pt. 1

they blame vanity on the mirror’s cradling the

individuality; that saying "i’m pretty"s not okay but

neither is saying "you’re ugly” as your reflection’s

eyes bleed the color of grey tears clearly. so she

sings a song about nobody being perfect, well his 

voice whispers the concept of her flawless purity;

tell me, how do we thrive in a world of hypocrisy?

pt. 1 : condensed.

i could lie and unbecomingly describe the beauty

in everything (something no one can see; no, each

beauty can only be seen by a certain kind of

somebody).

___

pt. 2

swollen feet comes with pregnancy and injury, it’s

fate’s proof your still living; and every time i see

the trashman who limps, i wonder if i should offer

him a cookie (but then realize it’s the food version

of my pity; so i leave him be, he’s living the best he

can be; living a life that makes him happy).

pt. 2 : condensed.

bluntly, it’s okay to say "not pretty” but don’t ever

say "ugly”, that’s just heartbreaking; it’s okay, to

pick and chose what looks good on you, but it’s

never your fault that outfit doesn’t fit you.

___

pt. 3

every second somebody’s deleting a photo from the

screen or screaming from the numbers bruising their

too thin skin; so understand that vanity now is believing

your the only one who’s suffering; trust me, everyone

learns how to stop crying (even when they’re still dying

inside from the words slapping the makeup into their

dry hands).

pt. 3 : condensed.

body issues are healthy, it means you’re seeing yourself

through the eyes of a bunch of nobodies and lenses of

self-discovery; yes, the journey’s different for each 

body, it’s how you stumble through it that’s concerning

or rewarding.

“Alcohol is poison.”

“If it’s poison, then why do you drink it?”

“Because there are things inside of me that I need to kill.”

I write because, similar to this scene in which Charlie Sheen from Two and a Half Men is (yes, incredibly intoxicated but) hitting rock bottom with self-deprecating humor, I am also leaning over the toilet of life, reacting on impulses yet contributing what I hope are illuminating sentences and tidbits of wisdom to an audience of viewers who will hopefully understand what I’m trying to say.

What Charlie Sheen is conveying in this scene is more than just a funny throw-away; to me, writing is something I come back to in order to kill the demons, to illuminate my addictions and faults, and to hope that someone out there will laugh, but also understand.

What would I do

if I could fly for a day?

I’d fly all day, of course,

to faraway lands,

across the seas,

over the highest peaks,

and relish every moment,

reliving the thrill

for the rest of my days

shackled to the ground.

Nay.

To long for that

which is no more

and never will be again

is to serve a life sentence

in a prison of false hope.

What if, for but a day,

I could move unseen,

and roam unchecked

through the normally forbidden?

What would I do with a gift

more suited to thieves

or crooked men

of the lecherous kind?

The temptation to sin

claws at my chest

and lures a darker self out

to play with no consequences.

Alas, my conscience

is mine to bear alone.

A single, blemished day

on an otherwise faultless existence

stains with lifelong guilt.

No.

Or maybe.

Maybe I could perform ″miracles″

like the angels who walk the Earth.

A kind deed out of thin air

or an invisible saviour

to inspire for centuries to come

with every religion claiming

it was their God.

But alas, tis but a parlour trick

to reaffirm in the faithful

that which I myself have lost.

No.

I cannot.

It would be better

to inspire kindness

from one human to another

than to keep others waiting

for the Hand of God

which strikes more than it saves.

I am a simple man

and do not want much,

except that which eludes

my fellow men --

the truth.

Oh, not the divine truth

or whether aliens exist.

I want the truth

behind your smile,

that look within your eyes

when you hold me tight,

and tell me that you love me.

What better way to know that

than to hear your thoughts

just as they are born

and still untouched

by the senses?

It may only last a single day,

but what I hear, unspoken,

will keep me happy

till my dying breath.

Oh, I know how you lived.

I know where you began,

and how you crawled your way up

into the pockets of the rich,

the powerful, and the perverse.

I know how you lured your prey

the vulnerable young

into your den of debauchery,

forced yourself and others upon them

and threw them out on the streets

like used, broken dolls -

casualties

of your greed and lust.

They were going to school.

They were going to go to college.

They were someone's daughter.

They were someone's sister.

They could have had normal, happy lives.

But now, they won't

and never will.

And when they came back to haunt you,

to demand justice

for the unspeakable acts of evil,

you pulled the black strings you tied

around the necks of your corrupted puppets,

and got away with it,

time after time and time again.

But this time, you’re going down.

All the people you know,

your so-called “friends”,

or should I say

your fellow paedophiles in power,

will not come to your rescue.

Oh, on the contrary,

they cannot drop you fast enough

or denounce you with stronger words

and feign ignorance of your beastly ways.

I can’t tell you what’s coming

but all I can say is this:

You’re going to pay,

and so will the others,

for all that you’ve done,

and I will be there,

yes, that’s right, personally,

to look after you

for all eternity.

Wake up. Take a look around you. Do you like what you see?

Don’t look away. Stare at it. All of it. The ugliness. The bloodshed. The violence.

Listen. Can’t you hear the screams? The explosions? The cries for help?

Is this a world you want to live in? We only have one. This is it.

Look at what we have made the world. Look at what we have done to it. Look at your future. What shall be your legacy? What shall you leave for your children? What shall you leave for all who come after you? Will they think of you fondly, or will they spit at your grave?

The choice is yours.

Enough is enough. Stop making excuses. There can be no good reason for rape. There can be no good reason for genocide. There can be no good reason for war. We are pawns moved by ideologies created by the few. We have been stirred to anger, fear and violence by those who would benefit from our lack of wisdom. They use our own emotions against ourselves, and the worst part? We let them do it.

Calm down. Take a breath. Give yourself a moment. Think it through. We as a society are too reactive, exploding at the slightest provocation. Why have we become like this? Uncondition yourself and wake up. Take off those hate-tinted glasses and see. Never stop asking questions, especially the really hard ones. Step up, and stand up for all that is right and just. Bring chaos to its knees with love and kindness. Escape from the shackles yoked around our necks, and rise above to become the better human.

Together, we can make life better, for everyone.

The time has come

for me to visit you again.

I've brought you all the things

you used to like so much,

along with other stuff I'm told

the dead can't do without.

I wonder – can you hear me?

Are you really there?

Is this for the indifferent dead,

or is it for the living?

All I have are memories,

and memories of your memories.

That is all that's left of you,

and what I fear will become of me

the day I turn to dust.

As I take a stroll

through places I used to know

I see the playground alive,

full of laughing children,

bounding in unshackled joy.

Their parents sit there, quietly

smiling from the heart –

it's been far too long

they've had a ceiling for blue skies.

I see people going back to work,

people buying and selling

their life and their time

all of that for a little coin.

I see people fighting

with words and guns

at home and abroad

with loved ones

and demonized foreigners

when not too long ago

every goodbye could've been the last.

I see people have already forgotten

their new-found values

and the difference between

what they want and what they need.

Once more we take for granted

our loved ones, and ourselves.

Forgotten is the fear of tomorrow

as we sink back into the muck

of silly preoccupations

and petty squabbles.

Most of us will forget,

some never learnt,

and as normalcy returns,

so does the wool over our eyes.