Monday, February 13, 2012

To Each's own Tomorrow

Days are never the same that go by
with the minutes ticking on each moment now;
for one last song, another shag perhaps,
how long could the melancholics last?
knowing women, wine and the worst of man.
if a memory is enough to hold on to
where each one lives to his own morrow,
somethings of days that walked past,
or someone to speak of perhaps,
sometimes it seems so right to man.
like death she walks past, lays him to forget,
or be it the lord's debt to the heart of heavy;
would I be enough to pale and despair
for there can be no moment as a time like this.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would be happiness and peace?
Charles Dickens (1812-1870)



I thought,
Is that a little too close, good enough?
Enough to just touch and go,
So to simply stand back and gaze:
Would it be a step too far, indeed?
I hear quite a bit these days
In common of the folk I draw
Of my sleep, and that of my dreams

Far and near,
But not much to begin with, really?
There is so much to rush now and about,
Breathless, forever for an experience:
Of sullen innocence or dogged prejudice?
And that is a step too far again,
Perhaps close enough-
For me, nothing would change an empty stare.



Pursuing my days with relentless obsession makes the best of the ironic to the faculties of all what I perceive. No day is a holiday, no time like now. Everyday is a new step to my discipline, call it a personal synchronicity to the every changing moon and nights I live. The more I'm lost, the closer I am in the answers estranged from my mind and to what I hope. As to question, tell me how soon is now? Alive enough to take on me because I'm just so sick of the noise in what I hear and see. God. 


Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Thought of the Day

I shall ask for brains instead of a heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had one.

L. Frank Baum (1856-1919)


I have questions, I said;
He has questions, looked on the angel;
Is there even a heaven?
Or it just lost like the paradise Eden
Is there even a hell?
Is this it where I open my eyes, it ends.
Or will the rest just begin.

My epiphany: Are you an artist because you suffer or do you suffer because you're an artist. I don't think I'm alone on this one.