Spreadsheet

If I was a statue I would be broken. If I was a drink I’d be left wide open.
I wanna see the world, a map’s all I got. I wanna fit somewhere, but there’s no space in the parking lot.
If I gave you a picture it would be torn. My soul’s been divided since the day I was born.
Some one has an arm, someone else an ear. On the dashboard of her car is where my legs reappear.
I’ve gone here and there, traveled to and fro. The more I leave behind, the more people want to know.
I’ve left my body behind, let my soul wander the street. This is the life on a paper spreadsheet.

Lighthearted

In the darkness, light always shines, but what if there is no light source? Do you willingly except your fate, eternally engulfed in the darkness? Or do you fight until your last breath? You’ve spent a lifetime in darkness; you’ve adapted and grown accustomed to it. Evolution eventually plays its part and eventually the concept of light becomes foreign and alien. Centuries later, your ancestor’s quest has finally been fulfilled. But how? You’ve found a way to illuminate the human body. Good people have hearts made of gold, shining through even the blackest of nights. So, you’ve found a method to harness that purity into a form of light. These hearts radiate the body with their golden light, creating change within the world. Most believe it would never last, for people don’t respond well to change. You’ve been beaten and broken, but even through your disfigured persona shines the light. Your light is honest and pure and shall never burn out, no matter how dark the night may be.

Shine light, shine bright
Through the dimmest of days
and the blackest of nights.

Without Her Hood.

Being a widow is a depressing occupation, especially in old age. When you spend a good majority of your life with somebody you love, separation is almost as bad as death itself. When you’re 82, you’d hope that you’d live your life with you partner until the day you die. In the case of Mr. John Hood, he did. The man known as “Uncle Hood” decided that it was his time and entered his eternal sleep. We all know he’s in a better place with a better authority accompanying him, but the loss is still painful in itself. Your aunt drifts throughout her house, which was once a happy household of two. The emptiness, the lack of a testosterone driven male is haunting and your Aunt Azarine, known to you as “Aunt Reeny”, can’t help but feel lonesome. Our visit, our being my parents, my aunt Deedee, my four cousins, and myself, has brightened her world with the company and attention that she has grown accustomed to and rightfully deserves once more. As our last day falls upon us, Aunt Reeny tells my mother and I, “I guess I’ll go back to being lonely once you guys leave.” After a melancholy comment like so, you can’t help but break down inside, but Aunt Reeny bounces right back, telling us how delightful our stay has been and even jokes about hopping a bus to New York, which may turn into a reality, knowing her. There’s no fuss with Aunt Reeny, but when it rains, it pours, and it seems this lovely lady has just lost her hood.

Lover’s Conflagration.

Lovers unite! Unite under the flames lit by Jimi’s fire. You can stand next to it, but the results are contagious: The soot and ash of a world of hatred. Build upon your stocks of wood so the flames of love and unity reach the far corners of the galaxy, bringing even Pluto back to our system. Gather a match and burn peace signs on wooden stakes in front of the homes of the oppressive and the misunderstanding. Negativity is the only opponent here, but he is no newbie to our fight club, so a challenge must be in order. Do you have what it takes to put love on the line and plant your roadside bomb? Will your explode into a wonderful field of green grass, blossoming flowers and tall trees? Our vehicles are nothing more than the clouds we see in the bright blue sky, transmogrified by the purple haze of our organic relaxations. We shall journey across the planet, banging major chords from pianos and guitars and harmonicas and hope our frequencies will reach the aliens and the martians so that we can embrace them. The world is nothing more than the concert playground and we are all its audience members. If you ever find yourself stranded, lover, send that message in a bottle, and a year will not pass since that first note was written. When your comrades arrive on that yellow submarine, you’ll find a whole country of lovers ready for your rescue. Torpedoes will fire at the tyrants and power lovers, obliterating the hate in the creation of love. When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace, and that, my fellow lovers, is our mission. That is our song. Our song is love.

Boxers and Wifebeaters

It’s something about dominance.
It’s something about being on top. And somehow you manage to find power in the clothes you were, the way you walk, they way you dye your hair. You assume that people do care, and unfortunately some do give their share, share of opinion, they share their thought’s on the way you breathe your air.
And they find no lesson to learn, and there is no story to tell, except for those beaten and broken under a pernicious spell. Their cries are unheard like a rebel yell, the significant others beget the world of a rebel’s hell. They look to the distance but there is no weapon, no shotgun shell, they look to their hearts but all they see is an empty well.
What do you do when your black and bruised, what do you do when you have nothing to lose, what do you do when escape is the only option you can’t choose? What do you do when all they do is confused, what dod you do when they find themselves amused, what do you do when their shelter is something that you haven’t refused?
Boxers and Wifebeaters beating down the world. Please, find solace pretty mother, and you too, little girl.

