Something to Say

I hung my art upon the wall, a series of lines in graphite.
I stood back slowly comparing myself, to others here in the lime light.
Yes it was good, just as it should, showcasing myself so nicely.
But what of these scowls these grimacing cows, this contest, it seems so pricey.

I sat in my seat struck by the beat, so fast paced and yet shockingly dull.
at my shoulder he sat, adjusted his hat, and cleared throat within the lul.
"Have you something to say?" he asked me. "What do you mean?" I responded quite kirt.
"Why have you come here? Why do you draw?" he clarified for what is was worth.

"I just don't know how to say it." "That's not what I asked" he replied.
"I have something to say and I'll say it someday, but fingers seem tied at the moment."
"Then say it you must, and you'll say it I trust" he said with hope in his voice.
I pulled out each pin and started to grin, for I now had a staggering choice.

After a critique in my drawing class today my teacher turned to me and asked if I had something to say.  I hesitated wondering if he wanted me to defend my work.  I told him that I didn't know what he meant.  He clarified that he wanted to know if I had something to tell the world through my art, he wanted to know if there was any of me in these pieces or if they were completely devoid of communication.  I told him that I am unsure of how to say it.  He said that is not what he asked.  He repeated the question and I told him that yes I do have something to say.  He said good, and that he has seen it, but he wants to see it more.  I sat there for a moment wondering upon the things that he had said.   Curious, I thought. Curious.

Went King

WHAT MAKES IT ART?

When I a lonely peasant boy, who cannot speak of greatness,

sits and draws a castle scene on the dirty floor and faces,

when I can paint a mural great and take the awe of many

but what of all the art I do, when I recognize not any.

But princes in the palace walls, with careless hands of thumbs,

paint pictures of the most grotesque, and smeared with royal plumbs,

when princesses throw a tantrum flinging art across the page,

and all who see it marvel, oh such insight, oh such grace.

What is art my comrades? Is it skill that is defined?

Is art about the politics, or the artist's frame of mind?

I do not know, nor shall I ever, put art into a word,

for art is whispered in our ears, to define would be absurd.

While we were coloring scales in my drawing class the question was posed to us "what criteria exists for good art?" We sat for a moment in silence considering the question before one kid raised his hand and said that he thought it had to do with how much time and effort went into it.  I mentioned that I disagreed.  I said that I thought that art had to do a lot more with the statement that it made or the way it made you feel or change regardless of how much time it took.  We then proceeded to argue about whether or not that was one criteria that made art what it is.  I argued for the idea of art being a mechanism to change your paradigm while my professor played devils advocate and brought up what examples would not fit into that category.  In conjunction with this, my professor told us an interesting story.

His son had been on a flight and an older couple came and sat down next to him and his wife.  The older man, having only been seated a minute, lifted one cheek and passed gas in the direction of this younger couple.  The wife of my professor's son said in a hushed voice "honey, that man just passed gas on me!" to which the son replied "he is old" as if that were excuse enough.  

My professor went on to say that by doing that his son had completely ostracized this old man from society.  By allowing this to happen he had placed this old man in a position where he could never be a part of society again.  We do the same thing by putting old people in retirement homes.  We do this to them because they are not socially acceptable, because they are no longer capable of conforming to the common ideas.  So what does this have to do with art?  Art tends to be nothing more than what the masses say it is.  Art depends on the social status of the time.  Art becomes what society says it is.  There have been visionaries that have changed society through their art, but on average art isn't what it does to society, but rather art is what society has done to us.  When are we able to step back and ask if we are creating what society wants us to, or if we are seeking to change their paradigm?  What we decide to do has a lasting influence on the person we are.  Some will make the argument that we are not fit to be in society because we no longer know how to contribute but rather we are writing off our rambunctious behavior on the fact that we are "artists".  It is a fine line, and we all must make the choice between social acceptance or being ostracized.  We do it to ourselves. 

They Laugh At Me

They Laugh At Me

Stoicism and Mediocrity

I woke this morning and flew away, across the barren sea,

the others sat and watched me go, and others laughed at me.

They glared me down as jealous inmates, watch one leave the cell

I floated away across the morning, and here my thoughts I tell.

