let some dark power rule over our lives. Have which power you wish, but only one power will stick around to see the end of eternity-which of course will never come.
The power is the passion that should rule everyone's heart. I'm no conformist, but to conform to the power is to give away every worry. "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own" (Matthew 6:34).
"Moment's Heaven" is about one moment of grace that the power gives to those who have their place. A moment of grace is of many things. A moment of grace is true happiness in the power. A moment of grace is being humbled by the power. A moment of grace is being delivered from danger by the power. A moment of grace is many things. Know that a "Moment's Heaven" is everything that is good in the power.
"Somewhere Dead" is written to a person who was once spiritually dead, until he or she found the power, which was so obviously working in the world. How does it feel with wind-without-wing? The other power lies out there, but you can no longer fly upon your own wings, for the world is no longer yours to do as you please.
Don't start skipping that which condemns evil. For I dislike evil as much as I dislike the Grim. Oh, you have forgotten about him? Never, for that is all you know. One day the power will blow the Grim to the grave. Then something called Beauty might not be known as something to save.
End all things in light. Begin all things in mist. Friend, unclench your fist. We win all things tonight. When I am known as the Child, who lives-life-lively-like-love of something bright. But don't mistake the face, I'm wild, who gives strife away to the power 'till twilight.
Know no truth, but truths unseen, unbelieved of the mind. So passing is her beauty, so delicate of love, and so very kind. So believing this as something unbelievable, I've touched bases (or have not) with people whose dreams exceeded even my own. Leaving me behind, quite unkind. But still the ones I love best hurt me without knowing or believing. Their existence hurts and to lose them makes me die a little more.
Separation of hearts that were never one. The painful passing starts when the moon lost the sun. So sit beside yourself in what you've created apart from me. See if the sea is pretty. Laugh if love is with you, sitting with a slouch on the couch. Sleep through the morning and you might miss the dawn, but I don't blame you for I'm a night person too.
But please lift the darkness from me (I know you'll never try). To see a place that floats, before the place that never sinks. You'd think I might seem fresh, but friendship is stronger than loving a face. You know that I can't exist without your mind on mine, in this place. So hold the diamonds you cry. Tell me of them; tell me what their worth. For I already know and can help you through. I was once a jeweler and even helped Desmond pick out a twenty carat golden ring for Molly who was waiting at the door (The Beatles, "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.").
You mustn't ignore what you don't see or know. For my love lies deep, far below. My friends by choice-from the beginning-are girls. But they don't understand that diamonds are nothing to pearls. For pearls are created within a shorter time and nothing must be done to them. They need no facets, for they're perfectly round.
These poems deny me rest, they kept me up 'till 3:00 a.m., trying to think through an emotion which explodes and resenting all lesser emotions, which could have been more, if only I wished for a star.
Waking the awakened won't warrant anything, except for your own arrest. No matter if love is shining or love is dressed. The crime is yours, your prime ignores. The time is yours, the dime is yours. Just take this shiny penny, lying at your feet. I'm not even worth a penny. Don't just disregard me for pocket change. I'm worth more than a dollar-if you count more than a hundred of me. But don't believe what stops you to see, that I'm an old penny with old Lincoln missing a beard-and that is worth money if you know of pocket change. To collect coins is the #1 hobby of people of the U.S.A., so start learning what it means to pay. Don't use your credit cards, use some cash and some change. Because unlike any dollar, if you have enough of me, I can cover any range. But remember it takes a lot of time, paying with pennies. So it shall take time.
As I've stated thus far, I want you to do something. It is I who should shine, so you'll see me, but I can't do that 'till you hold me to your eye for a time. Then I might come forth from the walls of gravity, which have no ground for pity. So might minds know me, then they will see, that I'm more than I appear to be.
Don't mind-my-mind-much.
That person you once knew at work or at school, might he or she have been that sunlit moon with the rainbow? You Might Never Know. Souls might have aligned: two parallel lines, fusing together. Happiness might have happened, laughing together within a crowded room.
Mysteries which have bemused most momentous thinkers, might have meant something now. But the mysteries go unanswered in the wild as they go unanswered in the soul and mind, until complete understanding about everything might be known after death. But perhaps death will give us the greater pleasure of rejoicing in the Immortal, than desiring for something not known. Because the greatest Mystery will have already known all there is to know.
Don't question life? Don't question a poem? Don't pass that which you don't understand, without questioning it first! The most dangerous thing souls seem so often to do, is not asking questions, that answer themselves. Then to speak what you know (questions you answered yourself) is like gossip. For what you speak is mortal understanding, but it is worse than that. You are just one mortal with limited understanding. You don't understand everything, only that which has come into your life. To know a poem, you must know of the poet. To know of the Immortal, you must know of the Word. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God" (John 1:1).
Bothering the sun to speak to you, is what you should do. If questions aren't answered, is it just a waste of time to brood upon a question-say for a year or so. NO! The smartest thing people can do is to talk of what they don't understand, because the more you talk about it the more questions you'll have and the harder you'll look for the answers.
I've had the question of what's the difference between intelligence and wisdom. Although I have resolved every question about it, I'm still learning about it. Learning about questions I hadn't even thought to ask. So even questions unasked are important, because you didn't think to ask them.
