True Love of Coffee

This was written for a friend, who shall remain nameless.

In a private conversation, I declared that I was unfit for duty.
I told my friend that I could no longer wear a badge of honor.
Somehow, I found that the shadow of bravery crept over my soul,
and fell upon the silent ears of those who were defined valiant, or criminal.

I was not a hero. I was not even someone who cast forth a reflection worth seeing.
The way I found myself, was a haunting memory of distant declarations,
Words that could never be understood by someone as simple as myself.
Yet the wound I felt, brutalized my soul more than any harm could.

I saw myself as having fallen, upon the fine, sharp sword of victory.
My chest was covered with fine treasures of respectful ignorance,
yet my hands and body were as unclean as I have ever felt.
I do not know how to cleanse life of such indiscriminate stains.

I return home, to a family who loves, friends who adore, and none of them understand.
I am not the person they love, no, I am the person they fear in distant nights.
The hand of god holding the life of innocence, of illicit personal ending.
My choice, to disbelieve, that my hands act with ignorant cruelty.

I sit with those I love and wonder, how many brethren no longer sit at a table I emptied?
That as I, a human soul, cared for disregard so deeply that I acted,
again and again, I acted. To take away that which was not mine.
I was the fool played as both pawn and king, to which I gave away control.

I am asking for redemption, begging for a sweet mercy I never gave,
trying to forget the moments of unsettled fear as I closed my eyes,
and forced myself to hear screams that will never go away.
Simply, I am not fit for duty.

When I closed my eyes, I began to dream. I was a child, holding myself in imagination and wonder. Not like the tattered old suit who passed me on the street, or the fine pair of shoes that cautiously crosses the street.
No I was like I was when I hid in the forest of blades once beneath my feet, laughing as I snuck from here to there. When I dream, I begin to see clearly. I view the world like a rainbow painting my world, beautiful, hopeful, unbroken.
I hear the words of the world bring themselves to a chorus of unity and silence, to which I must take action. To believe that I am different would be pointless and unfortunate, as I, simply am. When I live, my dreams become real. I hold them. Touch them. Taste them. I try again and again, for something. That something is not what I desire. It is the act of reaching that brings my spirit to a point of fascination. My place in the steps of living may only be counted once, and then I must defer to the very figment I adore. To wake, I must be dreaming, for I still see the world in so many colors.

The inescapable loss of compassion is impossible to dismiss. Sometimes you casually find a stranger at a loss beyond words. Sometimes those words are so evasive even you cannot hear them. Sometimes they come from someone you care about, and the futile nature of being human holds you in a moment where nothing feels more than the second you are in.

Great literature says it best shortly, with quotes like “He dies.” Yet I do not read those words today. I have chosen to experience the rapture for what “it is”, rather than what it could be described “to be.” Such simple, unfettered, and agnostic words become everything I could try to say “It is, to be.”

The words do not make anymore sense to the home of a heart consumed in dismay. Whether it is the child I speak of, while crying in my heart as they rain tears upon a face that should not know such sadness, or if it is the sound of someone lost in thoughts running rampant across a tide of unbalanced emotion- all I can brutally say, in an attempt to have my humanity restored, quietly, “it is, to be.”

Someone will understand these words like I do. They may fall upon a thousand eyes that are gazing away from the harm our humanity brings us, but the gentle souls, the kindred spirits finding themselves giving hearth to the homeless, will surely know, that our faith will one day change this words to “It is, to decide.”

I am, a humble gentleman.
Kindly tipping my unworn hat,
as if the frequent stranger
was my kindest friend.
For all that I was,
would I not be something more,
if only I was wise enough,
to open each and every door.

What more could I be?
The last time I say hello,
the first time I said good-bye,
to which my friendship has no degree.
Appareled and adorned,
without anything but to be polite,
and my hand is unborn again,
as if I grasp you for the first time.

Doubt, my dim companion.
Why does my soul seem ill-content,
with a fraction of life
the sacrificial grace of torment.

The whole of me, lasting, longing,
that I breathe so deeply,
and it inspires greed, for more,
the very thing I cannot be.

Cannot my spirit be worth,
trivial compassion,
or do I find my value, dripping,
in a vein surrender I never succumb.

Had I, tried as one might,
have the sight to believe,
just on more time, in me,
as I reach for what I need.

Insanity

1. not sane; not of sound mind; mentally deranged.
2. of, pertaining to, or characteristic of a person who is mentally deranged: insane actions; an insane asylum.
3. utterly senseless: an insane plan.

Oddly enough, scratching on my mind,
I hear rodents and thoughts of curious crime.
No I will not answer the door, oh no,
for I ask not more as I tune into my favorite show.
Eyes locked upon dancing dots of black and white,
as I am shocked into moments that seem more right.
Dear doctor, I smile at my friend you cannot see,
oh why can’t I scream while I breathe?
Yet if I use words, should you understand,
I am not an aberrant person of this torturous time.
Divergent of thought, eccentric of mind,
I am simply insane, trying my best to rhyme.

