Learning

To show a visual representation of the learning process and what it feels like.
Thought cloud, dizzy to be acquiring so much no knowledge at times.

Play often with the boundaries inside you head
before they harden into labyrinthine walls.
Doubt the truth of what you know dear one,
for nothing is ever so simple as it may seem.
When the philosopher writes such common tongue
as “I think therefore I am,” dig deeper into
understanding what is meant. Uncoil the beauty
of knowledge shared and questions expanded.
That uncomfortable pressure inside your brain
is nothing more than the price of admission
to a world of creative and well intended information,
each and every bit, a treasure in its own way.

Pink Stuff

Credit for photo to: blog.writersdomain.net

Damaged in an intrinsic way
which belies the way we think,
I’ve settled now in harmless times
with glasses casting shades of pink.

Never say the world is tough
or filtered with what’s unfair,
in desperate times when life sucks
take the cue and be aware.

So crinkling in memorized skin
and dancing with memories come neigh,
I’ve taken solace in the work being done
strive always to hold my head up high.

Plasticity in that neural net
the one which directs the play,
regrows the joy that fear had stole
and gives birth to come what may.

Ink Speaks & Words Share

All credit for image to Project Interfaith

Pen me a story all pelted with pain–
I’ll send you a memory quite completely insane.
Pen me a story all covered in scars–
I’ll whisper you love underneath the stars.
Pen me a story all wrapped up in joy–
I’ll rip off the paper and play with your emotional toys.
Pen me a story all soaked in ambition–
I’ll congratulate you from a distance and hope for fruition.
Pen me a story all righteously proud–
I’ll admiringly stand and clap just as loud.
Pen me a story devoid of suffering or shame–
I’ll question how long you lived and whether you played the game.
Pen me a story short on words but big on feel–
I’ll embrace your passion that fills me with zeal.

For each story you write and each tale that you tell,
connection is made as we all walk this road of life to the final farewell.
Strangers no more as the wording unfolds,
your experiences are more valuable then ever would be gold.
Friend since you vulnerably shared to cross the divide,
forever you’ll find my acceptance as I stand by your side.
We all start alone until our experiences happen,
no one need stand lonely feelings that they’re trapped in.
A world without others who have felt all the same–
if you’re missing companionship then drop any shame.
Drop any pretense or false facing thoughts–
your loveable for you, now and until time itself stops.

Turning Inward

Credit for the photo above to the Brahm Centre

Catatonic repose
affect flat and bare
thoughts locked in mid-battle
weaving chaos enough to wear.
Halcyon days
under visions of winter sun so bright,
sitting with view turned in
reflecting fiercely in that light.
Mindfulness resides
focuses on action, body, and soul,
a smile branches out
as new knowledge chases out the cold.

Wild Dancer

Explicitly free,

in empty shadows she dances

underneath clouds,

across ocean swathes of green

tickled with flashing bulbs of brightness,

puffs of color growing

amid the endless blades.

She will not be kept

or locked inside,

always bursting forth

enchanted by the world

the sensation of movement,

the passion of feeling deeply,

the exhilaration of newness,

as it sweeps away her pain

leaving her breathing heavy.

I too,

once touched the underbelly of clouds,

skipping with my feet,

unabashedly giddy.

I ache again for those days

knowing,

nostalgia is a wonderful weapon.

Night Tan Under the Supermoon

Layer a white cold blaze

in circular pool

hung

where the reflection of day

carries to the infinite

teeming void.

Shadowscape of eternity

ever beyond 

incandescent blue skies,

milky clouds,

beyond sun-blinded sight,

always sitting.

Wonderland of possibilities

bending even science

to use imagination.

Endlessly faltering

towards an unknowable end.

The Gods baubles

spin deftly

through the deepest darks

of cavernous black gone noir.

Never bound,

never stuck,

not clasped tight inside

of opulent bondage 

as we marching mortals

on our madhouse Earth.

Into that idea –

that dizzy concept which

forged new words

to try and constrain

something so terribly VAST –

where all is birthed

through cataclysm,

fiery destruction,

demises so profound

dust from their corpses span eons,

rages as a furnace

crafts awakening

in billions of new forms.

Peace is found

within mirrored 

microcosm eyes

of any

who would choose to pray,

take silent reverie

in joyful awe,

of beauty without boundaries,

and their own

immeasurable nothingness.

Shadow Boogie, Starlight Feast

Baby, give me gasping galaxies of infernal heat to warm the vacuum where once I lay. Cut dusted fragments of the stars from my body and my mind–it think find its soul which till remembers the last whisper and caress out there where we made our nests in nebulae, powdered our faces in fractal fission and wept at the insane beauty that stretched to the unknowable ends. Give me whetstone tones of tenderness to grind on down these rough edges, I know you will. Fine tune my harmony to match the orchestra, I know you will. Love me gentle and love me brutal, I’ll do same. But, on the nights I go to bathe in the shimmer and glimmer of dead Giants birthing monstrous infinities while listening to shadows hum their lonesome shaded songs….on those nights, I am forever free.

10 Grams of Meth in a Toilet

I know a man who threw away 10g of meth. Down a toilet. Intentionally, during a moment of lucidity. He woke up from his dream. He didn’t do it for the posturing or the bragging, he did it because he had a fucking moment and things added up.

