Poem: The Changing Self

As the world changes with technology, so does the concept of self,

the real you is pushed to the background,

replaced by a digital self which is fixed and filtered,

shared only with ideal proportions which match what you wish you looked like,

encouraging the mind to imagine a different you,

a you whose edges have been buffed out,

whose nose has been fixed,

with touched up smiles,

to match the fake projection of yourself.

 

All for the likes,

for the fake love, self or otherwise,

the false care,

the double-tap of insecurity,

the lack of likes makes self-loathing thoughts,

the abundance of likes reinforces the fake self,

the self is driven by ego to be liked,

the self which overshadows the real you,

the real self which craves disconnection,

so it can connect with itself, with you.

 

But the buzzing phones,

the bright screen,

the technology to connect,

keeps the self from connecting,

and with time,

it creates a hollow self,

but the heart notifications hit like a heroin needle,

the instant dosage of gratification,

and for that moment,

this thing, this self on the web, is happy,

so are you,

as you evolve into this blend of muscles, tendons, blood, zeros and ones, wavelengths, and coding formula.

 

Poem: My Heart Beats

Someday I’ll quit the race and listen to my heart,

someday my heart’s beat will silence my desires,

someday I’ll commit to myself,

someday I’ll move to the woods.

 

The patient rhythm of nature,

matches my own beating heart,

the warm blood, the warm rays,

the deep inhales of cool wind,

the red roses, the violet petals, the deep green grass blades,

no concrete gray,

the stars above, fresh dirt underneath, me in between,

a man, an animal, a combination of the two halves.

 

For now, amongst the honking sounds,

amongst the curses, amongst the hustle,

amongst the smoke, amongst the drunk,

amongst the paper, amongst the ego,

my heart beats softly, pleasantly,

knowing that its counterpart is out there,

like a lost lover,

knowing that someday it’ll be reunited,

waiting for common sense to seep into my mind and limbs,

until then, with patience, my heart beats.

 

Poem: Out of Sight

The flowers bloom out of sight,

the sun rises out of sight,

the sun sets out of sight,

the gathering clouds, the soft rain, the waving grass blades,

nature’s call,

out of sight, out of sight.

 

She sits by herself, her

shawl wrapped around her, comforting

cotton material, what

she needs is the comforting touch of her fellow being, but

pride is damming, also

the lack of awareness is prevalent, as

man goes about their day.

 

Men with diamonds around on their wrists,

women with diamonds around their necks,

her eyes avoiding her own reflection,

as people double click the pictures on injustice on their phones,

sipping on their drinks,

while she thirsts for aid.

 

Too many animals walking around, not

enough humans, too

many concerned about themselves, their

own looks, their own bank account, their own desires, not

enough who can empathize with the desperate others, even

though everyone knows the desperation, and

in their own time of desperation craved another’s compassion.

 

“How are you?”

“Are you okay?”

She talks to herself,

answering herself,

practicing a smile,

to match that of the surrounding people,

so she feels part of the crowd,

and not alone,

as she sits alone,

out of notice,

out of care,

out of sight,

wandering animals around her.

 

Poem: Finding Heaven

Heavens and Earth rose out of chaos,

as Milton said,

prior to it, life was just existence,

plain and empty,

meaningless with nothing to aim towards,

the fruit set man free,

digesting chaos and allowing it to spill into the body, into the blood, into the heart and mind,

with it came an aim,

aim to get back to the heavens which now separated from the plain existence of old,

get back to the ideal,

now the individual actions and choices mattered,

those who made order within themselves found heaven again.

 

Yet, every day we avoid chaos,

take the easy way, the comfortable way, the known path,

avoid what is unknown,

walk within the safe bounds,

only safe risks, safe decisions, safe impulses,

but in that safe life, we set the aim only to the ground we walk upon.

 

In order to find heaven,

your hellish roots must be visible,

in that is meaning,

to face the abyss,

to stand at the edge,

to shake hands with your shadow,

to embrace the possibility of disorder for eternity,

to jump off the cliff and make the parachute on your way down,

in that is life,

in that is heaven.

 

 

Poem: Pavlov’s Human

All these plans make you forget the animal you are,

The hopes and dreams,

The wishlists for tomorrow,

Changes that you’ll enact,

The person you’ll become,

Write it all down, speak it into existence, start an accountability challenge.

 

Shape your mind,

The self-help books,

The self-help tapes,

The daily quote machine,

The daily promises.

 

And then, after all of this,

Wake up, drink your cup of coffee and trigger your animal and fall right back into the old habits, the old patterns,

Into the old you,

The current you,

The forever you,

Struggling to be you,

As the animal response stays well trained,

Pavlov’s human.

Poem: Nothing Lasts

Nothing lasts,

sands of time bury the greatest of achievement,

the gravestones wither and take with them the names etched into those stones,

great men and women lost in the wind,

I’ll be lost in the wind,

these fears and anxieties,

worthless thoughts of reputation and concerns of other peoples opinions,

will mean nothing when the body is hollow.

 

So what’s the point in being concerned about such things?

what’s the point in feeding the fears,

in living anxiously,

in diming one’s own shine,

in reducing suffering which then reduces pleasure,

in avoiding pain,

in suppressing one’s dreams,

in allowing the illusion filled tomorrow to dictate the actions of the present.

 

Whose Aurelius?

whose Lincoln?

whose Gandhi?

just names that are occasionally remembered, for now,

one day their names will not toll.

 

Who are you?

that you think what you do is worthy of being remembered,

think of the meaninglessness and be free,

think of the pointlessness and be free,

think of the absurdity and be free,

think of death and be free.

 

 

 

 

Poem: The Man In The Checkered Shirt

A man in a red and black checkered shirt walks back and forth in the book aisles,

the books have little bunny rabbits and little brown bears and little yellow tigers on the covers,

the man in the checkered shirt walks as if he’s holding someone’s hand in his hand.

 

He lets go of the hand and opens a book,

he flips the pages, softly,

not reading, just seeing,

the printed animals go through their ordered adventures,

neat adventures that are wrapped up in the end with a neat little bow.

 

The man in the checkered shirt puts the book back on the shelf,

a tear in his eye,

falling down the ripples of his cheek,

as his face contorts to hide the sadness,

imaginary hand in his hand once more.

 

In the neat little stories, someone always asks the right question,

someone asks if you’re okay,

but no one asks him as the man in the checkered shirt walks down the aisle,

looking for another book that might tell him what to do now,

or one that might ask him where did that laughter go that used to come with him.