"The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true." - John Steinbeck
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Hope(full)
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
His Ghost
Being the President
must be like walking with your guardian angels
everyday Except you could
talk to them, hear about their days,
maybe get to know their families You’d see their
faces as they dove over top of you Looking
back as the shots rang out Shock waves
rang out and spattered you On the pavement
your angel gets his wings You are alive
and his soul just left the solar system No more
talk of ordinary days or afternoons on the stoop
No more wedding photos or Graduation celebrations,
birthdays, or nice chat at the end of the drive way
Your bullet got him cold,
as you covered your eyes
you didn’t see who was falling for you NO surprise
No you were not caught by surprise U turned into
somebody who would stop bullets so the President
could cast a vote in your favor You weren’t alive
to see the President take over your home Deal away
your job over a game of Poker with the Other Guy
But you were still his angel He walked behind you
so people could walk behind him Walk behind him
don’t run after shadows Don’t turn into
a shadow of a man who’s so willing give up his ghost.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Everything
Everything is a situation we cannot control;
everything is losing it's mind.
Everything is lost, few things are found,
everything is up, even when it's down.
Everything looks picturesque, and pure;
everything misbehaves.
Everything is good and bad,
everybody goes to confession to lie,
everything is born, just to die.
Everything is awake,
but breathing rather quiet;
everything is moving, and remaining still.
Everything always surrounds the moment,
everything is alive.
everything is blanketed by the stars at night,
and on a sober morning, blinded from the sun.
Everything is short, and sometimes sweet;
everything is messy and incomplete.
Everything laughs and everything cries,
everything lives and everything dies.
Everything goes back to school, every single day;
everything is nothing new.
Everything is lost waiting to be found,
everything watches, everything listens.
Everything seeks, and everything hides,
runs from the machine, and walks the line.
Everything comes from something else,
everything is unoriginal.
Everything is borrowed, everything is new and old.
Everything is weak, and almost bold,
everything is hollow, and everything is full;
with all the wrong ideas, we're running with the bulls.
Everything is made, but not always sells,
everything returns to the earth to rot.
Everything falls, and everything stops falling.
Everything is an answer, and a really good question.
Everything makes the news,
and the news makes everything;
everything has a shape, but not a name.
Everything has direction, but very seldom purpose.
Everything is bollemic and hugging the toilet.
Everything is lost, everything's make-believe.
Everything is a future, present and past,
Everything covers the earth like a cast,
everything is recycled,
and rebuilt to last.