*Smiles with in Solitude*

What truly is Time?
What power be the clock?
What walls are constructed
twixt the Tick and the Tock?
What blinders are fastened
to my quick darting eye
to hide the fatal speed
one attains or must die?
What truly is Time?
Is it really an old man
who occasionally we kill
but never truly can?
Whose spidery fingers
wrap round my strained neck
and strangle sanity,
reducing me to a wreck?
We awaken to Alarms,
bells send us to next class-
Live, breath, die the Schedule-
When will this torture pass?
Time flies in ecstasy
and crawls at tedious pace
when pain is extended-
but n’er slows the damned race.
The stress of the deadline
a press on my brain,
Crushed neurons fire desperate
adds to this cruel strain.
Now when I close my eyes
at the end of the day,
To a far different deity
I bow my head to pray.
For up high on my dresser
sits a clock ticking on,
in sync with a heartbeat-
Tis’ the hellest of songs.
Leaning up to the walls
twixt the Tick and the Tock
I try to press through
the most solid of rock,
but my fingers sink in
and I realize just then-
Freedom is no question of how,
But rather simply, when?

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

The stress is killing me
My skin is crawling with bumps,
As I try to rip the skin off.
I focus my attention on the mutated skin
Scratching off healed scabs that mask the stress of life with pain.
A necromantic movement through my system,
As the cryptic layers that surround me, cover my entire body with scars.
Sleepless nights and restless days built up my angst
As my hair begins to fall and my life begins to wilt.
I'm losing track of what’s important
All that matters now are these scars that keep me from falling off the edge.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

Are you familiar with love? A term that is foreign to many of us. Many try to comprehend its meaning and end up over looking its value. Used as a commodity there is no purpose for it. A word that only gains life using lies it must be stopped. Not only does it deceive but it also kills. Used as a justification for ending a life, it is swallowed by ignorance.

A disease that seems to infiltrate the masses with ease, there seems to be no end to it. Passed down from generation to generation, it seems to have infected us all at some point in time. An Archaean word that seems to survive in extreme conditions, I'm not sure how to destroy it.

A thousand faces for every situation, it blends in to its surroundings. Leeched on to your closest friends and family, it tries to catch you off guard. However, I'm too quick for it. A word that has no effect on me, I know I'm immune. Enzymes that seem to protect me from the bullshit the world tries to feed me everyday. This word has no value to me. Its effects are lost on me and I'm glad.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

Do you really feel that way about love? I can't imagine what kind of savages the human race would be without that simple concept. It is the basis of our culture, of our existence. You surely cannot dismiss love without at least giving an alternative to it. Tell me, what is your alternative?

"You gotta walk that lonesome valley. You gotta walk it for yourself."

Emotions run high,
The air is thick with anticipation.
Some laughs and understanding moments make the awkwardness vanish.
A shared moment,
A night intertwined.
A comforting gaze makes time seem to fly.

It’s morning, a feeling of shame.
You get up and walk home,
Their gazes are set.
Their murmurs and whispers,
Some laughter’s and stares.
They know what you've done.
They sense all the shame.

The ignominies of the past,
Make you feel like a leper as you walk home in stride.
The shadows of last night hover over your head.
You walk a straight line,
Through a road known as shame.

[I laughed but she walked the walk of shame because I couldn't pick her up. its still funny ...but it was her choice to stay.]

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

A little while ago, a man I don't know
came up to me and asked me
'what is your purpose?'
Out of the blue.
Didn't know him, it was just
a cold day on Church Street,
milling amid the window shoppers,
not especially shopping, rather not especially caring
about the glitz and glamour the peddlers pushed.
'what is my purpose?'
I didn't answer, I just smiled and moved away.
Awkward question.
But honest one, a good posing
though at the time I moved to the street,
looking bewildered as I was.
Who poses these questions?
But then again, as of now
I know my purpose.
I know what it is I am here to do,
and I am here to live
another day. Another minute
and to keep looking in the windows
until I find myself ready to know
when It is time to step through them.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

If only life was a document. Cut and paste what seemed to fit. Rearranging life to create a perfect story, a tale to be seen through the ages. Waking up to the idiot critiques of people who think know better. Rulers of your democratic ways of conquest, trampling over the blue prints of your life.

