Poetry: Man vs. Mountain

The man tried everything he could,
but before the mountain he was silenced.
A face of stone glares down at him,
contempt in it's eyes at his efforts.

He tries to climb the mountain,
only to be cast down.
He tries to cajole the mountain,
only to meet thunderous silence.

He screams to the sky,
why can't he be the one to overcome it.
The air grows quiet,
until the sky answers the mans call.

"You will never overcome the mountain,
you're not the one destined to reach the peak.
Respect the mountain for what it did for you,
not what you want from it."

The man listens to the sky,
taking its words to heart.
The mountain may never move for him,
but it did move him.

Writing: Moment in Time - Traveller Part 2

I left that museum days, weeks, minutes, hours, seconds ago. I can't tell anymore. Time has blended, mixed in my mind. Then is now, now is gone, and the future is long, long ago. The statues still bug me, twisting from golden perfection into tarnished figurines rendered straight from nightmares. The faces which once held me in their perfection are now arrogant, possessive. They all want something from me. Holding out arms of metal, dripping rust from their elbows like the ichor that coated the demons words. I ran from there years, days, seconds, minutes, ago. I lost myself in paths of darkness, small monstrosities beckoning me to their shops. I don't dare to look and cover my ears as I run by them. The implements of torture and inhuman slavery hang from grotesque metal hooks, no doubt covered in dried blood, and the words they speak are honey-coated, sugary sweet, just the way to ensnare the unwary. Yet I am aware. I have seen them and what they do and I make no mistakes, until I make a mistake.

Being only a man, my eye is drawn to an ebony statue dressed in flame. She is beautiful and sensual, ugly and disgusting. She is fuel for my manhood as my steps falter, my eyes fatally locked to her sexuality. I feel the slime around my feet slide up my ankles and to my knees. I know there is nowhere to go now, even if I wanted to. My eyes burn, must be the sulfur in this personal hell I am in. The smoldering statues around me close in, demanding things of me in a tongue I cannot make out. The ebony idol looks to me and smiles, pointing a clawed hand towards me. I feel my body shaking, cold sweat covering me, blanketing me as the ocean would if I was drowning. I briefly remember drowning recently and think that if I drowned, but why would I have drown? If I drown, when did it happen? I brush off the half-thought with a mental shrug and see why the onyx statue with red red eyes was pointing at me. Her familiar, as dark as midnight in the middle of a forest flows from behind me, eyes hungry for some unspeakable act. I know I'm afraid, but the fog surrounding me now hides it from those that would harm me. The shadow draws close, asking something in whisper-hushed tones. I feel my mouth open, close, open, close. No words come forth but I see the shadow retreat, the ground release its hold, and the statues back away. The fog begins to lift as I raise myself from the muck, the last tatters of the fog wisping away like forlorn ghosts.

I stand up and see the people around me looking at me like I'm crazy. I start walking down the hallway, wondering what is going on. A black woman and a large man are standing together, arms clasped around each other in a loving embrace. I smile slightly at them and am dumbfounded on why they recoil from a simple smile. Stupid people, all of them. I walk by the shops and stop at one, looking at sunglasses, watching the world fall into a light green haze. I always liked the color green, so I buy them from the clerk and walk away. Stepping outside, feeling the wind whip around me, embracing me as a lover would, I snap my fingers and open my bottle, rolling the two objects around and around. Feeling them race down my throat, I swallow deeply and feel tension melting out of my body. I silently ask myself why fog would be gushing out of the roads and lawns at this time of day, but I cant remember why I would care. I put on my glasses and bathe the world in emerald, the fog illuminating in the lenses.