There were others plugging fast, to overtake my rise,

They pulled and climbed and scraped and mimed to try and win the prize.

They came in twos in groups and murders and some they laughed at me,

but amid confusion I took flight, and felt like I was free.

I breached the atmosphere at last, I left them all behind,

and then I saw the black ahead, and solace did I find.

I cut the engine, and fell back down, because I now could see,

I missed the way they all would stare, and some would laugh at me.

I find myself among them now, oh, how I try to blend.

Some would claim I am the same, on perspective it depends.

And on the shelf of purpose, I found what I could be,

Among rows of mediocrity, they still would laugh at me.

It started out as a simple project in 2D Design that went a little haywire.  The problem to create compelling images out of nothing but black and white paper while illustrating the principles of unity: Proximity, continuation, and repetition, came as a challenge.  I do not claim to be the person this poem speaks of, neither do I have a specific person in mind.  But I believe that we all can relate to this person.  At some point in our lives an intense fever of passion rips across our consciousness and we see for a moment the height of what we can be.  We see that others also have ambition, dreams and opportunities, but surely none could rival this passionate fever we feel now.  We rise, we climb, we fight and pull, until one day, the fever breaks.  We see that our passion has shut doors, cut ties, and essentially left us alone.  Being alone doesn't bother us, in fact, we have fought for this moment when we could operate free of all distraction.  This is the opportunity to be exactly what we have the potential to be...but that is not how it works.  Passion meets reason and we cut the engine.  We fall back to earth where we meet those that realized what we took so long to: 

  Passion is a poison when left uncontrolled, ambition is a 

  tragedy, just waiting to be told.

We fell for it, but we dont regret it.  We settle into our place, ready to be normal and live an amazing life...but it has change us.  The fever that ripped through us has left us something different.  They may laugh...but we are happy about who we have become.  We are unique.  Passion is the sickness that I would never give back, no matter how bad it hurts.

Scars

Oh Lord my God, I ponder
on matter of the past
I think of friends and foes alike
but scars appear at last.

I push them gently to the side
hoping I wont recall
those painful times in yesterdays
the hurtful times I fall.

They come to me so evil
threatening to break free
these scars of mine would open
and my sins the world would see.

But in this I must harbor
and put my doubts aside
Because my Lord and Savior
for me already died.

Poem #4

Fatigue

Oh what man am I to be?
What song my lungs expel
the being in this mind
what words can I not tell?

Through life the things I know
and things that I could be
what does it take to know
what potential is in me?

What lies so deep within
this box of treasures bright
what darkness do I hold
that can be changed with light?

What man I ought to be
is less of what I know,
but what I cannot be
is what I now must show.

A record here is set,
a race too far to run
oh, what is left to tell
what else is left undone?

What state is this that I
the person that I am
can even bear the weight
like atlas I do stand.

Upon these feeble knees,
a poor and useless soul
deep down into my life
I beg for this control.

I seek for greater works
a higher light than mine
and after all I search
confused with what I find.

Answers so forthcoming,
yet I understand them not
my mind to try the word
the answer that I got.

It's something slow and searching
something I cannot say
and oh if God be willing,
I'll fight for one more day.

Poem #3
In the 6th stanza, the last line I couldn't really read Ed's handwriting so I'm not sure if it is supposed to say Atlas or not. Probably not, but I can't figure it out.

The Shark and the Snail

It's a peculiar thing
that I bring to the table
a most trying dilemma
most epic a fable.

Please sit a while
and hear of my tale
of this noble a duo
the shark and the snail.

Two creatures on earth
did ne'er exist
with on, such a bond,
and friends such as this.

But what could they do,
oh what could they be
for worlds they describe
but never could see.

So time went on
and wonders they told
of what lay beneath,
above and below.

They told what could be
and thought even more
of what it was like
on the other one's shore.

So desperate they were
for the other one's home
they forgot who they were
and did aimlessly roam.

It didn't take long
for the snail to devise
a method to visit
this land most aprized.

With a run and a jump
with all of his might
he leapt from the ledge
and barely took flight.

With a most silent plop
he was under the brine
'mong Flotsam and Jetsom
no peace did he find.

He sank to the depths
of the ocean's dark floor
and the shark and the snail
could be friends never more.

