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trav/is

slightly enigmatic

Persona

Born into contrast,
I learned to separate as days passed;
felt it out and created a mask,
now it’s this persona in which I bask.

I see too that you’ve found yours,
made as it were behind closed doors.

Too exist those forged in fire,
those are the ones I most admire;
constantly in peril but ne’er do they tire,
undoubtedly worthy of singing choir.

One might say we’re not as great,
slow as we are to rise against fate,
but I’m afraid I would disagree,
because I can’t find another you or me.

Fingertips

Underneath these fingertips
is the tale of a century;
an unwritten love song
capable of reaching a million hearts;
a poem profound enough
to not wither through the ages;
the power to create a blueprint
for a weapon so devastating
it would destroy the world;
the dexterity to repair
the failing organs of a human being;
a physical strike that might
end the strongest relationship;
a caress so gentle it would
melt away all of life’s problems,
and the ability to wipe away
the tears of their remnants;
a tribute to a lost loved one
that is boundless in its nobility;
a single touch for another
that would prove to be unforgettable;
an unshakeable grip on
who I am as a human being.

Struggle

Once upon a wavering dream,
monsters called out in the limelight,
gamblers keeping secret their bets
as vacant stare was pitted against unholy beckoning;

sealed wounds worn on my sleeve,
I resisted in a state of revulsion,
a stubborn fortitude that proved immovable
even while the will to live was weakening;

slowly a shy flame was forged in the tension,
feeding on a persisting frustration–
the efforts to grow were not in vain,
I dared not let the flame be extinguished;

now I burn in the heart of this fire,
prone to bouts of determined effort,
in truth the end result eludes me
but ever forward I continue to march;

a sinister cloud of doubt looms
darkly above my reluctant acceptance,
denying access to the holy mountain,
so I sit at the bottom as the rain falls;

the struggle with darkness appears eternal,
a chain that is forged to remain unbroken
and shackled forcefully to this dying machine,
daily I must strike at it to no visible effect;

but madly I strike nonetheless,
futility serving only to madden me further,
until defiance consumes my entire being
and a brief glimpse of the inferno is caught;

a great raging strength boiling fiercely
deep beneath the tranquil surface,
in time it may bring the deliverance
I’ve long sought in the inspiring moonlight;

in another life the harbinger of my undoing,
many times I’ve seen emotion turn ominous,
instability pushing the unsuspecting over the edge,
often teetering in a most dangerous dance;

peering now found a surrounding sadness,
knowing grief to be only one facet of life
among the inexplicable innumerable many,
scarcely touched by ephemeral comfort;

without fail the exhaustion finds me,
caring naught for any distance traveled,
eyelids eager to shield weary eyes,
my head rests in a cradle of arms.

Traverse

I’ve come to a crossing,
somewhere between
the abyss and the heart of the wild,
and I can feel the pressure
from my ancestors,
relentlessly pushing me forward
as I try to catch my breath
inside a crumbling sanctuary;
chased by the breaking dawn,
and when it breaks is when
I must go,
to brave the endless expanse and
don the cloak of a dreaming wanderer;
my faithful companion,
hold steady amidst the chaos,
cling fast to bountiful hope and
do not let darkness sway you,
for someday we will meet again,
after the journeys of a lifetime,
and we will share our stories.

Often I’ll just sit here trying to get inspired to write and fail, as I’m doing now. I’m currently listening to Water by Aesop Rock and lamenting the fact that nothing I write will ever come close to any of his work. Writing is in his veins– he was born to do it. You could spend your entire life analyzing all of his music and you’d be lucky to decipher a fraction of it,
and that’s if you’re smart. To the average person the lyrics appear nonsensical–it’s understandable I suppose, you might as well be standing in a foreign temple trying to read hieroglyphs, but I’d argue until my dying breath that it’s not nonsense. I’ll definitely regret it if I never get to meet him, he’s my favorite solo artist and a living legend.

Maybe I’m just trying too hard– the main goal of this entire site is to be a record of my writings and thoughts for posterity, it’s not like I think I’m creating anything deserving of accolades. Like most writers (I’d assume), I’m overly critical of my work and think it’s nothing special, if not garbage. But I like it being out there– I like having created something, even if it’s worthless. I really don’t think I’ll ever have kids but I still want to leave something behind, so this is what I’ve chosen. I’m also hedging against the possibility of dying much earlier than I should– this way, even if I do, friends and family will have stuff to read and remember me by.

If that’s the biggest goal, then it’d make more sense to focus on quantity instead of quality…but I can’t do it. It’d be too easy to rattle off strings of random words and thoughts, anyone could do that. At least this way, I can say I tried to write something good. I could never write everything I want to write in one lifetime anyway…I don’t think anyone could. You can see David Bowie’s struggle with that assertion in his music video for Lazarus. I highly recommend you watch it.

“Now one in the hand is worth two atop the tallest cedar, but what lies inside my heart is off the motherfucking meter.” – Aesop Rock

Anima

So long now I’ve heard your calling,
a distant whisper in the cavern of my mind,
buried deep beneath the person
I turned out to be,
a tender voice struggling to breathe,
and when required I reach out to keep you alive
because I refuse to let you go,
the impetus of my creativity,
inspiring to write that which would remain unsaid,
please forgive me,
suppressed emotion lent strength in harsh winds
but where I’m headed stifling won’t suffice,
and I can feel my resolve fading,
each little part slowly replaced by sadness
as time sweeps away our foundation,
and I’m scared to look at the rubble that’s left,
of that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach
when I know for certain that without action
I too will be swept away,
keep my heart in your hands,
as you always have and always will,
where it’s safe from my own neglect,
so that I may return for it one day
when I’ve grown enough to accept
the ache and worry that comes
with the responsibility of owning it.

Adam’s Regret

Lord help me,
now I’ve stumbled,
knowledge set free,
vows have crumbled.

I’m still living,
through breath or thought,
fate’s ill giving,
true nothing I’ve wrought.

Tend our garden,
my lonely son,
as hearts harden,
your work be done.

Lost

My wounded hands drag across
each supportive surface,
counting the seconds until daylight
as if the dawn will bring execution;
restlessly I draw breath,
reflecting on every moment
that has led me here,
cast into the storm
and as captain of my vessel,
the seas too murky to see beneath
and horizon too distant beyond the clouds,
I know not my journey’s destination,
only the humor of futility
that is augmented further by nature’s malice;
a wild spectacle is what I behold,
one inherited with seemingly no choice,
but one I must navigate nonetheless.

Seer

At the edge of oblivion
a horned owl watches patiently,
serenely unfolding a sea of drama
in the endless night,
satisfying the cursed quota
as the wicked men waste
and wise men weep,
their sorrow a testament
to the artistry of the owl,
whose creative vision and imaginative
endeavors run without parallel,
forever creating and destroying
the dreams of each living creature
with fulfillment happening at random,
every disappointment of little consequence
in the encompassing grand scheme,
although world shattering in their own right,
the owl blinks in acknowledgment,
knowing the end result will justify the suffering.

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