The Truth of Love

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Love

Falling in love does not have a reason, it has a purpose.

Love is not passive, love is daring.
Love is watching your life fade to black.
Love is about resurrecting yourself with one thought.
Love is knowing that you took your last breath stepping in front of a train for them.

Love is not hateful, nor hurtful.
Love is persistent, meaningful, caring.
Love is holding them tightly, without hesitation or delay.
Love is about knowing when you must find strength in letting them go.

Love is hard.
Love is peaceful, healing, nurturing.
Love is offering your hand and your soul, to believe.
Love is daring yourself, when you don’t know what parts to share.

In Front of a Crowd

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Survival

So many people believe in me,
The things I see, what could be.
Should I just claim, “here I am?”
As I silently walk onto the stage
Uncovering myself, preparing to expose my fear.

I would rather, as my throat catches my voice,
Try to keep the beautiful butterflies down,
And hope, for one moment, that I am applauded.
There are not many reasons for which, I understand.
Not many reasons at all.

Yet I find myself hearing appreciation, gratitude.
On a pedestal of public isolation,
I am welcomed by strangers, thanked by friends,
As my legs tremble along with my words from my lips,
and my life is thrown out like random confetti.

I say something of which I cannot remember,
As the crowd erupts into a flurry of commotion,
My spirit panics, my breathing pauses,
And I feel myself losing hold of evasive sanity,
The panic holds me tight, as I feel my skin try to crawl away.

I pause, but not with planning,
the type of hesitation you find with fearing,
and I look out into a sea of faces rippling with expectation.
I cannot weather the tide of such unknown envy,
And I dare not leave this post before I am truly done.

If only I could remember,
The fact of why I am here.
Perhaps the truth of knowing my purpose,
Could elude to the reason I share myself,
And help me understand who I am.

The Comedian’s Version of Love – a Homicidal Maniac

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two

Love is having someone tell you they killed someone,
Love is not hesitating, or asking questions.
Love is driving to Home Depot with them, at 11 P.M.
To buy a shovel.

Love is not complaining about the mess.
Love is about being prepared, having taken effort,
Love is lining the back of your trunk with plastic bags.
The little specks of evidence, are simply happy memories.

Love is about laughing,
Love is the question of shallow, or six feet deep.
Love is getting in the hole as you dig it even deeper,
And don’t worry about getting dirty.

Love is the risk of getting caught,
Love is about talking to the police detective,
Love is realizing you still have a shovel,
And figure out the officer needs a bigger hole.

Charging a shovel at Home Depot $19.95
Finding true love – priceless.

Memories of a Pirate

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two

Of each thought, I wonder.

The rarity of neither peace or pain,
simple yet fundamental feeling
Of being a rainbow of conclusions,
wonderously blending themselves together.

Each thought is wonder

The creation or the destruction,
the moment of new experience
or forgotten memory
trapped in amber.

Wondering of the thought

With each thought, power of its own
to pleasure or to forget,
the jealousy of doubt and fear,
to build and to break.

I wonder with each thought,

To define the positive,
or discover the negative.
To build the very tool
I need to destroy myself.

To wonder if

I, as a moment within my own mind,
become a memory of what moment comes,
to find myself stolen away,
by the very thief I have become.

The Truth of Being a Crow

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Daily thoughts

After flying long and hard,
I find myself tired.
My wings, glossy and beautiful,
seemingly go unnoticed.

For the way I see,
I am alone, always wanting,
Amongst those who mimic me,
who give my image ill repute.

Within my eyes,
the ebony black definition of loss,
a place where no dreams survive,
Empty as my hope to fly.

Dear eagle, why am I not your brother?
could I, if not for such ugly brethren be yours.
Would my spirit not shine, as my wings once did,
upon the blue sky of day, brilliant and powerful.

Is my path born to me, wishing and hoping,
as my coven flock around decaying dreams,
and the bodies of strangers become our feast.
Do I dare say, that I am different?

I am not different.
That is what my fear tells me.
I cower behind that thought in the night.
Hoping that the voice of truth is never heard.

I watch my family,
as they tear away the purity of life,
destroy the sanctity of peaceful slumber,
and drag each soul into our chaos.

I watch.
And I am ashamed.
My feeble hope to be something more, is quiet.
Amongst a roar of indifference and hate.

I find in being alone,
that my image has lost the glamor I once dreamdt,
if I could only hold myself with faith,
I may once day be an eagle.

The Borrowed Umbrella

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two

I ask this stranger,
holding my salvation,
the very charity I need,

If you found my heart in the rain today,
would you understand where I am,
that I have lost my way?

If you found a start, a new beginning,
would you be willing to play that part?
Don’t worry, I know you really can’t say.

Drops falling on my head,
trying to wash away everything,
no cost that I afford, just my given word.

Strange clouds float above my life,
hiding things that are never what they seem.
Just believe in me, I don’t wash away.

Dear stranger, you don’t know me.
You can’t see the hope I need,
probably don’t know where I’ll be.

If you can stay, on this corner of my life,
you can feel the reason I don’t stray,
these gray skies are in my dreams.

When my dreams begin to fade,
and you fail to feel these drops,
begin to worry, dear unknown friend.

That is when life, these clouds,
the very essence of beauty,
are never compared to something less.

My life, is realizing beauty
has loyal faith and unbroken hope,
that it exists beyond the gray horizon.

New Years Writing

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two

It was Monday morning,
which everyone wrongfully considered
as the first day of the week,
even when it was the last day of the year.

Like a virtual pessimist,
it is considered a day half over
a time when we need our coffee,
to begin everything, including our waking.

Would we describe the minute we rise,
as the ending of our lives?
to become humorously ironic
as we laugh and ask why?

One day we dare,
when we dream of desire
another hour we share,
When we witness midnight fire.