So the story must be,
and remember this friends,
to life's discontent
you ne'er may tend.

Poem #2

Untitled

Why is my mind so feeble,
my heart less than it should
Why can't I manage all the things
my body thinks it should?

What things can be forgiven
What things can I still learn
Why are there things I wish for
for better days I yearn.

Like china, I am fragile,
like snowflakes so serene
but none could know the depth
or see who I have been.

When I feel alone and helpless,
when i find my mortal land
there's one I always turn to
or eventually I find.

Like looking in the mirror
his face sees through my soul
and finds me peace and comfort
when there's no self control.

He needs a heart that's willing
I pray that mine may be
I know that grace is calling
and he can set me free.

It's not that I deserve it
or by some merit won
for it's no prize I've taken
not for the things I've done.

These things are not recorded
nor on condition met
no; grace will come and find me
and bring me closer yet.

Save our souls, I beg thee
for lost out here at sea
are wary broken sailors
so many just like me.

A light on the horizon
comes cutting through the night
and upon my very asking
restores me to they sight.

And here I leave my epic
but my story never ends
for to my need my Savior
never fails to tend.

Poem #1: These are poems that Ed has sent home and asked me to share.

Facade

he whispers softly in my ear,
and pulls me here and there.
he plays off of my hopes and dreams,
off all my fears and cares.

He tells me things I want to hear,
he's witty and he's wise,
he speaks sweet silent treacheries,
behind ravishing disguise.

He brings me all I ever want,
and says its all I need,
he flatters and he compliments,
to my cursing gives no heed.

He's my very best and smartest friend,
a vagrant thief at night.
He seems most loving and most kind,
to talk me through the night.

And when I'm feeling very best,
and confident and sure,
He's always near and happy with,
life's pleasant grand allure.

But when Life's storms beset me,
he tells me all is well,
then quickly he abandons,
as I am dragged to hell.

Bring Me Home

Its not that I am perfect, far from it I suppose.
its not the way I sleep at night, or my odd ill-fitting clothes.
I'm flawed inside, deep down beneath this tame gentle facade,
I have my fears, my doubts and tears, yes dear friend, I'm Flawed.

Sometimes my lips betray me, speak things I don't want heard,
sometimes they don't have strength enough, to speak the crucial word.
Please forgive me of my trespasses, for great they truly are.
Guide me to thy loving arms, however near or far.

Sleep comes so reluctant, as I lay upon my bed;
as thoughts and dreams of madness run rampant 'round my head.
I fall quite numbly to my knees and beg for my release,
and somewhere through the darkness, I always find my peace.

The world can claim its remedies, for sickness of mankind,
but somehow it always fails me, and I always seem to find;
there's an island in the darkness on which we all may stand,
its a solid rock of ages, far better than the sand.

So carry me upon thy back, for I'm too weak to walk
fill my mouth, with words when I, seem far too scared to talk.
Save me from this Hell I'm in, for I cannot fight alone.
Be my Lord, my Captain, Guide, my Lighthouse...bring me home.

The Dream

There is an unusual place, all indoors that sheilds them from the sun
inside a beauty pageant is taking place with demons instead of girls
I don't fit in and I don't know why but this place is lots of fun
it seems that every door I try is locked from the outside.

They welcome me although we know that I'm from somewhere else
you see they wait for me, they dote on me, and give me lots of gifts.
The children laugh and play with me, the demons push aside.
they all have dogs the strangest thing, but they can't go outside.

I've come of age and now my turn to choose my puppy sweet.
he will be my friend when all will turn against me and my ways.
They're all the same, how could I choose, this choice is far too hard.
But then theres one, whose ne'er been picked, a sweet and floppy lad.

It seems as though the choice is made, but some don't like it there.
They try to make me choose the same to fit in with the crowd.
A brief farewell I'll try this one, this one who is like all.
but alas I cannot settle with this long one thence must fall.

So me and pontiff, for thats his name, we spend our days outside
among the suns and burns we lay with water at our side
and I feel happy, all is done, this world is strange at best
but I will dwell and I will love, for you see, I am at rest.

