For The Record

A man is crowded within himself. To let go of the bonds that tie us together is an insult, and only comparable in the eyes of the one who committed it. The only person one has to blame for everything around them, is ones-self. And the ability to be able to overcome, and forgive that which has tortured a mans soul is a lesson.

The ties that bond are sacred, and once broken, will not be repaired easily, even if one has the right mind to do so. It's impossible to mend scars, physically and emotionally. Because they will always be inside the eye of the beholder.

To let go is a hard task. and the roads that will come before me are not of a crimson cord showing me the way. There is no way except for the one I ultimately decide to seek out, and even at that I cannot fix the situations I have faulted. I can metaphorically cover them up with good deeds, physical and mental gifts. But I will never be able to mend others, because of myself.

I would like to think I keep an open mind, but there are days where I am closed to those around me, battered by the construction of lies which surround us. Carefully and meticulously created never to topple, but with the press of a button, a man is essentially lighting himself on fire.

The sincerity of which I was surrounded, seems to always have been an illusion of time. An illusion to my mind. I know the Ideas of what I once had, and have come to realize its frailty. I have no one else to blame for my circumstances but myself and the action I took to solve problems I believed to exist.

I am my own worst enemy.

Streams

there have been many days, in which i have yearned to write. today is one of those days, I will explain later. my days have become increasingly more difficult, pressures from the desire and ambition to flourish, academically I wish. But more from the desire to make myself successful to my owners, as well as the world in which I live. While I am oppressed by the ideas of mankind's hindrance to one another, I hope that I may write. While I do so I am still distracted by the days pressures. I am constantly peering into the world. And why it may be the way it is, All is calm? all is calm? whats been happening to it.
where have the leaders gone, while i am hindered by brutes and objecated to perform. will we not be just friends in friends? be able to unconsciously hand a man a dollar and know that, along somewhere it will be returned? to do so, is troublesome. Which one day as all my generation hopes, can be done so.
it has come across my path that things, happen for a reason, yet i cannot yet begin to comprehend the enigmatic chaos in which I seem to call life. Life is, and its hard to put a word on it. Its a wonderful concept in and all, but the days seem more mundane, I don't feel as if I am awake, even though I know I am awake to my happenings, the same things which enjoyed me as a child, Which still do, happen often, and I do not feel as connected when I was a child anymore. My boyish curiosity of the world seems dead to me, and I cannot stand it. Where has my muse gone, a great friend has been lost. And I cry for it, such pains cannot be expressed through useless words to my emotions, they cannot be stopped, and I feel them all the time, these chasms of remorse and Joy, the separated yet knife close point of parallels which are near to me and can be lost in a grasp, the saddening idea of why. Why has brought me nothing, while joy is found, I am supposed to find peace in suffering. Its a wonderful Idea, but I do not know myself. I would like to, but it is quite hard to understand, when the one thing that one truly desires to understand is always, just, out of reach of my mind. My place, my current set in this wonderful complexity in which I call life. I find myself at times, too anxious. Paranoid of my outcome, then its gone. I don't know why, they just go and then i cry for joy. Some may call it Bi polar disorder. Its a true blessing and a curse, one understands at his core, our true emotions are for the best of us. while we may want to die, our suffering is truly our parallel of our joy, and in our parallels there is always the brightest lightness in the deepest most frightening dark. and its what makes it worth while, to cry from joy and fear, at the same time. I am truly a puzzle for even myself. When i thought i could know who I am, the next i don't, but it makes me happy. the change of things, while the speediness of life is wonderful, I must take my time to relax for the day, like when I write. To love without expecting reward. I wish i could always do so, love, and just keep it. but one must understand in modern society as well as our minds, we must sometimes give up what we love, to succeed in today. I don't know if I'm alright with it, but i cant say much about it. While the man is the captain of his own soul, I would appreciate mine, alone. I see it somewhere in nature, hopefully some day, where I can write about the golden fields which sway in the clandestine wind that crosses my mind, to then feel it atop the bluest sky staring down below my feet, at clouds, and feel the loving sun, upon my face, and just laugh of Ecstasy. I know no fonder memories, true heaven is sitting up there, alone, laughing at what you consider the world, the blue which could fill a thousand paintings and yet, never be as pure as when you had seen it there. My minds eye cannot even remember how perfect the sky is, and my endeavor one day to just stare at it from space. the blue which is pure, holds this thing that I cannot thank enough. For my life. Just to be here, I know not who to thank for this blue. But thank you, if you read this someday. I hope they understand, one day. I hope they could at least let me sit and write all day.

Never ending Story

This is the neverending story,

Technically, every story is unending, but this is different. Its not a poem. Its an Idea, the idea of Tommy. Thomas.

I sit here disgruntled, confused, and amazed at these occurences that have driven me to write. I never write. Sure I could have become one, but I don’t find myself on that path. Im not a writer, I am a person. I am not a man or a child. I am. I am an upset to enigmatic pattern of reality, But the truest statement I know right now. Is that I, am. I exist, despite all this chaos and beauty I cannot find myself not existing.

These plants and trees, are proof of my nostalgia, where have these things come to be.

The story of a poison arrow still leads me to question, I am questions, I am the idea in my mind of ambition, and curiosity.

I was raised a man of everything, sin, and love. Raised by my wonderful mother, and a man. A true man, who I cannot comprehend how he is.