It was like waking from a dream! One moment in hell, the next in heaven, where would I end up next?! I walked down the crystalline path, watching boxes made of emeralds, shimmering in the yellow-green sun, flow by me on rivers of algae. I laugh a great laugh and don't stop, feeling my body expand and contract which each cascade of laughter spewing out of my face. I approach an emerald guardian and hear myself ask him which way to Oz while mirth is dancing on my shoulder, only to have him look at me quizzically and say something in green-speak. I hear my body laugh again and tell him that I don't speak green, but thank him for being so kind. One of the green boxes moves close to me and mirth instructs me to get in, pointing imperiously from my shoulder while he spins in a joyous little jig. I feel my hand slide into the color, becoming one with it as it infuses my entire body. I wondered if I would be able to speak something, but again cant remember why I would want to speak with green people, no matter how jolly.

Another guardian is sitting in the cube as I feel it move beneath my feet and above my head. Time slows and speeds, speeds and slows, until we reach the Emerald City, or I believe that's what he said, I cant understand green-speak, I hear my lips say to it. The green-diamond laughs a crystal laugh and steps out from the oval, and pulls me gently away from that grassy tomb. This place, I cant remember what I called it, but that doesn't matter, feels right to me. It feels like this is where I should be. Entering it's massive gem-like portal, I feel the guardian wrap some shirt around me, but I hear my eyes tell him the sleeves are a bit too long. My arms will grow, expand, become so long I can touch that light bulb above me. The guardian gently leads me to another room and shuts a door, the sound echoing in my new semi-precious home. The fog fills this room, but it reminds me of a smoke bomb and I always liked smoke bombs as a child. I feel my head beating a rhythmic tune on the down-filled wall, filling me with the tinkling sound of falling jewels. The fog envelopes me as I close my eyes, thinking my travelling days are done, but why would they be done if I haven't gone anywhere?

Writing: Moment in Time -Traveller

I walked with a lackadaisical sense of urgency, my stride almost flowing beneath me across a river of black molasses. My steps felt as if they had no direction, yet each foot wanted to move in a hundred directions as once, the contradiction pulling me apart and suffocating me with each footfall. My mind darkened by the passing clouds, each one staring angrily down from the sky, threatening the jacketless with a sudden clap of thunder. I wander aimlessly, yet have a destination, though I don't exactly know where I'm going. A man with a beard that starts somewhere below his eyebrows demands something of me, suspicion in his piggish eyes. I can't quite make out what he wants, but I manage to satisfy him as I fumble with something in my hands. He imperiously points for me to keep moving and woman with a black eye and dressed in ice glares at me through a doorway. I'm scared to move, but something tells me I should or the frozen witch before me or the bearded pig behind will attack me for indecision. I step forward through the door, an eerie feeling coursing through every fiber of my being, and the feeling suddenly snapping the slow flow of my step into the rapids, as I am hurried and pushed down a never-ending hallway where people in suits wait like gargoyles every few feet.

My mind still refuses to illuminate the world around me, the darkness washing over and over the world. One of the gargoyles, a small man with an unimpressive chin that he covered in coarse, scraggly hairs, rises from his perch and calls to me, almost pleading me to come to him. My body freezes at his call, the blood chilling as it churns through my veins. My skin grows hot, sweat forming instantly on desert-dry skin. My mind struggles to understand what he is screeching, fumbling clumsily with each word, like a young child trying to build a tower of blocks only to watch them fall after only a few of them rise. Unlike the semi-joy a child would get from that fall, I close my eyes, fighting back sea-salt tears. A hot breath on my neck startles me and I feel myself scream, yet no sound is uttered. The wiry gargoyle is only inches from me, pawing at me; demanding something of me, but I can just stare at him in abject horror. He begins pushing me towards another door, a door which could hold heaven or hell, judging by the people walking through it. Pedophile and preacher, Scholar and terrorist, demon and angel. The lines blurred as each hides behind cellphones and newspapers, keeping the illusion even as they pass through the gates to what may be Hades.