Okay, so I had a sweet dream last night. It was pretty awesome. First of all I was in this military-like bunker but it had been modified into a living space. We weren't allowed to go outside for some unknown reason. There was a beauty pageant being held that day and all of the girls were really foul and mean. Everyone knew that I was from somewhere else because they were explaining things to me. I looked out a window and noticed that there were four suns. It made finding shade impossible. Anyways, I was coming of age and every boy gets to choose a dog and all of them were dachshunds except for one that they called pontiff. Funny I know. Anyways, I tried to get along with one that was normal but I couldn't get that floppy reckless dog named pontiff off of my mind. So I ended up going back and getting pontiff. We ended up going outside and the sun would burn you in seconds but somehow it didn't matter to me. Me and pontiff watched the suns set and then went back inside. It seemed like so many doors were locked and I had become and outcast because of how different I was. It was really a fun dream and I wish I could go back. It was awesome because weird things would happen. We would be running down a hall and a flash flood would knock us all over and we would just keep going like nothing was wrong. Random stuff like that. Anyways, that was my dream.

My Death (haiku)

The death creeps slowly
with crystal piece on the sill
powdered pale in sleep

I thought it was appropriate with my leaving to Japan and all to write a Haiku. They are traditionally written about seasons or nature.

A Vomit of my Intelect

Sometimes, when sleep evades you and despite all of your best efforts there are just too many things rattling around in your head. I find it is best to gag your mind of all random thought. Then you can often relax those muscles of your brain.

My cluttered mind cannot define, The images I see,
For caught in mazes far too hard, Each thought longs to be free.
An angel passes all the rest, and shouts down from the sky,
a music note falls from his lips, a drop of liquid pie.

A man far down below he sits, his hands are branches long.
He grows each day and ever stays, the source of right and wrong.
She bleeds deep purple lullaby's, while children drink them up,
Around her neck she wears a charm, that's bound to bring her luck.

A man crawls in and cries to her, for opportunities gone,
but he cannot stop his soul from this, he breaks into a song.
And from his hands a bubble blows, and pops into the night
With sun and moon and stars about but none can shed their light.

The twisted gate like hands it bars the way into the grave,
while one small kid hides bruises gleaned for when he misbehaves.
They jump right off his cheeks in song, and dance a merry jig
and with a bow, and some fanfare, each turns into a fig.

The boy grows feathers on his hands, and paints a picture bright
Where wagstop birds soar high above, feasting on the light
He pushed his thumb against a nail to see if he could bleed.
He grabbed a ball of linen dust and promptly planted seeds.

There grew a mighty palace, with kings made of pure gold.
A woman who was young and fair, then promptly became old.
The tapestry's of finest yarn, adorned the hall of Gods.
And terrariums of fish and birds and little candy frogs.

The kingdom cast a wary eye, on all who play with birds.
They pulled the hair of all they saw and even those they heard.
The prince of castles near and far, could not prevail at length,
for vanquished in the end he was, by the yonder velvet skank.

Exploding into colors, the man surrenders throne,
but beware of those that talk too sly, for the salamanders they are prone
But back to angels high above, who cry sweet lemon drops
and come to earth to sing us songs that will our every crop.

Of Gods on High who show us all the mysteries of time
and play on fields of sugar cane and feast on beds of lime.
I'm sorry now for on this page my mind had quite a spill
a vomit of my intellect, my creativity and will.

I'll wipe it up I'm sorry but, I simply cannot sleep.
when too many things are in my head, last on my mind are sheep.
Sorry about your Indian rug, I hope it does not stain,
I better leave and not come back (for I may just vomit again).

Mercy

Oh woe my friend for can't you see
this work of art laid forth
the beauty of the colors bright
cannot you see their worth?

As each and every hue I strove
to make this wondrous thing.
But all for naught it all must be
No yield can e're it bring.

The field so white a burning page
a canvas clean and pure
This thing I've done, the race I've run
what is all this for?

For perseverance, speed and gain
I've liad it all on sheet
But as I've left the quill in dock
I feel that I've been beat.

Don't get me wrong, the victory mine,
I've done it for myself
but world would not in future days
gaze upon the shelf.

So while I've lost somehow I've won
for nothing here can taint.
I've made a work that cannot be
of faded and peeling paint.

The jokes on you for what may seem
the wretched bane of this
The play lives on inside my mind
untainted by your fist.