Funeral March

The pain is thick like tar.
Funeral March for those who’ve gone far
Another body placed the back of the black hearse car.
Body and soul have traveled to a distant  star.
Now I wonder what you are.
You’re up above in the sky so high
Like diamond in the sky.
But the only jewelry here are the crystals from my eye.
The mind races, we ask why.
You may know if you remain shy.

Take a glance ahead.
A funeral march for those who have been claimed dead.
Their message is clear in the words that have been said.
An iconic symbol us hanging over our head.
But this is no flag.
Stop for a second and take a drag…
…breathe the deceased in.
Wandering minds of our native bretherin.
Emotion is almost a sound that is hoverin.
And you might need some earplugs
‘Cause the sorrow might drown your ears, you might need a jug.
Or a bowl or canteen.

And now. Funeral March in remembrance.
Our feet solemnly move in order to save the last dance.
So, let’s dance today.

Make Room For Creativity.

It’s funny when you ideas floating in your head that never come to fruition because when you see something that slightly relates to your idea, you feel robbed. Or unsuccessful for not allowing for such ideas to come alive. But it’s getting hard to be really original. Somehow, you’re not original.
Plain and simple.

Faceless.

I am faceless.
No features but a pair of lips and ears.
I respond and react based off what I can hear.
Yet, the world dreams of what is near.
So how do I respond to something that will appear?
Eyes and nose are an accessory.
No need to complicate what is simple and necessary.
The thought comes first, visual is secondary.
The word is a significant sign of something revolutionary.
People and recognized by the utterance of a name.
A name needs an image.
An image creates fame.
But to those who are faceless, fame is to blame.
The essence of the message is clouded and maimed.

I am faceless.
I am sound without air.
I’m not heard, but I am definitely there.
Rebel cries are heard on numerous affairs.
Results are never properly prepared.
We know the world is our stage, like Shakespeare had said.
We know who’s world it is as Nas bangs through our head.
We see no evil, but we heard it all.
Hear the night’s wing as the old bat falls.
The dirt that shifts as a soldier crawls.

I am faceless.
Mouth, ears, heart, and soul.
I heard it was chilly, so I brought a bowl.
Shakespeare had a pen while Nas had a voice.
The message is the red pill and we all have a choice.
Our minds are our own but our thoughts are overheard.
Jean is abused as the government’s bird.

I am faceless
But sight is all I want.
To make things clear, to have the puzzle not fall apart.
No misinterpretation, no cries for help.
Allow me to defend my own self.
The man in the trench coat
Standing in the rain.
Vengeance: cold, bitter disdain.
You’d never understand.
Your pain is what I prefer.
Then you’ll finally see.
You have my word.

Do monkeys dream in space?

A soft piano plays in the background again; my mind has shot off into space once more, and my thoughts cloud my brain. That rush of emotion slaps me like paint against the wall, leaving a dangerous mark in the center and splashes of paint surrounding it. In this moment of intimacy there is peace as Benjamin and Daisy speak tenderly to one another. Life is simple, complicated by human needs and desires. When you look at yourself, what do you really wish to accomplish? Everybody believes they deserve some kind of fame, and in one way or another, we achieve it. Some simply want to be loved, others want to the affection of the world and its money. In the long run, looking at the big picture, does it mean anything? We all live our lives to a certain point, we all age with every passing moment, and can’t  re-live anything we’ve done. We’ve all heard it before, but we should all live our lives like it could be taken away at any moment. To train yourself to be in a ready to die mentality at any moment, but that’s almost impossible. Humans are defined by their opportunities and when one opens, you almost forget about the world around you and where you are and at that moment, you could begin to take advantage of what you have. If we could only live as the Natives once did, showing respect for what the Earth has provided for us. The whole Green Movement is only reactionary, not revolutionary. It’s only being enforced now because of the horrible job we’ve done to preserve our planet from day 1.
But I digress.
In the end, everything reverts to nothingness. Everything goes back to zero and a new cycle is born once more. Are our efforts forever futile or can we ever live “forever”? Can we manufacture and produce legends that will survive generations and generations of life. However, as Square Enix so kindly put it, the world ends with you, so make what you can of it. Achieve what suits your needs, and see where it goes from there.

But that was when I ruled the world…

The final king is dead. We all know it and we must accept it for what it is. It’ funny, I remember watching his videos when I was a kid, trying to imitate every move he made. His moves were so dynamic and heartfelt it was almost impossible to keep up with. I just wish I met him. I’m sure we all wish the same, but just to meet the man in the mirror, the thriller himself would have been monumental in every sense of the word. I listen to him religiously, but he always felt so distant. I never went to a concert, most likely because I was unaware and too young, and with his untimely death, he seems even more distant. HIStory was made, and now the whole world wants to read it, breathe it, and hear it in any way, shape, or form they can. Biggie, 2pac, Elvis, and Johnny Cash have nothing on Michael, but they were legends in their own right. Well, it won’t be too hard to find him. All you gotta do is crank up the volume, pop a cd in, and look up in the stars. Long live the King.