I like this one

A lot, actually.


In sleep, in sleep, there is constant wonder
As to what may happen upon our adventures
It is simple to say that a chance is a chance
For quality direction avoids us on its whim
And there is wonder upon the event horizon

There is water above me, a foreboding green
There is water below me, darker than my dreams
There is water around me, it surrounds me
Air will escape me, that damning queen

In sleep, in sleep, I have no companion
My mind is confined within a foul web
For when it seems to imagine most vividly
As only my mind can do abounding and free
It is repressed into a state of a blank slate

There is water above me, an unseeming light
There is water below me, Poseidon's great might
There is water around me, bound to its course
Air will escape me, and I cannot fight

In an act which does unwell for any
There is ever a story hidden below
To solve a conundrum of epochs and ages
One must consider all which surrounds
All that is covered, and all that is clothed

There is water above me, and I am afraid
There is water below me, my vision concave
There is water around me, no ground here to save me
And inside me is water, creating and binding

Sestinas are really hard to write

I wrote this a few days ago- It's still on the first draft. We'll see how it goes.

Sweeping, blowing, underfed beneath the wings;

A deeply intricate feeling, given away in a swing.

A swing, a swig, a righteous break from rest

Leading to nothing but monotony nonetheless.

A lust, a love, alone among thousands

Unrequited, unabsolved, everything but grand.

Floating, fleeting, terrifying but grand,

I see such a landscape, passing ‘neath my wings.

A landscape, a landscape, views  by number in thousands

I comprehend nothing, I flee to the south with a swing

A swing of my thoughts turns to despair nonetheless

And even my flight will never give me my rest.

Here among the algae I am one with the rest.

Sun filters down, sun filters though, a grand

Representation of some act which nonetheless

Feeds a bad habit, cannot feed my wings

Long lost to pain, I cannot move; the swing

Of emotions is reduced to one, from numerous thousands

So many people and people and people! The thousands

Of millions of billions of weary and tired and those without rest.

Look to the children, neglected and hurt, so they swing in swings

Riding out childhood by dreaming, and being and thinking so grand.

Their emotions so free, so joyous and free! They are birds upon wing,

Looking down at their turmoil, their pain, and living nonetheless.

So many options, and regardless of my motives, I am nonetheless

Beaten down. My small problems are multiplied by thousands

And my shortly held freedom is ripped away, destroying my wings.

Undeniable suffering, I maintain some sort of semblance humanity for the rest,

Which are marginalized, demeaned, and stricken away from the grand

Interpretation of the world I once had, sitting in a swing.

I am destitute. Nothing exists. Everything exists. Children in swings.

I am alone. Dreams attack me, sleep evades me. And nonetheless,

I am hopeful. I am not helped by this thought. I used to grandly

Believe in a better day. I used to believe I was somehow above the thousands,

Above so many of the people surrounding me. Now I am laughed at by the rest.

I have no laughter; I have no joy; a mediocre shell remains of my body, my lost wings.

Children grandly sit in their swings, imagining themselves in a better place.

Their wings let them soar, their problems and worries below, but nonetheless,

There is always a seed of doubt, for every man knows he is one of thousands, just one of the rest.

This was an interesting bit...

I decided to try a bit of a new format for me here. It came out interestingly.

“I have eliminated the alphabet”

An innocent apple, full of color and

Aripe with the feel of a warm wind

And the razor’s edge of a knife.

Beneath an azure sky, we tumble.

Beginning our ascent, we are exhilarated.

Building a temple, we arise from the valley.

Craning our heads around, we feel only

Cordon bleu; a spicy hint of a deliciously

Cooked meal, just out of our reach.

Destroying barriers, we lift our wings.

Defibrillator to the senses, we open our eyes.

Desert of song, we see only sadness.

Weeping, our selves are split, bodies

Worming, winding a string less thread,

Without regard to detail or purpose.

Xenophobes, misguided attack me.

Xylophones erupt; here is the havoc.

Xenomorphic, I lose all that I had.

You have abandoned me, lost, alone, and

You have called to me, and I coerce and

Yield. But to yield is now a foreign action.

Zebra striped pajamas in hand.

Zealots, rising, circle around me.

I have eliminated the alphabet.

A bit of poetry

I think the title is fairly sufficient. I wrote this yesterday morning, as I came back to my dorm at DePaul.

I’d never felt the dread I felt

In my coming to this place.

Though visited a thousand times

It never lost its grace.

The railways run on repeated actions

And will never fail to stop.

Tall buildings crisscross around me

Cemented like a staple to blacktop.

I never thought I’d lose my joy

Or my wonder of this place.

But recently I’ve begun to feel

Some sort of longing, for me to trace

To trace a path across the world

To create a path that’s mine

To follow in some footsteps

Long erased by the passing of time

To go, to go, to roam far and wide

To go into Nature, and in her confide

All of my instincts, all of my loves

Will fall back around me, leaves from above

Above me, above me sits a tall oak tree

Its seedlings all spread, enveloping me

Surround me, become me, until all I am

Is another oak tree, enriching the land.

I guess I should explain this...

I've always refrained from making my own blog, mainly because I figured they were mostly the rantings of people who were unable to communicate their feelings and opinions in a normal social context. Then I realized that I embody that image. Welp.

So I figured that even regardless of a stereotype, I might as well put something up online that conveys my inability to communicate. I can listen, but I can't talk. So I write, and I've found that this is a much more efficient solution for me in particular.

What I guess this page is going to be about is much of my poetry and little snippets of short stories and longer projects I'm working on throughout my career as a student, with a bit of political and social bitchin' going on.
Let's get this going.