So here is goes I'm leaving this
I put it down so slow
For mercy is the way within
I here must let it go.

Goodbye my sweet, I bid farewell
This life for you must end
I love you so, I always will,
but to mercy must I tend.

I'll do it soft, long hard strokes,
just close your eyes and breathe
for I could not leave you here to stay,
through death you'll be set free.

It's over now, I've done my deed.
My love exists no more
But deep inside you'll never see,
The shrine I've built for her.

I saved her from this life so cruel,
by taking her inside.
The work of art that was her face,
spared both of our pride.

I put the weapon down so slow,
it weightless in my hand.
The dust it falls as skittles do,
the post-war view just grand.

Don't worry now, its clean as snow.
I've cleaned it up so nice.
No one will know the deed I've done,
The death must be the price.

There is no guilt, just slight regret,
as I leave that canvas clean.
She's gone, it's done, it cannot change,
I'll just dwell on what has been.

Okay, despite what you guys may be thinking right now, This poem is about a dry-erase mural. I know you were thinking about the murder of a lover and all of that jazz but it still applies right? Read it again closely this time. You can't ignore the allusion to art...sometimes not even an allusion at all. It is an inevitable end but there is something in you that needs to put it down yourself. You could leave it for others to see but you wouldn't want the art to be desecrated so, being helpless, you must destroy that beautiful work that you have made to spare it the cruelty. I thought it was interesting to put it into a person kind of context and thought it astoundingly morbid but so relevant. So Andrew, I guess I did write about love in a warped and twisted sense. There are things that give you the cue without this explanation: Long hard strokes with a weightless weapon (usually a weapon would feel heavy in your hand). This is descriptive of me erasing the work of art. The skittle dust is pretty self-explanatory. Read it again, and try to feel the emotion as I have to destroy this work of art just after I have finished it because I know that it cannot last. So out of mercy I let its last moment be in its best state and I am the only one that truly got to behold it.

Inside of Me

Look at me, look deep inside
Do you see it? Past these eyes?
do you see the ocean blue
with clouds hung low obstructing view?

But look right past focus hard
you see the man? the traveling bard?
you see his flute with golden tones
the music graced a thousand thrones.

You see the jade in steps of green
you see the lizard his likely sheen?
The hummingbirds made of pure gold
worth far more than can be sold.

But that's not it, not it at all.
Look deeper past those crumbling walls
you see deep down the surface clear,
the deep blue lake you see it here?

Well press your face down very low
and deeper if you dare to go.
You see the damsel flying by
my widow black her lips so wry?

Among the clouds the jester calls
and dances to rhythms of the falls
where two small bats perch just like birds,
and speak in old forgotten words.

You begin to see it now I'm right?
well perhaps we need a bit more light.
Oh here they come, with boxes firm,
my little moles and faithful worms.

Rubies adorn the beady eyes,
of all my friends the dragon flies
and not to take you too far in,
but the surface is just where we've been

Do you see these things do you see them yet?
do you see how complicated things can get?
for deep inside these eyes of mine
a step to the right and a cup of wine,

There are things too grand for you or me
things my eyes can barely see.
But lurking here inside my mind
lets see what other things we'll find.

Do you see the man with curled in toes?
A mask he wears so no one knows.
Do you see his bowl of Robin eggs
That hatch to birds with human legs?

You see the key too big to lift
it opens him, a perfect fit.
When he gets cut we see inside
a marathon of tears he's cried.

He's not the only one you know,
a woman here cries only snow.
She cannot stop for when she does
she cannot hear above the buzz.

And you see him oh the poor man
he eats sea salt, its all he can
his wife eats lard and nothing else
to keep the weight upon herself.

The man with arms instead of legs
a woman tied to ground and begs
and with a spoon this boy must play
and every night is bright as day.

The lightning strikes but brings no rain,
and leaves fall off no color changed.
The snow is black instead of white,
and bugs rain down eating light.

While men cannot sleep long at all
for in their dreams they always fall
while every step they try and take
gives way to cliffs into the lake

He cannot get on top you see
for upside down he seems to be
and I cannot help but shed a tear,
for the man who felt nothing but fear.

And do you see it? do you know?
is this where you so want to go?
Do you see it deep inside?
and will you stay or will you hide?

