Tomorrow

If I'm seeing blue skies through my foggy eyes
I'll know its been a good day
But almost ain't good enough
You gotta die in a perfect way
If I'm seeing pink skies through my misty eyes
I'll know its been a rough day
There's waves crashing through the seas
And they're all coming my way

I'm walking down this one way road
And I'm going the wrong way
Disregarding all the signs
I just wanna get away
Look around and find
that I am all alone
Throwing out all the truth
Just accepting what is shown

Tomorrow will never happen
I'm busy living for today
The past will never be present
It's a gift only wrapped one way

and old washed up tale.

the cover has beauty. it pictures fields of green, with rolling hills.
trees are dispersed, some withered, most cursed.
deep roots peak the surface, as if whats beneath just doesn't comply with the turmoil and agony that lies inside.
each screams for light, but holds silence at their trunk in the darkness of night.
yearning for life.
the sun is climbing up over the hills, but is confused for diving to receive its cheap thrills.
the table of contents holds the unknown. so many trails of possibility.
in one hand, rich and fame.
in the other ditches and lame.
but one thing is for certain.
there is a prologue. a chapter 1. and an epilogue.
the book has been written.
but drifting further and further in to the night, the book sits and its beauty is lost in the fright.
its replaced with dust, and stories of what could be.
but one thing is for certain.
at some point we return to chapter 1.
although we left at 3, chapter 1 feels so enticing.
to see the things of what were that supposedly set us free.
to the things that will be of chapter 23.
the complaints of strife, and anger that lead to apathy.
reside in the fact that there was joy, and laughter full of memories.
but one thing is for certain.
the book has been written.
there is an ending.
an 'about the author' is there.
there is no need to worry.
no need to scare.
the book has been written.
we need only to ask where.

An observation..or something.

there's something about the way she says no.
it starts with her hands,
the way she grasps each wrist,
wringing each dry as she clinches a fist.
it moves to her shoulders,
the way they roll on back,
they've sunken to the depths from falling off their high stack.
it reaches her neck,
the way it tilts to and fro,
dancing on the waves of which are to grow.
it stops at her eyes,
the way they fall to the ground,
swiftly swimming up as they begin to drown.
it leaves at her lips,
the way they quiver and know,
holding back the word formerly known as no.
something so simple,
and yet so detrimental,
at the hint of its song,
everything can go wrong.
but the word stops at her gate.
when only beauty captivates,
there's no where to go,
there's definitely something about the way she says no.

The Road

the old man sits on the edge of his seat
quiet in manner with words you can't beat
dust swirls, his inspiration in the clouds
at the stroke of his pen, he can silence the crowd
the young man stands in the nook of the room
anxious to be seen, but always swept by the broom
he blows away with a shutter and is lost in the sky
right then the old man leaks tears as he begins to cry
as dusk turns to night and the stars show their eyes
the young man floats down and passes on by
at the front of the porch the old man now resides
he watches the young man take leaps in his strides
astonished by this amazing feat
the young man has got him out of his seat
thinking of things that could and will now be
following the young man on an unfound course he will soon see
the young man trembles undoubtedly into the unknown
briskly walking on thorns and reaping what he has sown
going further and further down the barren road
baring the burdened weight of an undeserving load
getting closer and closer the old man still lurks
in momentary hiding, disguising his looks
bringing to attention the sunrise
as the morning has now arrived
the young man turns bewildered by the silence
to see the old man quiet in manner, but revealing his guidance
before them is the course that is much less trodden
but as they walk, it slowly begins to broaden
their days journey turns again to night
two paths now lie, one with no light
the young man whimsically follows the path lit by torch
to find at the end, the old man sitting on his porch
the old man sits on the edge of his seat
quiet in manner with words you can't beat
the young man stands at the top of the porch stairs
"father you've guided me home" he proudly declares

wonder

there's something crazy about curiosity. we all have something intertwined in the makings of our brain that cause us to wonder. we're always gawking over things bigger than us. mostly things we don't understand. somethings we will, while most others we will not.

like gifts. we receive, with no intention of giving back. feeling so happy, loved, wanted, needed, cared for, until we whimsically open the wonderfully wrapped treat. something happens. maybe responsibility, or maybe even duty. whatever it is. we have to do something with it. we can't just sit there and bask in the thought of someone taking time for us. we say thank you. which i find to be interesting. what else would there be to say though. we say thank you. and yet somehow that isn't enough. we embrace them with a hand shake, a hug, a kiss, many gratitude's, even the dreaded card. even this isn't enough. we have to repay them somehow, give them something else to show our thanks. as if our excitement and prior thanksgivings weren't enough. are they ever enough? a road block from grace was just formed. a peering inkling of unforgiveness creeps somewhere into the same crevice where our wonder seeps out. which gapes our ability to truly receive. we begin to wonder of our own self. who am i? why am i? how am i? we spin in circles pushing on grounds that never cave in. reach for hand holds on unclimbable walls. seeking for the other side of horizons. think ourselves into pits. then we wonder how we got there. oh ya. i got a gift. and i didn't know what to do with it. feeling lost, we sit with our gift. unable to give thanks. unable to feel loved. unable to feel wanted. unable to feel needed. unable to feel cared for. we sit in wonder. im sweating just thinking of the journey that i don't even have to take.

the same wonder we use to ponder time. and where it will take us. this could be a later topic.

now gifts are something that we will never be able to ruin. no matter how hard we try, we can't fail they're purpose. they're perfect. they're gifts! that's humbling. i hope. all we can do is use them. of coarse, we have to figure out what the heck they are. most don't come with a manual, especially for us men. as we never need help..right? nevertheless, they're placed on our lives with intent of getting some use. but then we wonder. what is this? why is this? how is this? and yet again, to avoid redundancy, we're lost. we have managed to think ourselves into the corner of a room that has no door. which leads to one question. how did we even get in the room if there was no door?

all we needed to do was receive. not hard. and then use it. could be tricky, but still, what kid gets a gift and sits and thinks about how its supposed to work? they play with it. try it out. they push the gift to its limits. but then we hit a problem. we put it in the blue tub, that sits behind the red tub, which is nuzzled behind our polos, dress shirts, and any other clothing item in our closet that doesn't see sunlight. or moonlight for that fact. and why do we do this? because we couldn't accept the fact that it was undoubtedly indeed a gift. and that someone who gifted it to us, thought that we could use it to its full capability.

by these accounts, i have come to the conclusion that we are incapable of receiving gifts. there is no reason for us to keep receiving gifts. and yet they keep coming. call it what you will. as for me. i'll call it grace.

when i asked you what do you think
you responded with a smile and a blink
when you opened your eyes
you turned to me and cried
i knew you were about to lie

when i asked you what was wrong
you responded with a line from that song
when you finished the note
i saw your heart was broke
i was now wishing that this was just a joke

when i asked you where you had been
you responded with a quiver in your chin
and when you spoke
your words were in his cloak
you said this grace thing's causing you to go broke

so i said you want to be found
but you're muting the volume to your sound
you looked at me proudly
but your eyes were still drowning
you said im a captive who wants to be unbound

when i asked you to leave
you struggled in your own disbelief
your eyes fell to the ground
but you finally made a sound
oh ya, you finally made a sound

sometimes we see what only we want to believe
through our misty eyes we try to see the tree
sometimes we walk that hill all alone
dismissing the truth and accepting what is shown.