a long time ago

on a lonely stretch of earth

with only the sun & moon to talk to

there was a plain, white house.

the foundation was cheap

with termites and wasps

existing as an exception

to what could even be called a house

a marvel of cracked brick and tired wood.

rusted pipes and door hinges

moaned with each gust of air

the dissonance of alone

drowning out

the cricket’s call to arms.

but even through the broken glass

staining the knots

of each rotted floorboard

was a little light

that burned brighter than any star.

and suddenly

the wood breathed anew

upon the polished metal pipes

and the door hinges sang hymns

through each reborn window

glass stained with her.

not so long ago

on a beautiful plot of earth

kissed awake by the sunrise

tucked in by the moonlight

there was an elegant, white house

one that you called home.

Last night,

I sat outside our house,

Blowing seeds of dandelions,

Feeling wind blow through my hair,

Wishing that I were dead.

© pogo / pogomcl ca 1968- 1970/71

Some would like you to believe that the eyes are the windows into the soul. If you are one of these people I'm here to tell you that you are a fool, for what it is that I've come to realize is that the eyes are not windows but merely mirrors which reflect the pieces that you wish to see. Until you realize this you are at a disadvantage. For if you fail to see the dragon within them you will surely die.

Now for some of you I am sure dragons are more like fairytales and demons only live in children's nightmares. But for me and the thousands of others like me who have fought on the bloody battle grounds of life. We have seen those dragons that live in the souls devouring it; making them numb to death. Destroying their guilt they no longer see the faces of their enemies or hear their pleas. And after awhile that is all their heart knows. Death. They crave it, they search for it, they become it. Those are the demons who haunt me, who stalk me. I am not saying that I too have not fallen victim to the dragons grip, for I too have lusted for the blood of another. Blinded by rage and betrayal, I hunted them, I killed them.

But I was forced back to reality the only way possible. By seeing myself in the ones I hated. Hearing the pleas of the fallen that I too once cried. And with that, at the end of a battle I surely would have won, I lay down my sword.

So it is now standing in the rain of a battlefield I created looking upon the bodies of those I killed I end my life the way it has always been. Alone. May the faults I had in this world not follow me to the next. Please forgive me, and for the first time may my name be yours like it was always meant to be.

Aya Yuramaso

How is it that we continuously fail to realize

The truths that we see with our eyes can also be lies

That our perception of reality, shapes our reality

Don’t get caught up in semantics like individuality

Though it’s enriching to celebrate our differences

It is our likenesses that allow us to make our inferences

Through these things with which we all, at some point, identified

We find a little common ground and make understanding simplified

Wake the sleep from your eyes

Please, open your tired minds

See not just what you envision

But use all your senses in collision

People are no more flatscans than imagination

The world is full of things worthy of infatuation

But take heed of old proverbs regarding moderation

Be weary of the humble, looking twice for admiration

But never hold back the joy that you feel

At the end of the day, it's you, who deems what’s real

If space and time are continuum’s, not linear constants

Instinct and intuition should be your favored consultants

For just as the tree does not say to the leaf , at all,

‘Winter is near and I need you to take a perennial fall’

Neither do we process reality in a single sensory line

The beauty of life, is that this one is yours as much as it’s mine.

-M.E.

201305240908

I often paint pictures in reality with influence.

Every shift of intent a catalyst to make the difference.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Sometimes I push and prod more for my satisfaction.

Curiosity, fascination, and intrigue for motivation.

A violent itch in my eye like a gladiator Thracian,

or a flutter and narrow for a spot of flirtation.

Am I studying human behavior for a dissertation?

No, I’m just enjoying my life amid this damnation.

|| another-proser ||

A handful of feathers was all that was left

I picked them up and stacked them neatly

His deadly words would pluck them out

Some by the handful some one at a time

I once had pretty wings to carry me around

No longer in beauty can they be found

A handful of feathers was all that was left

So I picked them up and handed them over

To the healer of my wounded wings

He spoke to me gently and promised to fix

Each and every feather that fell to the ground

Promised to take them and start fresh and anew

A new pair of wings of a different hue

A pair of wings not for beauty to be worn

But rather of strength for the use of flying alone

Beautiful wings are to be seen not used

Your wings my child are to be used not seen

For your journey is long

And your journey is hard

Not intended to be showcased in beauty alone