If only life was that simple. Enemies of odd extremities, making the familiarities the stepping-stones for past mistakes. Erasing suppressed memories of things you wished were just dreams. Corrections on past statements made, that seemed like marks in the mirror we try so hard to cover up.

Rough drafts that do not seem to cut it. Final drafts with several mistakes. We are incomplete, unfinished statements in a world that never seems to end.

The chronicles of our lives have no end. No complete thought to leave the restless mind of the critiques at peace. We are forever in our stories, never quite bound by one scene.

If only life was that simple.

If only life was, complete.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

*applause*
If only, if only,
though in retrospections, we are built by failures
stories we hide make thier invisible marks
and shape, like a potters hand, who we are today.
We often don't like it,
it is sometimes painful
sometimes dealing pleasure while tearing you up
but it leaves you standing
lest you fall.
And while you still stand, through the well-walked soles
of your shoes sprout roots, and they snake into the concrete
anchoring you to your turf, and steeling you
for more tales and stories you wish you could change.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

*applause*
If only, if only,
though in retrospections, we are built by failures
stories we hide make thier invisible marks
and shape, like a potters hand, who we are today.
We often don't like it,
it is sometimes painful
sometimes dealing pleasure while tearing you up
but it leaves you standing
lest you fall.
And while you still stand, through the well-walked soles
of your shoes sprout roots, and they snake into the concrete
anchoring you to your turf, and steeling you
for more tales and stories you wish you could change.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

My chest feels compressed.
Unable to move or react.
My hands are red and cold to the touch.
The air is thick and as I breathe,
I can follow its motion.
I can follow its being.

I hear the sirens quicken.
Their rhythm unseen.
I can follow their beat.
I can follow the roar.

Perched on the window ceil,
They watch me through the window
And as the room grows silent, I can hear them breathing.
I can follow the flaps of their wings.
I can follow them into the darkness.

No screams, no reactions just surprised and appalled.
My feet get heavy and quite hard to pick up.
And as I fall to the unmoved ground,
I can follow the road.
I can follow the cries.

As reflections of mirrors show me various paths, I seem at a loss.
Each path blocked by an unseen resistance of which I cannot surpass.
My reflections leave me behind,
And try as I might I cannot follow.

My Id and my vanity go their separate ways,
As my pride and my honor, vanish into unforeseen roads.
Yet try as I might I cannot follow through.
I cannot follow into the unknown.

A pawn in my own game, I cannot seem to function alone.
I am a vessel, a shell,
And with out my reflections I come undone.
Alone I am not made to follow,
I can only watch as parts of me venture into the unknown shadows of life.
But as a whole, I am made to be followed,
To reach places never seen but only imagined.
I am a leader,
And I am followed by the unknown.
I am followed by the world.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

I thought of you when I wrote this. I cannot seem to explain it but I see you everywhere these days. Cannot quite escape your luminescent eyes. Your words capture my every move and thought. I feel connected, and yet every time I get close you become distant.

Borders, walls, should I mimic your moves. It seems I am always a step behind. I master your whimsy and yet I can never compare. The darkness, close them and find yourself ever closer. I feel you, although, as I open my eyes I see nothing and feel nothing, but I can see you.

As rain falls, it captures your image. The droplets incase your structure, never holding in your soul. Footsteps that lead to nowhere, echoes that bounce back the hollow emptiness. I know your there.

Light refracts, and shadows vanish. With in the boundaries of glass I cannot hold you but we’re close. Oh, so close. Our movements are one, a mime in a box. Amused and confused, I know I’ll never have you. Yet these mirrors cannot prevent me from admiring your transit sight.

Transparent and alone, I am with you. Always you--I am you.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

A while ago I dug out my Creative Writing Seminar notebook and decided to try out some of the old styles I've forgotten. I started writing about a diamond (I just saw "Diamond Eye" so that was running through my head- but it came out on somewhat of a tangent.

