He Had a Dream
Upon this soil lies dreams woven by opportunity and the prospects of freedom. Idle gossip travels faster than the truth, so these lands became a dream that was built not on concrete but sand and misshapen stones. Many men have tried and succeeded to make a name last longer than the life that owned it, but far greater the number of men that failed. “A better life than the one I knew, or a better life than the one I will know,” either way the ships sailed to pour dreamers out unto the bay. “He did it, and I am no less than he,” said many men who dreamed a dream. Not unlike those men my father dreamed a home. Though his dream home had began to form I am here now to pick pieces up from his shattered dream. His dream was made broken by bigots and racists throwing stones through his windows and I am left to pick the pieces. To that I attest that a mosaic will display on my attic window. It will shine at sunrise and sunset a golden yellow made by the shattered pieces. Just as this window has his glass to thank, my dreams can flourish with his dreams to thank.
Tonight, After Many Farewells
On this hour, we’ve been separate for so long that I am adjusted. Yet somehow, I still wish you near. Though we had shared our goodbyes seven-hundred times, this night shares no difference in desire. In the brown pools of your eyes, hidden beneath the silk of your flesh, a soul that connects to mine resides. I wish to pour my vision on your visage, and to drown in your waters. Brown has never looked so golden, and skin has never been so alluring, until these goodbyes had taught me that your absence was so wonderfully torturous, and would be welcomed so eagerly.
Blow Your Whistle
When will I know the feeling of looking upon my hands and smiling? These hands are yet made coarse by hard-day’s work, so I upon this day feel emptier than the open space left by these spread fingertips. The wind may whistle through my hands, but with lips shut they will never whistle by my teeth. How good it is to wallow in impatience, but how much better could it be to writhe in complete and utter contentment? Had I been born right, and were man before child, would I in my chest hold discontent in a life that had known nothing but contentment? I wish to create something palpable to this earth, and leave behind my own brush strokes to the canvas. I will only be content when these hands numb from overwork, and these teeth shiver from the whistling.
Political protest is still very powerful, because it allows people to feel that their discontent is not uniquely their own. Find commonalities between everyone who suffers the same plight, and you will find the root of evil that hides so well. As a snake sheds its skin, evil finds a new home. A new senator comes into office after the old is outed for being corrupt. The new senator grows corrupt with power and a new senator comes after him. The snake that whispered into Eve’s ear sheds its skin and grows into another. Do we hate Eve, one who was teased by prohibition and opportunity or do we hate the snake that whispers evil to her heart? Children were not born to hate, they are taught it. As we mature, we are still children. We are taught that we can, and so we shall. We can take that apple, and so we shall bite into it as well. Now in the same way that we find ourselves committing evils, we can just the same do good deeds. Protest in volume. A dam does not break because a lake pours through a stream, but because the flood waters come all at once and forever. If so we tire, then we give way for evil to win. Fight the good fight, protest the wrongs of the political system, do not just let it sit and fester to rot in a grave that it has buried itself. FUBU is not the only thing that can be “For Us, By Us.”
Though I dream it so often, little of it translates to my actions. Of a certain frequency, more so than less, do I pen my thoughts and fantasies, but to no avail as I am left unmoved. I can say, without destitution, that my convictions pour over me and they flatten me under anvils forged by their own fire. I can say, and only can I say. These feet have yet to wander. This back has yet left resting. This head has yet been cold without a pillow. I say yet, and yet, and yet, but yet has an inclination towards eventuality. I do not think that I will eventually move. I will ponder so pensively the possibilities of purger, but I am corroded by my laziness. I am sloth, not greed nor avarice. I am not so sinful as I am a dreadful fate. I do, with largeness and breadth, breathe little elsewhere. Until I act I am prison to my thoughts. I am not their way to this reality but a cage in which they cannot escape. My tongue is warden and he let’s the prisoners run free but lies to them as they will not leave for long. A desperate holler clamors from my jaws and out to my pillow, still to never escape this room. There is a straight jacket strapped to every thought. A madness that develops in every musing. It is growing increasingly impossible to call escape an eventuality.