My eyes were closed the entire time he moved me. His hands, I noticed, lacked the blood-drenched claws one normally see's on gargoyles, and that comforted me somewhat. I feel my body slide through the doorway, moving like sap flowing down a tree. My steps once again become languorous, stepping carefully, testing each step, yet taking each step with blinding confidence. Another doorway stands before me, smaller yet seeming to have a message that says that behind it I will finally go where I am going to. Stepping gratefully through that portcullis, A wave of cool air overtakes me. I feel my body go weightless, almost like I was in space. The cool air raising me like a balloon that lost its way from some now-crying child. So refreshing is the sensation, I don't feel the tug and gentle guidance from a steady hand down a small corridor, until I am forcefully thrown to the ground, my euphoria popped not unlike that adventurous balloon when it climbed too high to say hello to the moon.

Tiny pebbles peak up out of an ocean of blues and grays. I notice some covered in seaweeds of different shades and hues, but I'm strangely not afraid to be lost in this ocean. Looking around, I see the sky below me and the ocean ahead of me, though I do struggle to correct myself that the ocean is below and the sky is above. Satisfied that I have it correct, though I no longer remember nor care what I had corrected myself on, I lean back and let the calm waters envelope me, blissfully uncaring of the demon floating to my right, whispering, babbling disgusting, evil temptations into my ear. His breath, so fowl the very water and air part to let it by so they don't get touched, wraps around my neck. His tongue, forked and flicking against my now frozen skin, hisses and cajoles me, demanding I do something terrible. I shut my eyes tighter, the blood and light floating in front of me in that awful darkness, but better my own darkness than his. I hear myself say something, but to this day I could not tell anyone what I said, and my words, forming a sword from St. Gabriel himself, stabs the demon in the very core. Staggering back, his hand swinging skyward, almost pleading to God to forgive him, he goes limp and slides below the iron-blue tide.

I cant remember much else from that ocean, sadly, but once the demon was vanquished, I sank below the waves myself, feeling my eyes close and when I opened them again, I was back on land surrounded by golden statues that made me remember the ages of gold when Gods were cast in molten gold and cooled as to harden them eternally against time. The fog was thick, though, so I could not tell where I was going, but I walked with a determination, slowly and with steps that took twelve lifetimes each to land. I survived much today, I heard myself say as I cut through the fog and watched it fall to the ground writhing like a beached eel. I snap my fingers and give a startled exclamation which had to have scared the most closest statues because they suddenly became a cast of tragedy and comedy masks. Reaching into a pocket, I pull out a red shell and raise it to my lips. Feeling them fall down my throat and swim within my blood, I imagine I am smiling, though I am no longer sure why I would be smiling. Taking on a mask of supreme indifference to the beautiful statues around me, I continue to struggle through the swamp, my feet like lead in the murky ichor below me.

Writing: Moment in Time - Passion

He presses her against the wall, her body quivering as her warm flesh touches the chill wall, eliciting a gasp that is quickly smothered by his rough kiss. Her hands twine in his hair, pulling, tugging, grasping as she loses herself in the kiss. Her legs slide around his waist, allowing him to hold her weight with his own and the wall, pressing hip to hip. His hands wander, caressing her from the top of her head all the way down to the rounded contours of her buttocks. Her eyes close as his lips follow suit, and wander her cheek, neck, shoulder. Teeth grazing along soft flesh until finding a hold, bringing a low scream followed by a ragged moan, from her lips.

He makes sure she is properly secure and slides his hands up her slides, lifting her shirt up and off in the process. Before it is all the way off, he twists the shirt and ties her hands above her head with it, pinning her wrists with one arm as his other hand drifts down her cheek, around her neck, down her breast bone, and unhooks her black and blue laced bra. She closes her eyes as she feels his fingers tease her hard nipples and his lips graze along her neck. She enjoys the feeling of semi-helplessness, legs locked around him, keeping her from falling, hands pinned above her head, unable to feel him; touch him. His lips find there way to hers as he kisses her deeply, a gasp from her mid-kiss tells him she is enjoying his touch. He feels her hips pushing against him as she tries to force her back from the wall and against him.

