Letting Words Fall Out

Drifting in and out of thought

up and down

a waterfall of words

Salmon swimming upstream.

Struggling to breathe because

the Thoughts are more important,

the Words are more important

than air is. 

Calypso less word more sound

echoes through my veins

pulsing to my very brain

I hold tight to every moment.

As the tide rolls in I can't help

but wish that my thoughts

were more Appealing, more

Appetizing, perhaps. Something

of 

Substance. 

But is substance what I'm really

going for? What I want

in my life? There is a superficial

beauty in simple nonsense. 

Nonsense. Nonsensical. 

Completely underrated, yet

gives me complete motivation

To let my mind give birth. 

A pregnancy of thought. 

Conception, development,

pain, stress, suffering form

into something that becomes

Nothing

short of a miracle. 

Sewing the Mind Shut

This is a speech I wrote in loose poetic form back in high school, so picture me reading it in a grandiose voice. This really is how I feel about the education system in the United States sometimes, by the way. ;)

Sewing the Mind Shut

In a world where creativity is loved, 

inspiration is dreamt of, 

and creations are praised:

The young are taught facts.

Their opinions are shushed. 

Their minds becoming singular. 

The mind is too valuable to waste. 

That's what they're told,

yet their ambitions are razed.

Memorize this;

this is what you must know.

I sit here and wonder,

should it be so?

You are too young. 

You'll understand soon.

But now you're too old.

Your mind is not yours,

it has become theirs.

What's happened to the individual?

Does it even exist anymore?

Why must I be like them?

Must I?

Can I be no one?

Someone?

Anyone?

Can I be something new?

Some minds are stronger,

but no minds are weak. 

Imagination holds us together,

makes us human.

When we try to be different,

to stray outside the box,

we are slapped back

like we've done something wrong.

 Schools hold the mind in stasis.

As a student we've learned:

What is beauty,

what to know,

what is acceptable,

and what is not.

If we try to be different

our grade suffers.

We won't go to college.

To the world we become expendable.

Even art has succumbed 

in some places.

Suddenly projects have rules  

and measurements that we 

must follow.

 To get the grade.

Expectations. 

We're not learning to be our own self. 

Is this some sort of game?

Every person looks different,

so why should we all think the same?

They say we must learn,

and we'll grow,

be like them.

But what if I want to be me?

Not them.

Shall we just watch,

as our minds,

and our children's minds are sewn shut?

As imagination rusts from disuse?

Change is what's needed.

And it's not being taught. 

An endless paradox, 

unless we make it stop. 

The mind is a sponge,

capable of holding only so much.

If we fill the mind with facts then what room is left

for creativity?

The system of learning

is broken and wrecked. 

the rules are too strict,

thoughts were meant to be bent.

To state your ideas

is dangerous at best.

And only a few

are brave enough to try.

To be part of that few,

strong mind and stronger heart,

they are the truly successful,

though their grades might

not match the part. 

Why are they punished?

Are their minds not functioning?

Instead of science,

math,

and English,

their minds are focused on the surreal,

the beautiful,

the unknown.

Today's learning is based on what's known.

Is that how we progress?

By focusing on the facts? 

Why not focus on what is yet to be understood?

Teach the mind to ponder,

to question everything,

to think past the "facts". 

  Don't be afraid,

to take back your mind.

Oil your imagination.

Cut the bands that are holding you back.

Look past the facts, 

open your heart to the surreal. 

What more can I say then to let your opinions be known?

Together, we can change the system.

Because the mind,

truly,

is too valuable to waste.

So that's that. Remember to subscribe on the right side of the screen if you want to make my day. Feedback is lovely as well. Thanks, pilgrims.

 

 

Between You and I

There's another world in your eyes.
I can see it when I stare:
a heartbeat in time with the flicker of a candle's light.

I can hear it in your voice,
something familiar.
A bridge between your world and mine.

Can I leave, though, my own world
which I have so carefully assembled?
Can I hide forever?

Meet me on the bridge.
We'll sit with our legs dangling off the side.
You can whisper in my ear.

Words like silk.

Still water or flash floods?
Warm meadows or mountain ridges?
Crisp autumns or perpetual spring?

Your world or mine?

Stream of Consciousness

      I was at an Art Museum a few days ago and examined this incense burner from ancient Islamic culture for a solid twenty minutes. I wrote down whatever came to mind, and this is what I came up with.

Incense burner.
Oh what do you represent?
With your cold eyes so hollow.
Half smiling, half screaming.

Intricate black windows allowing insight
into your slim body, reminding me that there
is nothing to see in you. At least not now.

Have you no idea that you have a tail,
curved and ready to strike?
At you? At those who you love?
Or do you know it too well to be afraid?

Are you a feline, as your face would suggest?
Or are you a creature who's identity is as
fleeting as the limbs that support you?

How mighty you must have looked,
scented embers glowing in your broad chest.
Never again, though,
will wisps of smoke and symbolism
escape through the patterns that tattoo your polished skin.

You are caged, trapped.
Damned to the narrow eyes that will never know your past triumphs.

What were your thoughts of your masters?
Who surely held you tight,
your sheer magnificence a mark of their succes.

Did you have a name?
A place? A home?
Were they truly the master of you at all?

Did the children play with you,
when your body, your soul, was not consumed with fire?
Or did they fear the face that holds such mystery to me now?

What are you thinking?
Do you know what purpose you serve?
How important, precious you once were,
though your "importance" has changed so much?

You are a memory of what once was,
what still now is for all your onlookers know.
As you sit in silence,
do you feel old?

Why were you touched at all?
Were you? Did anyone ever have a
second thought about your graceful markings as they
started the flames inside you?

Now we fear you.
We will not touch you.
And I ask you,

Do you ever feel forgotten?