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?