Run along, forget this tale.
And get back up should 'ere you fail.
You cannot judge for so you see,
you cannot know the extent of me.

I apologize but this one is pretty deep. I hope you noticed first of all the change in mood throughout the poem. by the end I hope the little journey had become somewhat menacing. Some of you may have also picked up that we are essentially taking a ride through someones mind, personality, struggles and strengths. At the beginning (on the outside of the person) we find happiness, things that are fun to see and be around, but as we venture deeper we find things like the moles and worms with the boxes firm. These are things the person wished to keep buried and hid, a pandora's box of sorts. There are several lines that suggest that we think we know what we see but we could very well be mistaken. For example the Damsel flying by and my widow black. Both may speak of beautiful women or foul insects. Another instance is the bard with the flute. Are the "golden tones" describing the physical color of the flute or the musical tones that he plays? I included the line "there are things to grand for you or me" because in the story of Job he describes his trial as too wonderful to be understood. This lets on to the trials we are about to see. We have the man with a bowl of robin eggs that hatch birds with human legs. This is the affliction of false expectations, we see the woman crying snow: crying is not always bad but the snow is how I describe the bitter kind of tears that burn. And the key too big to lift that opens the man, a perfect fit: another allusion to the fact that even if we had a key to look inside someone, it would be impossible for us to understand. I wont bother you with the rest but you get the picture. The poem ends leaving the person sorry that they had this look into the true person. I want to emphasize that this is not a poem of doom and gloom. It is not telling you guys how tortured I am inside, but I believe some people truly are and if we were given the chance would we want to see?

Under 30 Sec.

so heres the thing, about my life,
theres not much adrenaline, poise, nor strife,
I go to school, make shirts all day
and here I am to tell you...Hey!

Not much I know but its all I've got
my spirits strung on shirts and not
so much into this poetry now
but heres one more and I say Ciao.

Yes, I did write this under 30 seconds right off the top of my head. Hold your applause. But feel free to comment.

For This the Life

For this the life I must submit a way,
You cannot bring and cannot take your mind
But what existence of a soul you say
But adventure, intrigue, are sure to find.

A way to be is thus set forth, declared
As fifty old compile just the same
They tell you all to go and be not scared
But Hell be thine if right you do not gain

Time well spent is not ours to choose but well
What is true on one may not be thus on two
Whether it is man you fear, God or Hell
kaleidoscopes insist on changing hue.

As each man once here then gone must he be
Not mine to say yea nay whilst he was free.

Yeah, my first attempt at a shakespearean sonnet. It seems that ambiguity comes with the territory.

The Great Deliberation

so here's the thing I cannot decide
the bane of my existence.
For just when I think my title grand,
it fades into the distance.

I need some help, a call to arms
for all of my good friends,
decide upon the following five
and comment once again.

Really though, I need to decide on a header. Not to mention a name for my blog. If you would please vote, and have your families vote, heck, have your friends vote, just give me a comment with a real number of how many of your associates voted for which one.

Contestant #1

Contestant #2

Contestant #3

Contestant #4

Contestant #5

The Prayer

The windowsill is haunted, a ghost waits down the stairs,
a person who waits quietly for something just not there.
I see a drip of water, I sip a glass of wine.
and wait to see the helpless state, of all of this: Mankind.

I cannot sleep for hours, I cannot pray for days,
The state I'm in, the one I've been, is driving me insane.
So help me out, I cannot be This person anymore.
There's something here, There's something that,won't cut it anymore.

So this is who I turn to, to this there is no lie.
For when there's someone out there, to hear my desperate cry.
There are daemons in the mountains but there is peace in every way.
The time I take to listen, determines if I'll stay.

I cannot be the person, that you all want me to be.
So I'm casting off, I'm changing all the things that I chose to see.
But take me to the mountains for I cannot be afraid;
of all these things that cannot stay, for you are here with me.

Take me further up while holding me so tight.
Take a chance, make this real, and place me in the light.
So help me out, I cannot be this person any more.
There's something here, theres something that, won't cut it anymore.

So this is who I turn to, to this there is not lie.
For when there's someone out there, to hear my strangled cry.
So show me what I'm missing for I see it all around,
show me what has blinded me, and in what state I drown.