My father is much of a mystery to me that it actually made me cry. This man is somone I can dream to be. He’s awesome. (I feel that that word has lost some of its power in todays society.) I admire this man more than any other, Yet, I know nothing of him.

How am I to be great, when I know nothing.

Sure I can do calculus, physics, chemistry, roughly speak 4 languages, fix things, and solve almost any problem. He raised me, I am Him, but he has achieved. Hes there. And I cannot find words to describe how much I appreciate my father and my mother.

I was told that we are the ,century/ or children, we are the lost, I am lost, I strive for things I can attain. But reality proves otherwise, How am I to be, when I cannot. My efforts to connect are lost.

The continuous Idea of it lies me speechless, so I write. Is this world like these stars I see? Wonderful, but a dream, as Thoreau said, we go to nature to find meaning. And I am awestruck, by the idea of such things. The mathematics in the trees, the unsmooth calculus and fractals that encompass their growth, the physics of this water, the chemistry and biological cycles of these plants and animals. The physics of the astrological entities, that I can never reach but just watch. The rythmic beat of my heart to the sound of the gentle breeze of this wind.

The river that has become, when I sit and stare. Why must I have consciousness, to aspire to such great endevors of truth when the river flows softly by.

I cannot write, but it was at least an attempt.

Theres something about music.

Its wonderful. Of all the things in the world, some people found a new way to express emotion, its music. My brain on music, its an article maybe even in books. But it makes life worth while. No matter what goes on, there is music. There is always Music. It makes me cry.

whats wrong with being vulnerable?

well when somone opens their heart

to a girl.

girls have this little thing called expectations that are very high, and preconditional assumptions and previous circumstances that make their opinions biased and not in tune with the reality that the guy expects. now these girls already having a bias are mean, and once they know what hurts you, because you have been subliminal with them, can tear you apart and once they do or leave you that subliminal connection you felt with another human being becomes cut and it feels like a thousand glass slivers are inside your muscles

and everytime you think of that person after they have left you, after having that connection... because its gone the split needles hurt...

thats why its bad to be vulnerable.

because every time ive been vulnerable, gratification has been taken from me, and reality slaps me in the face and laughs and says

haha you thought it was that easy didnt you!

there are times of our lives where we come to a pristine standstill.

where everything we though was true, has become a pile of rubble upon the floor at which we sit and stare at clueless,

incomprehendable measures of our favorite songs become the blank lyrical compositions of our abysmall ideas of nothingness,

it comes to the point where everything, means nothing,

where everything doesnt matter,

why lend the hand of affections, when all that is returned is nothing.

just a stare of disconent measures of unacceptable metaphores which in the end lead to nothing in particular.

where the time comes where you dream of the wind past your face from a falling building,

the image of happiness the end of everything as you know it in sight,

so you understand,

and dont have to worry about the elastic means of the universe.

where nothing is predicatble,

ever.

please let these ideas fleet from my mind and let me sleep while i still have myself.

before I have gone away, and everything is gone.

stay away from me.

leave me to myself, so nothing but myself is wrong in the world.

please, stay away from me.

this tightrope is a double edged sword

my face is its reflection on the edge.

dont falter to far, this edge is on the rope,

walk back while you still can while i still hope,

This side of the sword

is like cardboard

im close to ovebard so dont let me fall,

while the truth is,

you will cut the rope yourself,

just to watch me drown.

remove the ties of your own accord,

while you still can,

what you can control can be the end.

just dont let the edge of this rope,

become your friend.

The end is what you intend,

fall to the water of your own consciousness

to let yourself be free of the edges of the cord

just makes sure, you do it of your own accord.

for every euphoric high there is an inconceievable low,

evry right turn we take, there is another that we are mistaken,

for every opposite, there is a positive,

for ever action there is an equal and opposite reaction,

for without 1 there is no zero,

for without zero , there is no 1.

it is all just another bad day in paradise,

the place which onced kept you warm,

is a forboding place of an illusional demon,

when did this dam break.

i saw the cracks, but they were overplastered,

but why havent all the other dams broken,

why is mine this way.

i made it, picturesqe

modeled after virtue,

and truth.

with an unending chivlrous endever i was raised upon.

no doubt im cursed.

we can pretend things happen for a reason,

while im the one it happens to,

remember you'll be sorry when im gone.

Why is it that i stare at a grain of salt and see eternity,

when the world around me seems so...terminal.

i dont understand it, I am, i am good, i feel empathy,

i feel more than i should. and its going to be my end.

why must i read of things that i am,

hamlet shouldnt die.

christopher shouldnt have been punished.

regardless of the view that people keep,

it was not punishment,

god does not punish,

I hate you people.

you miss the Earth, and all its beauties.

I have been made into what i am, and the evil.

i look into a mirror and see the end of which i began.

this cradle rocks soo steeply.

why does it rock so.

can i not look at the sunset one last time, before i know.

where is my eternity.

this grain does not mock me,

it does nothing, for its peaceful existence is because of the destruction of something else.

am i to be that?

for when my chaos is ended, that something else may live to see the sunset i long to watch.

when these winds stop blowing against my hair?

when the water of silk has become coarse like sandpaper.

where is my messanger.

ive sent out my message, but he has not come back.

the poison arrow does not remedy me. for i will always question why thing arent, when something like this universe is.

the impossible is possible, so why is my possibilities,

always improbable.

heart of mind does not influence the world, the heart and mind are inspired by the world, but i cannot comprehend.