The immediate question I see for you, just now, is about me. No one understands me and no one seems to want to know. It doesn't matter that I listen to conversations people have with other people, just to know about them, because I'm too insufficient to pass words with one person. To know me takes persistence and acceptance. But it doesn't really matter, I've only known three people who have ever tried to know me: Chase, Jolene, and Lorraine. I must sound like a loser with only three names to have tried to know my name. But those are three wonderful names.
I've had many other friends, but they were around when I was just the Child. They are many, but mostly girls. I can't see myself having many best friends, who are male, like my best friend Chase, because none can ever understand my emotions. They don't understand the necessities to hug, but some females do it out of habit.
I cannot really work out, when my body's somebody's. But I do, I get by. Though I continue to cry, now and then. I live on, as it has always been.
The sun is something round, a sphere. The sun has light for everyone. Some people get more than others, they seem greedy, but it is only that they must exist outdoors. I'm stuck in my room. The TV isn't for me. The TV told me that itself when others laughed at things that weren't funny. So I sit thinking, pondering why minds lack things that are kind. But then I remember sunny souls that left for the south, the southwest, wherever they may be, they exist an image of beauty-something that can be compared to the sun; a reality that can help me be more real. And that is why I live on, only because of the sun.
Also, there is a sun that shines more than brilliant minds; the sun which truly paints His existence in our lives-His blessings raining over me, within sunbeams. But since He is the sun, as good as He is, the night and the moon is for the Evil One. But this is only a metaphor, for I believe the moon more beautiful for the reflection of the sun. It reflects me, in the way I try to reflect Him-who-died-the way I reflect the person's personality I come into contact with. With each person, I give off a different reflection. For each shines as a different sun. Some suns aren't for me to reflect.
The moon is more beautiful with its dim reflection, which permits you to actually look at it and study its many craters.
Might wounds never heal? Is there anything left to steal? How does it feel to be a complete unknown? Well, I feel like there's not much I can do, but suffer until I don't feel anything. But don't mind me, when I haven't a mind to mind-myself. Like some old, unread book among back-broken-books on the shelf.
Did you truly understand why you hid your eyes beneath your arm when the sun smiled upon you? Did you understand why you sat in my presence and didn't utter a word? Does it make any sense why passing call me by my star, then I might have something to say? If you're tired go to sleep, but in the morning will only be the Grim and of course you won't listen to him. Don't blame you because he never really has anything to say, but how's your day-mostly not even that.
You might perceive my silence as hidden intelligence, which is more wrong than true. For I'm not intelligent until the Thinker awakes at night. Nor am I intelligent when I'm the Child who only wishes to laugh and play. And the Grim is just a wall, which only remembers things until night when Thinker might think and the Child might laugh. Grim only knows what Thinker and Child will give him when he feels drunk or accepted.
You only know Grim-I'm not surprised if you haven't read up to this point, because this probably makes absolutely no sense, except the sense found in Alice's Wonderland (Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, 1865). But this nonsense has such meaning as to hide the Child in the closet and let the Jabberwocky have its way. Nothing's ever going to happen; no girl to hold a sunken-soul as a friend or some love. Ignore me all the more, you're making me sore, thinking I'm only the Grim, when really he's just a sponge for the Thinker and the Child.
My heart grew hot within me,
and as I meditated, the fire burned;
then I spoke with my tongue:Show me, O LORD, my life's end
and the number of my days;
let me know how fleeting is my life.
You have made my days a mere handbreadth;
the span of my years is as nothing before you.
Each man's life is but a breath.
Psalm 39:3-5
The passage into the mind runs directly from the heart. That is why I have learned nothing in school. Because my heart does not love it, my mind cannot know it. That's how it is with love. My mind may be completely empty of any thought about a girl, but as soon as she's within my heart, my mind speaks endlessly of her.
School's for the fools, who have closed their hearts and minds. My mind attempted to live within school, so I used my poetry writing as a tool. Instead of letting my Economics teacher make-my-brain-mush, I wrote poems when the class was booming with excitement or a silent hush. I knew, or my mind knew, its full potential and said, "What is foreign-never friend. Write and be fruitful until the bitter end," and I listened to my friend. He spoke to me in a voice I could not always hear. He spoke to me in a tongue, a language, I understood clear. Now it doesn't make-much sense, sometimes, and other poems were as understandable as my hand grips. But the truth I now see or try to see, I must always catch, like catching a glass before it tips-the water of life spilling in a red-river. One glass full for the Thirsty-I am the Giver.
The book has at last ended, the pages were lost in the summer, they are lost to me now. Those words-black upon a sea of white-were what I was and want to become. Unlike the last book, now only burnt ASHes from Burnt Paper, this book has given more of myself and my happiness, than the lingering depression of my childhood. But even the happiest things are sad, that's why the last chapter, "Hopeless Recovery" of A Complete Unknown is so long. I am happy, just as long as no one finally finds out who I am, only to leave me on lost pieces of black on a sea of white.
I wish the freedom pressed up against my face would stop smacking me-stop telling me that what has become has not begun. I've learned of her beauty and now must forge my deliverance, while there is still time before the fall. My deliverance are the words that'll never leave me-though I've lost the words to speak, I've discovered the words to write. What was once lost is found, redeemed, able to live anew with the answer to the riddle of the sphinx. Able to live like I once lived, a life of expression. Expression of my depression and repression; speak and confess of my distress and happiness. But instead of speaking what is needed to be said, I'm able to write of my delight in what I've earned with the loss of a tongue.
"Likewise the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell."
Take Me back to the Poetry Page
or
Take Me to the Three Characteristics