So I’ve been struggling with whether or not to keep doing this on tumblr, and I realized that I would like to do it on tumblr, but refine it before ever publishing any of the pieces. It will be published exclusively on tumblr, but the concepts and topics will change to what I have now imagined. There are few people who I am asking for revision of, and when I get to the final product I will release the parts on weekly basis. Until then, I won’t be doing any kind of publishing.
Thanks for reading the pieces I threw out, even though there were only two haha. You should disregard ever having read them because the story is now more developed and less “on the fly” like it was when I was originally writing it. I’ll still be writing the pieces on my phone, that little trick is still fun for me.
Rev the engine’s roar and howl the engine with a stomp of passion. Bear your heel down the neck of the path, and further your journey without an eye to the side. Staring straight down the road, into the eyes of the future, will make it happen best and safest. Though often the road does pass a blindingly hot sun, or a moon that has disappeared leaves you dim and scared, the road never ceases until your engine decides it does. Keep your pace as you stay on the path, beaten by the many who have come this way, but have fallen off the path. I trust your engine will roar like the sea on a stormy Sunday, and will be just as strong.
When the Sun is
If the sun could see you smile, I doubt he would ever set. You hide away such a gem of joy, the drops of ambrosia line your lips and I wish you would spread them wide and show how much of heaven is still left on this earth. Though hurting hearts is often what children do, falling in love with a boy was never a mistake. Make of him a man, and entreat him to the pleasures of adulthood. Shed light upon his ignorance, show of him the whimsy of your genuflection. Make the sun that bears all light and lightness learn the weight he carries when you smile.
As he read aloud to himself her letter, he realized what the intentions were. To fit him to the past, she gave her last words yesterday and awaited for them to arrive tomorrow. For three days, she had said nothing. A quick reply of “I’m well” never slipped her lips. If she had ever gave him sweet words in return for his, then they were never light enough to catch the air. Her words were stones that weighed his hands down. The paper, tied to his fingers, pull his shoulders from their socket and eat away at his sleep. Though rested, he wishes now to sleep again. To no avail, he will not succeed as his shoulders ache without ever feeling healed. He hurts this day, the third from when she had last said goodnight.
Though I know your heart is rung dry, and hurt by the many wrongs you’ve survived, I must now make myself unkind. To that end you have ailed me greater, and made me greater. Though I smile, between my teeth is baited breath. I am not winded by my anxiousness for your connection. I am awaiting the second your spell is uncast. Take away your hand from my skull and release me from your grasp. Beat my dreams from between your fingers web so I may fall to a cold, hard reality. I know that you are badly wounded by your first cut, but that does not entail for my blood to pour with it. I apologize. I had no inclination to think I would be scared. But I had no inclination to think I would be harmed.
When You’ve Slept
When I know you’re asleep, and I can longer hear your voice, then my day has ended. I can wait an entire day for five minutes of your conversation and then feel completely satisfied. But my day will be empty when I know you’re asleep. When you say goodnight, there’s no greater irony. Though I wish I could, I can no longer enjoy the night without you whispering to my ear. Let me know when you’ve said good morning.
Be You With Cautious Love
Away with those thoughts of sinful things, she does you nothing but temptation’s hiss. You unfurl your wisdoms and relent your strength, and if you are in her arms you will burn by brighter fires than the thunderous clamors of your love’s holler. Be you a willful fool, or a forced knave, that sin will be etched on your grave. Clear your mind of her. Clear them! She is the whistle that dogs decry. She is the unbearable memory the elephant remembers. She is all that shall ruin you. Run! She is not every diamond on this earth, nor is she every pearl in the sea. She is every pestilence the rats fester. She is every shark the oceans teeth with. She is your downfall when you still have yet to fully rise.