Once, when I was younger, I imagined myself flying above cold ocean.
Gale wind carried my soul like a flurry across the waves,
holding myself as if nothing was tangible.

I remember it as if my heart had pause, as if I could no longer live,
hoping and believing for something warm, some mythical destination,
to where I would find myself salvation and sanctuary.

Once was a long time ago.

Now I float above the city, dreaming of how far my world can travel,
yearning to be something that I cannot see, a lust to be worthwhile,
to have value beside how my life sounded so hollow, so fragile.

I cared not to believe anymore, the embracing love of childhood was gone,
as if I could no longer be something wanted, simply a thing of intrigue,
for the very eyes that look past me, even through me, with simple dismissal.

My attendance was never required.

Yet I venture through to the hills, passively watching such subtle caring,
as people meander from field to family, from friend to fortune,
and I realize that they breathe my life as if their own.

I try desperately to exhale them, to break myself of such mundane thoughts,
as my world is engulfed and devoured by such futile personalities,
when I find myself consumed, and no one even knew I was there.

When I fell asleep, I swear my eyes opened for the first time in my life.
I could feel what the day entailed, every breath seemed like a moment of delight.
When my slumber embraced me, I felt warm and comforted like I never had.
In a dream of things that I always wanted, yet never afforded in my heart’s desire.
Why would I hope that this veil be lifted, could I possibly dream if I woke?
If I cared for reality, as much as this figment, I would have perfection in my hands.

**************************

I have often wondered about love. Perhaps that is the fault of a hopeless romantic. I think that poets are best born to wondering about the exact destiny of a feeling. It inspires them, it pushes them to reach, it creates want.

To me, love is an absolute feeling. It is the answer to a simple question.

“Would you do anything?”

The answer, if with love, “without a doubt”

I find myself wondering about that answer. If I can relate to someone who is not myself what doubt is and is not. When I see someone, sometimes for the first time, and I know within a fraction of a second that I would take the extraordinary step to do anything.

Does that make one a fool? I wouldn’t think so. I hope that I am not a fool. yet if I am, I take no worry in it. I would rather be a fool than someone without life in my body.

Second topic of the night- in the past week I have had over a half dozen individuals describe me with the word “genius”. I do not like that word. It makes me feel different. It makes me feel as if I am better, and while I may have thoughts which make me unique, I am not better. I am only human.

I wish humility and wisdom were better friends of each other. I wish that the people that describe me as being a genius saw motivation and inspiration within that word. I wish that they looked at my action and realize the potential of how amazing they could be as well.

We are all unique creatures with wonderful gifts.

I always have this hymn in my head, for reasons I don’t know why. I wrote it years ago and find myself singing it. Only a few hundred variations or so. I wonder about the statements often and the wording, perhaps thinking whether or not the light is me or someone else, the love of a thought or of a passion.

The reason I write my thoughts into my various professional and personal words is to express how I was feeling in regards to a place and time in my life. Many people do not do this, rather they capture themselves in wondrous cages of demeanor and personal perception.

If you understand any of the above statement, you are actually far luckier than most people wandering around the world today. Too many people find themselves locked in a place they chose to be and fail to realize that there is no prison strong enough to hold them.

For lack of a better description- we are all born free.

In my darkest hour
In my fiercest fight
I fall to be devoured
yet hold onto your light
I dream of no tomorrow
of honor and all it’s sorrow

In my fiercest fight
I hold onto your light
It was my darkest hour
Falling to be devoured
I only dream of all the sorrow
the honor of tomorrow

Yet I still can’t see
who I came to be
Until I find who is me
and I still know I’m free
in my fiercest fight
tomorrow defines the light

When I said farewell, there was a tone in my voice that conveyed more than my words ever could. The rose I held in my hand didn’t have enough value to it, as beautiful and perfect as each petal had pain-mistakingly been, it still didn’t have the vibrancy you brought to my life.

My words sounded like a wounded soul, a prideful spirit, and a lonely heart. I couldn’t hope that you could understand what I was trying to say, only that you understood how I felt.

I was at a loss. The deepest abyss of indiscretion, wanting and yearning for something I would never have, trying to believe in a prayer that god himself had thrown into hell.

I was the child of man, feverishly holding onto my cursing words of a religion that didn’t give me any comfort today.

Yet there I was, trying to hold back the tears as I said good-bye. If you could have spoken to me, the words you would share would have lightened my life like rays of sunshine.

I wept silently trying to hide how much I cared for you, the lack of companionship I looked forward to in years to come tearing my soul into frail little portions.

When I looked up from the grave stone, everyone else was gone. The rain fell upon my face reminding me how cold I felt inside, and I only remember how numb my hand felt as I let my grasp of your rose go.

You may have had life cut short, but as with all roses, your essence will not be forgotten.