He saw his future was his past and all that was going to come again. The regrets. The broken relationships. The self-hatred. The loneliness and the pain. The body count and the desperation. The stagnation. The missed joy and thrill of life. The empty smile and the personal failings. The prayer for death unanswered.

It hit that water in the toilet and didn’t even stain the water with some indication of all the soil and grime that its brand had left over the years. All the marks on his morals. His appreciation of life. His awareness and understanding of the world and himself. His inability to connect and always be “other” – not in a way he was proud of, but in a way that left him sullied and greasy where it would always be felt most.

He wasn’t going to revisit and replay what had come before. He was learning gratitude for all the experiences, painful or pleasant, and that meant realizing that the pain had only needed to happen once. He didn’t need to put his hand back into the fire like always. it was still fucking hot and he was worth more than scorched flesh. He wanted to, could, and will become more. He’ll evolve, be seen in the mirror as true to himself, a good friend, an honest and genuine man, and as a survivor not an unchanging Peter Pan chemical fiend. Wreckage for decades as his only gift to the world, a Lost Boy playing pirate to his own loot.

He had learned, was learning, would continue to learn. He would grow.

I know a man that threw away 10g of meth. Finally took a dive and emptied a bag, got back on the horse, and welcomed in a change for once.

Stay that road fucker, I miss you.

I Was a Stigma to Myself

All credit to Emotive Brand for the image.
So often I would sit and wail about "why"?
The frustration unending,
the obsession ongoing,
a gut wrenching demand to understand
that in itself
kept me from the knowledge,
the peace I sought.

Sick in the head druggie,
psychopath,
crazy as a shit house rat,
lunatic,
insane,
addict,
"something's wrong with that kid" -

Drug user stigma phrases shown on an image with a haloed syringe from the words.
All credit to Stonetree Harm Reduction for the image.

I tried to own those labels
make them something to be proud of.
I tried doing that,
by doing all the things
I imagined people with those labels would do.
I followed that up,
by demanding that I not be persecuted,
not be judged,
not be looked at differently,
though I had just behaved in a way that demanded all those things happen.

Now I come to terms,
sit with the idea of peace,
find pride not in my actions
but in the understanding
that awareness and acceptance bring.
To know that I am not an actor playing out roles,
that I lost myself,
but I am a survivor,
no longer needing to play the role
of victim or perpetrator anymore.

It's a small thing,
Which means so much to me.
To be able to introduce myself,
engage in a conversation,
with confidence.
Know that I accept who I am as a being,
that I no longer let labels
define who I choose to see myself as,
act as a script for my identity,
or be my scapegoats when I screw up.

That like so many others,
I am the hero
and the villain,
of my own story.
That my abnormal mental states,
my addictions,
all the resulting experiences,
are gifts to allow me opportunities,
to shine my brightest
against the backdrop of adversity,
and decide just how much of it there would be.

To know that there are others out there gleaming,
and if we encounter each other
it could be in the form of respect and love,
admiration for the battles fought,
no matter whether they were felt won or lost,
an opportunity to compare notes and grow.

I'm not ashamed of who I am,
or where I am today,
I am disappointed in many of my choices
but they have been mine to make,
and they were made.
I used to have a vision of the perfect person,
someone that I would measure myself to
and inevitably fall short.

Today I am me,
released on the world
perfectly defective,
beautifully abnormal,
gifted with challenge and capacity for growth.

All of it,
so that I have a chance to become
an oh so slowly evolving,
human being.




Bones and Flowers

All credit due to MacSeam for the artwork.

Spacious and widely set are these woven walls
stinging nettles wrapped firmly around whipcord center
a promise of pliable willow branches,
carefully soaked switches
cut green, bound in beautifully colored leaves thick with thorns.
Laced with the fabric of breath, desire, mystique,
keeping the luminescent beyond–
–beyond.

However, in those laced moments that the air stirs first languorously,
then rising to delight in how it can twist and whirl
a joyful movement of shifting scents
breeze spraying aside the curtains
they, no heavier than dreams.
Rolling across the stones laid intricate with care
drifting to cross the lone pond.
Glassine and undisturbed as puddled silver
thickly magick and deeper than deep can be known–
–as the air quenches and remakes.

Where tendrilled branches cast ripples,
serpentine gashes play at being rivulets of liquid
cutting once pristine layers
on which reflections lay.
Alive and shedding mirrored skin,
sloshing possibility and promise
as ancient hearts cast aromas in the air,
only as decayed wood left to rot can.
Dust and brittle powdering husks
broken down from their heights to furnish food and fuel
that the next generation might cast ramparts of growth
riding high on the bones of the Old.

Silently they sit.
Gazing down at the scarred and skittering pool,
beaming hope in darkly radiant intensity
from behind eyes set deep with focus.
Reflecting, and wishing fitfully,
that as it calms,
they will find relief from their personal tempests
peace through the restoration of waters
returning to their unblemished state.

A cauldron of insight,
slickly metallic and alluring
where they might at last catch sight of their foes,
drag them into the shaded glen,
bleed them onto the stones,
leave their corpses ragged and torn,
that they can be reborn with the changing days.

Blissfully drift into their thoughts unfettered by care,
smile indulgently at the colorful cacophony
as it unfolds behind their drooping lids,
Oh!–what flowers Spring would surely bring.