Theres something here I realize, something to defeat.
But I know that I cannot come home, walking on these feet.
So change me for forever. not to be undone.
Change the way I see this life, turned toward thy son.

Take this piece of matter, that's broken on the floor. Make me something better than I could ever be before.

So, this poem is called "The Prayer" I think you may be able to decipher it yourselves. Just remember that this is the poem that I used for the title on header 3. I did not do drafts, I did not backspace, and I did not do it on paper first. This is purely my mind spilling onto the page. (that accounts for the half-stanza at the end) So don't judge too harshly but I would like to hear feedback. If I get a unanimous call for an explanation I will probably provide it.

My World

My worlds as follows listen close
A circus ball with curled in toes
an hour glass with sand to spare
a tiny man is caught in there

a tiny bird with guava skin
a tennis pro who's bound to win
a tiny gecko camped on cheek
my finger hurts from stopping leak

a lie or two it cannot harm
a bat no two are in my farm
my butterflies that bring me dew
some herbal tea one lump, nay two

Then hours in the sun rains down
as little planes with painted frowns
they find a runway on my neck
the clock strikes one with tick then teck

the mice find refuge in the rain
as those with wings find their restraint
the ground alive with umbrellas bright
smaller than a widows mite

while humpty dumpty slips and falls
and the drops turn into bouncy balls
a crazy punk just screams and shouts
and two twin orphans sit and pout

The man across the street sits down
and practices his smiley frown
while frogs perform their symphony
and this my friends, my world to be.

Yeah, I imagine you guys are looking for an explanation. I am pretty sure I have restless leg syndrom, and one night I could not sleep for the life of me, there was just too much bunched up in my head. I wrote this and then fell asleep shortly after and in the morning I could barely remember I had written it. Strangely enough, most of the bizarre things have actual bearing in my life. For example:
An Hour Glass with sand to spare: Hour glasses are supposed to be perfect, the perfect number of grains of sand...something seems to be wrong with my hourglass...I'm still trying to measure the sand correctly.
A bat, no two are in my farm: There are things that I have that are wrong in my life, and as soon as I acknowledge that I find another...I can never be rid of the bats in my barn.
As those with wings find their restraint: Everyone knows you cannot fly in the rain. But who can think of something better than that? sometimes the challenge in this life is finding the restraint not to do something we desperately long to do because we know the consequences.

Anyways, those are just a few examples.

The Mansion

A mansion dank, and dark and broken,
Long since word inside been spoken,
Fallen and forgotten place with broken window, beam and door

Pathways hidden, grown o'er and lost,
Twixt fern and flower, weed and moss,
A fairy tale if 'er there were forgotten but not dead.

He stood inside, a long bone wanderer
who wondered what all this was for
as footfall after footfall he paced along the squeaking floor.

Taking one step, then another,
first his left foot then the other.
Broken down and weary, retired lonely, but not dead

Reaching wall he turned and thought,
of what with all this time he'd wrought.
Pacing through this lonely house, a shell of what it could have been

He stood much longer sat and pondered,
looking round the blue-gray walls.
Then he paced two more and faced,
the prospect of these barren halls.

He broke routine and went and looked.
The sheets removed, the drapes he shook.
Digging deep inside this house that must hold more than empty space.

deep inside the darkest hall,
He found an old familiar wall,
and sitting at its base forgotten brushes paints and ladder tall.

Week on end he spent redoing,
walls and ceilings, furniture moving,
till with time inside unique, he placed his final touch.

Today nobody stops and pauses,
as they pass the mansion gray;
But inside the world is moving, variable as a brand new day.

He brought to light a hidden wonder,
caught beneath in sleepless slumber,
A place he knew existed but pushed beneath inside his head.

And he moves on, himself fulfilling,
running notions through his head.
And though the outside unbecoming,
inside is much alive, not dead.

Well, another self-reflecting poem...It didn't start out that way. I wanted to write a poem with random stanzas and rhyming patterns. I wrote most of it with a 'raven' feel to it which was fun. Pretty self-explanatory I think. If you have questions or are confused feel free to post your concern. I like it when people give me feedback...the harsher the better. To quote Mr. Mellen: "you never improve when people tell you that you are perfect."