They paddle with staccato feet
In powder-pools of sunlight,
Small blue busybodies
Strutting like fat gentlemen
With hands clasped
Under their swallowtail coats;
And, as they stump about,
Their heads like tiny hammers
Tap at imaginary nails
In non-existent walls.
Oh yes, friend! I'm crazy-
that's just the way I am.
I see sounds,
I hear sights,
I taste smells,
I touch not heaven but things from the underworld,
things people do not believe exist,
To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!
My life is but a weaving, between my God and me,
I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily.
Ofttimes he weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent, and the shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas, and explain the reasons why
The dark threads are as needful in the skillful weaver's hand
As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.
He knows, He loves, He cares,
1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...
3 Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ...
4 Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
5 But nothing happens.
6 Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.
7 Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Sometimes I sleep, wishing there won’t be a morning,
That the drapes on my window stay shut,
Just like my heart stays shut now.
I close my eyes, seeing nothing but dark,
Begging the dark to sing me a lullaby,
To soothe and comfort me,
For I might not open my eyes again,
For the dark might have to become my home.
Born in brilliant rose dawn, when dreams were still possible,
I'm a silent ebony shadow, who has never felt the fiery sun.
In cool, dark regions I live, where colors have come undone.
Yet, in this world of dazzle, it is I who ofttimes feels invisible.
But I am all that it is, waltzing on the far side of gold beams,
Until the time of my cheerful undoing, in the rich noon hour!
Then flower scents whirl, as my creator flourishes his power,
Before mellowed afternoon, when he lets me reign supreme!
Little Billy Chapman was a good boy he was,
Madam mummy and sir daddy he dared not cross.
"Go stand in the corner!" the teachers would say,
At the lunch table the mean kids often chased him away.
But for little Billy it was not all bad,
For special company he always had.
In the dark solitude he did find
A magic mirror of some kind.
His little secret the world did not know,
The mysterious magic he swore to never show.
Strolling in the evergreen park so slow
Head sinking to the speckled concrete
The cracks mirroring a broken sentiment
Press play and a sweet song blares
Then the black veil lifts ever so slightly
The feeling unsustainable yet welcomed
Vibrations echoing deep through each fiber of being
Melancholy holds no sway in this domain
The beat builds as runners pass by in cardiac bliss
What a time to be alive!
Living in a world where morals have been commodified.
Will you be a leader that assists in shattering the oppressive cycle of societal decay, or will you be yet another redundant cog in this malevolent machine?
Most of us live in denial of the impending doom we’re marching towards, yet the majority fails to realize we’re already living in a dystopia of our own creation.
When you look in the mirror, what do you see?
I don’t know about you, but I see a reflection that matches our society as a whole:
An entity that’s almost unrecognizable, broken, and emotionally drained.
A being that wants to do what’s right, but is rarely incentivized to do so unless it’s broadcast to an audience in order to portray virtuousness.