He releases her hands and let them grasp his hair and pull his head to her chest. She moans as his hot breath trails down her cleavage and over one of her breasts. Her head arches back, a moan escaping her lips as she feels his tongue on her; hips lips and teeth soon follow. Her fingernails scratch down his back, leaving red trails and a small bead of blood. She feels his breath catch against her breast and a smile lights her face. She pulls his head roughly up and kisses him deeply. Kissing along his neck, she makes her way to his ear and flicks the lobe with her tongue before sucking and nibbling. His eyes close and his hands tighten on her hips, pressing back against her. She whispers in his ear and pulls away from him smiling. He smiles back and grabs her by the buttocks and lifts her as she wraps her arms around his neck tightly. He turns and carries her away from the wall, kicking open the bedroom door and tossing her her to the bed. She looks up at him with a wicked smile on her face as the door closes slowly behind him.

Poetry: Where the Shadows Fade

A smile and a kind word broke through,
like a ram battering through a wall.
You're light touched my heart,
where the shadows begin to fade.

It's been a long time since I felt this way,
touched by your warmth and kindness.
Where we are going, who knows,
but the ride is going to be the best part.

Life
Vitality
Energy
Laughter

You broke through my shadow wall,
breaching it with your inner light.
I feel connected and in tune,
like a song that touches your soul.

You are on my minds radio,
and I am listening intently.
You are in my eyes movie screen,
and I am looking more closely.

Sarcastic
Funny
Open
Smile

You have gone where few have before,
where the shadows fade.
You have made me happy,
and in such a short time.

It might not last,
but we will enjoy it.
It might end tomorrow,
but tomorrow is a long way off.

Moment in Time - Day in the Life of...

He sits at Starbucks, table occupied by him, a phone, car keys, Marlboro Smooths Menthol, and his steaming cup of cafe americano. The sounds of traffic fill his thoughts as he scratches words in his notebook. Three quick flicks of his lighter and a cherry red beacon glows from the cigarette between his lips. Taking a deep breath, he lets the taste of menthol and nicotine into his system. The sounds of the world have a tendency to drown out thought, and today is no exception. The sky above him is full of emptiness. He smiles as he scrawls that contradiction; on a clear day, the sky is full of it. You know what you are truly seeing. For once his phone stands silent, a guard against those he cares for, but enjoys the public solitude he is experiencing. Lately, his thoughts and body have been constantly on the move, soothed only by lyrical genius. Now, strange as it seems, the sounds of the industrial world fill his mind, soothing and relaxing.

He thinks that today would be a perfect day for a picnic, but noone does those things anymore. They are from a day long lost to television and electronics. A day only remembered in its portrayal in both. Given a little, he thinks, and even those last few glimpses at a quieter time will be lost in the never ending hourglass of history. Striking up another cigarette, he greets every person to enter the door next to him, bringing the lyrics from a newly discovered song to his lips, The Ballad of Love and Hate. He writes in the third person, keeping the thoughts he has confined to an amorphous entity that can represent anyone who reads and compares to their own lives. Strangers walk to and fro in the streets, busy going to work or play. He sees them and wonders, as always, where are they going? What is their story? Would they share it? He guesses not. People no longer share their stories with strangers anymore. A couple with a dog sits two tables away. With an indulgent smile, he looks towards them and is met with a look of questioning... tinged with a look of annoyance. This still baffles him. He always finds himself wondering why people became so stand-offish. No longer a country united, we have become a country divided at the most basic of levels. It seems like it is only yesterday this country changed, but its been this way for as long as he can remember. The thought of how far we drifted apart severs the smile from his lips, which lasted only a brief moment in comparison to the saddened state we have become.

