I'm what remains when I forgave myself.
The splinters of my father's thoughts. His memory, his methods, Are a spike, rooted deep Like a cursed pole Sending my compass To false north.
But I'm his legacy That has to grow above That has to a accept and forgive That has to go beyond.
This is my problem, That isn't my problem.
I hate him and I see myself In my memories of him.
Growing and accepting. Whatever it takes to grow. Whatever I can do. I have to.
Air tore by my ears and burned For my bike had become a tribute to zephyr Speed building on speed The all but silent world of acceleration Heart, bike and balance almost tranquil As the slope down began to bend My body adjusting as the concrete turn Bite into the tires We glide out, legs pumping Turning my eyes up I see the end of road A gate, a beach, an ocean I stop peddling and glide The sea air whips as I slow Breathing hard, I'm happy
When I looked away you got drunk Within a few words. I'd see you tumble into yourself Falling down the hill into a dream Except you won't come back up Not tonight.
Tonight is over. A wasted thing That grew in flashing lights And spoke in loud karaoke Truly when I saw it, I thought it Magic. Unbridled youth With all the world's temptation Within each thorny stem
Until the next day, where it lay Washed out, an unclean welp. If ever, beauty showed A dying flower once lived, bloomed, once experienced, the crown removed.
My muse came from cassettes In a walkman On a school bus While the world passed Sunlight rode waves across my red notebook Sometimes catching my pen Scrawling crimson ink furiously across hungry lined paper.
I was alone then Not like now But I didn't know that then. And, I think it matters To remember Being alone.
To write about those lost moments Scrawling misshaped ideas That held promises That held me
The struggling aspects that fought For some medium to breathe
I was alone then But I'm not anymore.
The inner world, for me Is a vast collection of imagery That blends each moment Into feeling Expressed so fleeting That even regret forgets itself That even success rots in reflection
on introspection, this world is stained glass
In one hand is paper The other a brick
My breath catches.
Feel my insides pour out of in rainbow splinters.
Around me, glass becomes sand A mural of spinning colors.
A torrent of unfinished, Unbound energy.