Magma 5

This is the tale of the base Magma five,
Humanities reach to a planet of fire
that was spinning through space so far from home
that during the day, the illuminative stars,
glowing lava and headlamps were all that lit our work,
and there was no change in scenery heralding the night.

Years ago we left earth; our craft waited that night
as the controller counted down, Nine, eight, seven six five-
the boosters below us set to their work
billowing steam and legs of hot fire
that ran below us as Helios to the domain of the stars
and we never looked back at what once was our home.

Though we never looked back, the pangs for our home
still cried for attention as we slept away 'nights'-
which do not exist in an odyssey through stars
for though the ship spins, night is not true, five
months of this torture riding chemical fire
passed us by- then the time came to set us to work

to the business of landing, the hair-raising work
of setting us down on this hell, our new home
of onyx and granite, a land framed by fire
where there is no tangible difference twixt daytime and night.
The craft hovered roughly, altitude thirty-five-
and the engines cut- our vessel fell from the stars

and with a jolt that jarred us enough to see stars
we grimaced and groaned as we began the tough work
of standing; our welcome to base Magma 5
that for the next year or so shall serve us as our home
as we toil on endlessly, through dark inferno nights
glowing bright red at the whim of the fire.

But toil is pleasure, our quarry in fire
glitters when cooled with the hue of the stars,
for on earth, the process of which last the night
of countless ages of pressure and heat, here the work
is done so much faster than it is completed back home
for diamonds here cool in few minutes, maybe five.

For the fruits of the nights on this great ball of fire
the base Magma 5, which produces the stars,
the payoff of hard work to those waiting far away home.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Time is everywhere time controls everything and everyone you have no choice they so you do but thats a cover the world is a mask. Empires, nations, and religions are made although through the course of time nothing man made will last ever. Seen them all fall seen them all make the same mistakes they argue over little differences they say they are supperior and more intelligent than the real natives of earth the animals. They destroy the world in time yet say they are smart they go through dark ages and whipe out entire spechies yet after all of this time they still dont get it, time ruins everything. Except for the heart. Make peace, go to space, creat you new fadangled technologies but remember in time all will be gone so use your time wisely and help your race while you have the time.

"sad is the heart that loves. its usually broken"

Chained to the clock, so we are tied to time;
through trials and uncertainties it is certain;
a constant progression in the obsession of life.
Yet how much do we consider its power?
Empires rise, crumble, from the ashes
a mirror image formulated and negated
by the same Achilles heel that shattered the former- Humanity
Insanity by any means, though there is logic,
method to the madness, that one views
the whole and sees it as futile, sees the chains
attached by the wrist to the hands of the clock
tick
tock
tick
tock
Time goes onward, forward despite
all we do, and though we constantly falter
we consistently succeed. These successes,
these systems of logic, reason, government
will one day fall, or may stay alive
or will crumble leaving only the foundation, for a mirror image
to rise from the ashes. I do not know, for by that time
I'll be long gone from this world, safe in a coffin
without any bonds on my wrists any longer.
Until then, and may that time take its time in coming;
run, run, run, run, jump and leap and tackle your trials
for they are, as we've seen, nothing in the long run.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Our obligations as humanity, made mandatory by men in ties.
The joy of aiding others stripped away by suited drones that seem focus on the profits not the actions.
It is not fair!
My time, my values, taken to mean manual labor that never seems to end.
Finding those smiles disappear as the rooms fill with rules and guidelines.

Buildings that profit from my time,
As the weak and the helpless, beg to be aided with out hidden agendas.
Unable to write what they feel, they seek hands to interpret what they yearn,
Yet all they need is fifty-dollars to borrow my time and my hands.
My time is no longer free.

Given a price, my actions are made mandatory.
What do my actions reflect about me,
When they cannot even speak for themselves anymore.
The noise of the bureaucratic pocket filling up drowns up all their pleads,
As they cover up my actions with green bills, and apathetic acts.
They cry for attention, yet all I hear is greed.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"