At a whistle that sounds like a bottle rocket, his mind snaps back to the main crux of his life. A heart and mind divided, he thinks about the two women who hold his heart for ransom. A song by an artist he doesn't know fills his mind, shoving the sounds of traffic away. He kinda loves two girls, but kinda lost them both. A good song, he thinks, as he jealously wishes he could write as well. He thinks to the songs he knows and wishes he had a fraction of the musical inclination that the various artists and instrument players have. His musical ability lies in designing flowing thought; the music of the mind. His words inspire emotion and thought, sparking the imagination, and not always in a good way. He desires that the world could look through his eyes; see what he sees, but the only way he knows how to tell the world is through the words he lays down. Many have told him to publish, to speak, to teach, but he is content that he will get his thoughts out, albeit to a smaller audience. He knows that his writings meaning is lost on many and wants to scream sometimes when it is misinterpreted, but holds to the rule that he writes for one person - himself.

He strikes another light, the sounds of the world bursting forth once more. His thoughts shattering and reforming only to break apart like waves crashing on a beach. Constant texts break his isolated reverie. Not that he minds, he admits that he is a social animal. He smiles as he admits that he is a product of an environment that has made it impossible to be alone. Thinking to the rhetorical question, "If alone in the woods for the remainder of your life, could you survive?" In an age where the world has collapsed in on itself, where the far corners of the world are now so close you never have to leave the house, and where people carry cellphones as if they were tumors growing from their hips; no. He is conscious enough of the way of the world to see that in himself. Given the day and age we live in, he is not sure anyone would be able to do it no matter what they say. Again his mind drifts to another topic, then another, still locked in the third person. Texts and cigarettes keep breaking his thoughts on jagged rocks, tearing apart things he wants to concentrate on, but in the ocean of memory and thought, that is impossible.

Poetry: Plastic Princess

Non-biodegradable and equally as hollow,
you are a plastic princess.
Lacking soul and human compassion,
I can find a thousand copies of you on the shelf.

You use men like cellophane wrappers,
teasing them with your perfect plastic features.
You can speak the words when you take them to your bed,
but your words are as empty and hollow as you are.

Cheap as they come,
you will do anything for a sale.
You use men,
but the joke is on you.

Did I say on you,
because I meant to say it is you.
Stay in your plastic palace, princess,
cause the world is full of enough trash.

Poetry: Nine Lives Spent

Details of my life come by unbidden,
lost in a torrent of fleeting moments and thoughts.
Past becomes obsolete and forgettable,
with only the present becoming pertinent.

Nine lives lived with only one mattering,
leaving me content and amazed I have what I do.
One life to live and love,
leaving me to make the most of what I have.

The one who completes me understands me,
with a deep appreciation for the lives I lives before.
She knows she is my only,
and I can only hope that I am enough to satisfy her.

Poetry: Twisted Verse

Fading vision
gives way to sensation,
drifting bodiless
through empty dreams.
Lost souls
demand you to join,
damning you
and the dreams you have.

Ghosts haunt
empty halls of memories,
giving way
while your demons haunt you.
Silence reigns
while your heart yearns,
screams shatter
the silence around you.

Your heart
bursts forth like a rocket,
shining bright
and banishing the darkness.
Body gains
cohesion and leaps forward,
dreams gain
strength and become reality.

Moment in Time - Anthill

It's amazing how the first day at a college resembles an overturned anthill. People scurrying to and fro, lost souls looking in vain for where they need to be. Professors herd students into safety; hour-long dens for a brief, knowledge-filled moment of peace, only to be shoved back into the bright sun with the other ants scrambling for help and direction.

Hornets, adorned in gray and badges, lurk on the outskirts of the confusion, waiting patiently to sting one of those lost and confused ants; awaiting with eagle eye's for one of them to make a fatal mistake. A stinger made of ink and paper, piercing poor insects through the pocketbook, adds to the ball of anxiety and confusion that is the first days of this ant farm.

Noises assail the unwary bugs that go crawling, wide-eyed and obviously out of sorts. Bells, whistles, the incessant babble of nearby birds, dressed in today's hippest fashions, mocking those little lost ants. Construction rattles them, as they watch buildings being erected and torn down in the blink of their awestruck eyes. The sounds of a thousand voices, trapped and echoing off the concrete walls, vibrate in the air, suffocating, smothering, the cries of their anguish and despair.

