A group of crows
settles into a yard,
by a beat up house
in a beat up neighborhood
where the unlucky
and subject to misfortune
pay an overpriced rent
on crumbling, poisonous households.

Crows,
the ultimate bad omen,
as if the world could still progress
into a worse state than it is already in.

Considering this past year's news headlines,
if something even worse, even more tremendous
were to happen,
it would be the world alight in flames
or the inevitable consequence
that we are so ignorantly avoiding
of our consumption of oil--
the necessary resource finally, permanently, depleted.

Crows,
destined to be trapped in superstition,
never to be trusted,
always ominous and dangerous,
clever yet not in the way
cleverness is a compliment.

Such a pity,
the way such intelligent creatures
are looked down upon
in their elegant black feathered coat
and the sharp glint in their eyes.

What is it that makes them so mischievous,
so mysterious?

Why must we hate the poor, scavenging species,
chasing after scraps that we refuse to leave for them?
Why must we hate the homeless,
begging for money that we don't want to give them?

But then I see,
as the crows pause their flight to peck on the grass
and rest their sore wings on the groaning branches of the pines,
of the three trees,
the outer two are lush and green,
and yet they choose the middle.

A dead, mangled pine
taken over by pine beetles,
a sorry, wooden mess.

Baleful creatures indeed.

i sense it
from some odd depth
it stop me dead in my tracks;
i turn around,
pivoting off a point,
to scan the view,
where it is gone.

nothing.

and here is where some keep walking,
but i stand still,

and that is what makes me me
and you you.

because i know the thing is coming.

Confusion
Has no reason not to wreck me,
Depression,
Has no reason not to find me,
The evil that you see each day,
That I know not of,
Has no reason not to come to me.

Yet I suffer not,
Live in ignorance,
With just one thing.

A thing that I search for,
A thing that I try to grasp
Each time and fail.

But if there's one word
To describe
What I would rather be,
Is contentment.

But shall I be content that 
I shall never get my prize,
Stop chasing nothing,
And therefore let it be?

Or shall I be content that
I shall always try to take this thing
That I know I will never get,
Keep chasing nothing,
And therefore let it be?

Does that change the question,
To whether or not I would like to mindlessly chase?

Because I would not.

But-!
My expectation
Of myself
That says I cannot
Go after things I will never have
Does not comply
With the part of me
That simply wants to be happy
And keep chasing
Because maybe I will get there
And be happy someday,
But I know I never will.

It is an unfinished statement,
To leave it like that,
Undecided,
Unfinished,
Still fraying at the edges.

The decision deserves a clean cut,
The world deserves a better start,
And I deserve a better
Thought to chase,
And this planet would take
No harm in a little grace.

But I cannot decide!
I cannot
Live up to a standard
That I myself make
Too hard.

But I cannot live in the shame
Of keeping a still life
That never gets anywhere
Because of exactly what I feel I need,

That I really shouldn't,

That I shall never get.

The first crack of sun reached,
The first layer of frost breached,
That first hidden world from underneath,
It came out from the muck.

The delicate wildflowers sprout
From their long absence
Underneath the white
That has now turned
Into vivid, warm petals
Of color and life.

A weighted gray
That pressed on our backs
For so long
Is lifted.

But then a petal withers,
And falls to the ground,
And a cold frost
Takes everything back from spring
To winter again,
The soft white glow,
Only now with the faint layers of color from underneath,
That if,
Are brought a nice
Cup of warm tea,
And are left to lay by
The fire,
Open back up into color again,
Saying, 
"my god it has really been a while
That I was stuck beneath the ground
And came back up
And had to die again!"
And then these magnificent colors of life 
Can laugh and laugh
And laugh until
The spring that turned to winter
Turns back to spring again.

If I made a mistake,
I would not expect to be forgiven,
I would expect more scolds and lectures,
To make my guilt worse.

Of course it's not what I'd want, 
I'd like to be forgiven.
But…

I want things I know I'll never get.
Or maybe there's a small chance, 
Fifteen percent.

But I want no one else to have it.
I guess my greed is in its own way.

I want no one else to be forgiven,
Maybe not even myself,
When I think of forgiving myself.
It means  forgiving someone
I don't want to forgive. 

My greed is in its own way.

What am I 
if all I want to be
Is happy?

What am I
If I'd rather be happy
Than save the world
Or concentrate
Or be smart
Or clever
Or kind?

What am I if 
All I see are
Opportunities
To be happy?

But here
Raises a new question:

Why do I want to be happy 
For just a moment?

The consequences will be bad
And I will fear them
But for just one moment
I will be happy,

But I am not saving the world,
No,
I am not even saving myself.

What if all I needed was inspiration,,
To make the world spin faster,
To tug protons from their cradle
Inside the atom.

What if all I needed
Was not to feel
Like a bragging idiot.

But must I wait, 
For someone to come
Up to me and say,
"don't worry,
I'm pretty sure I'm 
A bragging idiot too."?

There is only one way to make it happen now.

To not be a bragging idiot.
But to be is from perspective.
What people think decides if I
Am good or bad.
But there is another thing,
About gathering perspectives.

People lie.

Walk along the cracked concrete
One lazy step at a time
Not bothering to sidestep
Nor properly dispose of
The trash littered across the street
Which they call a road.
Parallel as an avenue,
Maybe a way.

Tonight's the fourth of July, 
But it's too hard to turn around
And watch the fireworks behind.
So smudge the thing held,
With a grease-laden thumb
From eating fries yesterday,
And it never got washed.

Onto a Styrofoam cup, 
Still being held onto
For comfort
Long after the drink inside is gone.
It was finished an hour ago.

And watch the colors of the fireworks 
Blare against the grease of the cup,
Without turning
And facing the wind.

The colors mix amongst the reflection visible from
The oily smudge of laziness,
Muddling form and shape,
Crisp outlines and solid color are gone,
Just lights that shine.


And if that isn't hope, who knows what is?

It was as if my eyes had been carved out,
Forcing me to stare at a blank wall,
Unseeing as ever.

And when I tried to look away,
I would begin to,
Ever so slightly
Be able to see again,
Across the extent of my peripheral vision.

And it would scare me,
Scare me back to the familiar blindness
Of the dank wall,
Where I stared straight forwards
Into the abyss of the absence of sight.

Post has attachment
It's not much but it's mine
It's words, brought out in time
No one knows, why i write
I write to let out words from my heart.


My very first blog. Do read and comment. 
Wait while more posts are being loaded