The destiny of skies and objective ties,
My wrist have grown weaker by all means,
Pushing the weight of artificial suffering,
To horizons that fade with every tinge,
As a man’s skin hardens,
I clasp my hands in religious fervor,
As the Chaconne hums the sorrow of my past,
Am I a man in spite of my weakness,
Or is that my respite?
I check the tone of my voice to see
If I’ve become a man, like Odysseus,
If my gait stood strong like a Trojan horse,
Deceptive, but a well planned opulence,
Lured by the sirens of my own perfection.
Before puberty, the squeak of my voice
Haunted me tirelessly and unafraid,
Longing to escape the burden of boyhood,
Masked by the tyranny of expectations,
Cursed by a conscious vanity:
When would I become a man?
My frailness became it’s own enemy,
Locked in a chasm of regret and allure,
Running towards validation,
Like a good infantryman towards gunfire,
The blaze of contempt for my own manhood,
Reduced me to a giant without the strength, might, or height,
As the sirens of conformity,
Drifted me to the shores of complacency.
As winter has gone on for far too long,
And the spring winds foreign from rusted chimes,
I check the tone of my voice to see
If I’ve become a man, like Odysseus.
I loved things that made my heart break,
Like annuals that bathe in the sun,
And withered away at the first frost,
I peeked my head outside the window,
To see if my friend would come back,
But dead leaves and snow marks its place,
I think of war as it has the same grace,
Those alluring moments that scares the hell out of us,
But continue to chase without a catch,
My lungs will never breath that deep again,
The sweat of my palms will never soak my gloves,
As metal meditation lulls the empty
Reservoir of youthful stupidity,
It’s cruel you know, to give young men that much life,
And cut it short with a plane ride home.
The soothing of a Chopin nocturne,
Lulls the sinking of youthful hardness,
For I was winter, expected but rebuffed,
Fastened to a cyclic fickleness,
I loved things for their reciprocation,
Not to love for its existence,
Playing the keys of life out of tune,
If you listened closely melody
Appeared, faint but a whisper was there,
And a hardness not even a romantic, could repair.
Photo by Ryan Holloway on Unsplash
The lighted cries of homecoming and well,
Flesh crusted, cake with a million yard stares,
Epics written on the back of men,
Not old enough to dream. What’s a Hero?
What is it for me that I should see?
Old medals that rusts, and a gut that purges,
The drunken youth that fuel the absurdity…
That Parades could drown out the massive strain,
We’ve come home to a war of our own,
Man vs Man, Ideas vs Ideas,
Dogma vs Domga…what’s a hero?
We live in a time where many people have a platform to voice their hopes, wishes, dreams, and wants. We also live in a time where people can also quite effectively voice their disdain, displeasure, insults, and turmoil.
We have a choice to engage in the negative energy that we encounter. We have a choice to be offended or not be offended. We often forget that we don’t have to take everything that is directed towards us. Not every impulse needs a similar reaction. We have a choice to engage.
Hurry up and wait,
While she flies overhead;
Our chariot to the promise land,
Feather laughter conceals
Drink more water,
Stomachs lust for temptations,
Backs to backs,
I saw you,
In the little things:
The way I cross my Ts,
My hand still shakes,
As it dances with anxiety and memory,
You’d say “I’ll never leave you…”,
But war made you a liar,
As it always does.
I thought about,
What we’ve become,
When soft lies become,
One who yells loudest,
Has already won,
And the search for truth,
Is an amusing one.
We’ve grown distant,
in teams of sorts,
Enslaved by emotions,
Friends become enemies,
In a civil struggle,
Deflection from the lives we lead,
We plead for wars to cease,
While we fight ourselves in deplored streets,
Courage to dismiss,
And not to question,
Our own ideals,
We fear the real,
For we must begin again,
The arduous path of discovery,
That has no goal to win.
Like a scab once removed;
A tank dances on pavement,
A pirouette of massive grace,
Metal and asphalt,
Commune in a torrent love affair,
Young and despondent,
An adolescent praise,
I thought I’d miss it,
The way youth burned my hands,
Our hearts fell in love with a cure,
That normalcy couldn’t endure,
Would write to you with inexbriant praises,
Between the Arabian desolation,
You’d forget my name,
Through western chaos,
I was once removed,
And came back with someone
I never knew.