When the final note has been taken and the last page has been reviewed and re-reviewed, the ants slow their frantic pace. Suddenly, almost in the space of a single, collective sigh, the anthill rights itself, the soft earth pulled back into place and tunnels that are familiar return to their form. The ants head away from the hill, plodding along paved pathways to the corners of the city, ready to return the next day and overturn the earth once more and start the panic anew.

Commentary: Friends Can Be Amazing Sometimes

Real quick commentary for you all this labor day. My friends are a collection of amazing people. Somewhere along life, I did something right and surrounded myself with great people with some spectacular abilities. While some of the things they do are flat out creative genius, some of the things they do just make me laugh and be thankful someone like that is sharing my life.

I have friends ranging across the United States and beyond, but below I listed a few of my friends who have some amazing things to view from your very own computer chair! Enjoy, this list will grow as more and more friends take to the information superhighway!

The Basically Awesome Show - Monica and friends take to the internet to engage in random discussion and assorted fun! Now, you may think, "wow, a vlog..awesome?" It actually is. Monica, the star of the show, is accomplished in many diverse things outside of being an internet star. Professional horse rider, aspiring opera singer, 80's music aficionado, and expensive shoeaholic, Monica is one of the brightest stars I know.

Thoughts on the Rocks: Shaken, not Stirred - Paul is one of my best friends and one of the most free spirits I have ever met. With the soul of a gypsy, and music flowing through every inch of his body, he takes what life gives him and despite the negatives, always looks towards the positives. He is all over the internet and always willing to meet new people. Read his writing, find him on facebook, check out the insides of his mind!

Destructo Deviations - Need I really explain how awesome Amber is? Check out her site, found right here on my musings, and you will NOT be disappointed.

Poetry: Spring of Life Renewed

Where does life turn,
taking you where time moves out of control?
Broken and bleeding, life begs to be saved --
and only the scorn of the world answers back.
Ripped open, with organs exposed,
Life stands prostrate before ungentle eyes.
Heart slowing,
eyes tearing,
blood spurting, dark and viscous.
Muscles tensing;
veins collapsing --
Life dies only to be reborn,
hoping against foolish hope it is better than the last.
Hope can spring from that Life,
born mewling and screaming to be cared for.
A new Life to repair the last;
child-like Hope re-ignites the body.
Heart racing,
eyes drying,
blood flowing, deep in refilled veins.
Given a second chance,
You need to grasp Hope, holding her to your bosom.
Take the gift given to you and cherish it,
lest Fate, the ultimate judge on high, take it
from your neglectful hands.

Poetry: Alabaster Sky

Where sky kisses water and deep purple blushes the sky,
She sits on crystal sand, dreaming the islands appearing in the blue,
Though one hint, one notion, lurks behind wistful eyes,
Though as beautiful as the sun setting before her, she wishes companionship.

Grace untaught by mortal hands, lurking ever so close to immortal beauty,
She does the mundane; simple actions that give simple pleasure,
The world sees what it chooses and stands shamed in her presence,
Not unlike the unruly schoolboy, scolded for being so immature.

Beauty seen in all eyes but her own, dark pools of brown diamonds
Sparkle on an alabaster face, stunning the watchers into statues,
Or should since the precious gems they long for sit closer than the stars,
Shimmering in the sky, where the water embraces the night.

Who cannot see the beauty? The wild abandon she brings?
What gods give us this gift? Nameless though they should be praised?
You will find her, gowned in the twilight velvet of night and
Embraced by the heavenly bodies themselves, shining on her alabaster skin.

Be not turned back from her, though paradise lurk, ever vigilant,
Behind that radiant smile, one that starts the sunrise anew,
And give her your heart and she will do the same, though you must earn it truly,
She is a gift from above and to be blessed to be with one such as she,
Is the greatest gift, indeed.