Poem: I want

Want it all

want to be strong

want to be successful

want to be in love

want to take care of loved ones

want to be daring

want to be adventurous

want to be great

want to be heroic

want to be an example

want to be helpful.

 

Want to be

want to be

want to be.

 

The sun goes down,

another one,

want it to come back,

so I can not waste it, wanting,

want tomorrow to come,

want yesterday back.

 

Want

want

want.

 

Wanting meaning,

wanting purpose,

wanting life

wanting this or that,

no wants seem to come true,

as regrets pile on,

and I want them to go away.

Poem: On To The Next

Endless,

the good shall pass,

the bad shall pass,

it’ll come again, go when it pleases, return without a notice,

but all of it shall pass.

 

Just as the rising of the sun,

just as the desire to hit the snooze,

just as the wave which gathers, again and again,

just as the comfortable thoughts of procrastination,

just as the mountain ranges beyond which are more mountains,

just as the cravings for pleasure,

endless, once more, forever, best to accept it all.

 

The foundation.

The insight.

The knowledge.

The awareness.

 

Just as a mothers love,

just as a fathers sacrifice,

just as a desire for more,

just as a need to be someone.

Always there, again and again.

 

Obstacles and resistance,

growth and change,

regression and mistakes,

cyclical life.

 

Tides come and go, washing on the shore, pulling with it some things, pushing with it some other, each instance is changed, each moment anew, each success temporary, each failure the same, on to the next, the next hurdle, the next craving, the next accomplishment, the next love, the next heartbreak, the next promise, the next letdown, the next laugh, the next cry, the next day, the sun rises, always and forever, prepare for the next start.

 

 

Poem: The Fragile Self

Fragile is the body that accompanies us,

flesh that can easily be bruised or torn,

bones which fracture and break,

organs malfunction, sometimes due to our own behavior and other times, it’s just the luck of the draw,

colds, fevers, headaches, stubbed toes, cancer, liver failure, peanut allergy, heart disease, chronic pain, bad backs, sore feet, toothaches, bullet wounds, kidney stones, arthritis,

just a list of reminders,

each thing evidence of our fragile nature.

 

The fragility doesn’t stop there, it’s not merely physical,

no, it accompanies our mental,

the mind that clings to fears of what-ifs,

the mind that clings to the afterthoughts of what could have been,

jealousy, anxiety, envy, resentment, eagerness, yearning, disappointment, adrenaline spike and dumps, endorphins rush and crash, sadness, happiness, discontent, disassociation,

the constant loop of emotions and feelings which keeping reminding man of how fragile, how childlike he is.

 

That’s all there is to it,

the reminder of how un-great man is,

daily reality check,

to keep the ego in line,

flesh, blood, bones, electrons, neurons,

just another animal,

and as Aurelius said,

man being an animal, he must get up and work.

Poem: To What Ends?

Everywhere man is in solitude,

hunched over, tired eyes, aching mind,

working the minutes away for some hopeful future.

 

To what ends?

withered bones, scattered ashes, fitted to a box,

to that end, we all slowly move,

inching on the conveyer belt,

the furnace blazes ahead,

the lucky ones feel its heat and see its light upon their skin,

perhaps they can change,

the unlucky ones go in blind, at once, right now,

the absurdity never hits them as they stand on the street corner.

 

We all meet the universal end,

the heartbeats but its life never reaches the limbs,

the limbs obey the slave mind,

which keeps the man hunched over,

for the mind is molded to obey as well,

and all there is left is to work,

as the hot blood grows cold,

as the sunsets perhaps for the last time,

working, working, working,

as if it matters at all.

Poem: New Year Again

Scratch the 19,

replace it with 20,

woke up with the same problems,

no one told them that they were meant to be left behind,

instead, what got left was life,

the unlived moments, the blurred experiences, as it all passed on by,

moments gone forever,

what is coming is the same,

life,

which is yet to be lived,

but don’t know if it will be for the same person crawled into this decade as the one who watched the last one go,

acceptance is the first step,

there is hope then,

the resolve stays the same,

the same now and the same as it will always be,

to live and to be alive,

as time goes on,

life goes on,

you will go on.

 

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.