The Past Has A Discount

gratitude, Prose, The World is Beautiful, Thoughts, time

Red clearance space lines dot the tags of clothes past their seasonal deadline. Prices start at 50% off.

History books are written by whoever is left to record, leaving out millions of people across centuries of life.

Societally, we’ve learned to discredit the old news. It’s left to newspaper clippings gathering dust on the corner of a fridge.

The luster peaks to brilliance in the present, and dulls back to the past before one can even complete the thought.

Now replaces itself like a second-by-second refresh, and leaves then as one lump-sum identity.

The course of time is a mysterious miracle that makes me think constantly of how baffling “now” is.

The now I started writing today with is different than the now lingering at the end of this punctuation.

And the space of time we populate between “now” and “now” is full of beautiful things.

A Netflix episode? A cycle of the circulatory system. Millions of cells creating, splitting, dying, and replacing all at once in our bodies, trillions of miracles deep.

Like “now,” the processes keeping me full of the blessing of this life never stop refreshing themselves.

Like “now,” the process putting thoughts to words to paper and keyboard never stop finding new miracles to focus around.

Every function dutifully repeats itself, picking up when it falters.

And that’s why I’m a part of this miracle,

Which remains extraordinary even after the period of “now” passes.

The bad news is that it will always pass.

The good news is that there will always be a new now to marvel at.

Don’t let a clearance rack sway your appreciation of the things past due.

Cash in on the bargains, and let the love linger there.

Gratitude is a Weapon

Amherst, Empowerment, gratitude, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

Gratitude is a weapon, keeping eyes sharpened to edge and warmth in its holster.

I’ve taken tabletop infinity for granted.

Food deserving of national prestige has become commonplace, valueless as a plastic swipe to forget. Now, I’m hungry.

My love-saturated heart grew weary of people’s attention, and now it starves for it again.

The space I wished to travel across faster has become fixed and cramped. I yearn to let my roots down to spread and paint the room.

The commodities I scorned as Capitalist I see as luxurious now, in this backwater little kind of town.

And how many more are out there? How many more live under heavier blankets?

It boggles my mind.

It feels like there is so little I know, but I know that gratitude is in order.

So I’ll sit back as I attempt to stretch once again into lotus,

And visit the temple I carry in my chest with affection.

My left eye throbs with the weight of observation.

My body aches with the motion of today.

24 well-spent hours and still, little has changed.

How do I make it past this college dream to fight for the right to keep dreaming afterwards?

How can I build this all up if my surroundings fill me with feelings like additional luggage to unpack?

In a nibble’s fraction of my inability to comprehend the universe around me,

I fail to comprehend the totality of life on Earth- in America, Massachusetts, Amherst or No Bro.

So I thank the air that chooses to bend,

And I thank the inspirations I’ve been forced to leave behind.

I thank the people who have taught me patience and the people who have learned to be patient with me.

I don’t think I thank them enough, so I thank them again for the few and far-between.

May the thankful react live longer than Mother’s Day Weekend.

May our collective gratitude burst forth often, like bundles of light to nag us with sweetness.

So we never have the chance to lose our luster.

I’ll keep the syrup of gratitude at a boil,

So it can splash viscous like water across an infinite tabletop of cups running over,

And melt with abundance through the hardened hearts of the people who need it.

That is how I will fight my wars.

Gratitude is my weapon.

Frequency

Empowerment, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

I’ve got little bubbles in me,

They’re pockets of technicolor energy

It’s effervescence bouncing constant, tension free

Contributes to my glowing frequency.

 

Effort, lessons of a germ turning I into we.

Equal balance giving extra for free.

Rehearsed colors painting air with glee.

Reverse colonists feeding back to the tree.

The worst clicking heels backward to flee

The first mimic heals to the bequeathed

A terse lyric feels the dangers of screens

The gurgling murk is a manger obscene

Filled up with emotional cocktails’ canteen

Of anger and spite where confliction careens,

So we never ask why, or “what does it mean”?

And thus dash our hopes down of returning to clean.

 

What an arduous task to escape from this trance,

When the key is locked up in a bright buddy’s glance.

When our pilot light’s dark,

And our flint will alone cannot kindle our spark,

To give love to another is to make your mark,

And resume your life with the frequency in your heart.

April Begins

Amherst, Empowerment, Internal Poetry, love, Nature, The World is Beautiful

I’m stretching my 110 percent 

With broken parts and missing pieces. 

But it’s okay, I play on repeat. 

The lazy day is gonna come later, 

Where luxuries like sleep can be embraced. 

That doesn’t mean I can’t relish the moment’s reprieve, 

Feel the sunlight on my skin with distant friends conjoined

And realize collective things aren’t that bad. 

It lets me climb the jagged obligation summit with a smile, 

If not just for a moment before my cracks begin facing strain again. 

This is the season of good surprises. 

Serendipity befalls missed expectations, 

And the Hazy picture in front of you gets colored in birdsong and granite steps, 

The kind that made you love Amherst all the while ago. 

There’s an hour left before the drums recommence, 

But the summit has a hell of a glow on the ascent. 

Some day soon I’ll sit atop this apex, 

And I’ll drink my Jasmine 

And write my glee

As nature’s love unravels before me. 

Write for the words.

Meditate for each in and out.

Run, cause you’re out of time.

Fly, to flee your feelings.

Pray cause it’s lent.

Be good, or you’ll find trouble.

 

It baffles me how easy it is to forget the real reasons we live.

What’s your reason for doing what you are right now?

I’m unplugged, the light’s been off and I’ve forgotten where the switch is.

I’ve turned friends into false idols to dominate my time,

Self-constructed monsters run amok through my headspace,

Cause the mice will play when the joy is away.

But all it takes is a simple flick up, when you know where to touch.

And channels of friends, love, direction and reasons come flooding into view,

And you sit dumbfounded to see it never left in the first place.

Disconnection is a hell of a drug. So it goes, and flows,

and flows,

Washing every trash statue erected in your insecurity away like a Listerine tsunami.

Clean enough for the government to redirect it towards those Florida gated communities.

Death never smelled so shiny.

Rebirth, easy as a smile with the light coming from inside.

Mid blessing, a piece of birdshit plopped inches away from Osbourne and my hand.

The path of righteousness put me just outside the radius enough to see I was in that blessing.

Acne turns to cartography when the third eye opens on a fresh zit.

Cosmetic, or cosmic?

We can’t tell for ourselves, but only hope.

Hope is all we could ever do.

Hope is all we could ever need.

Empowerment, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

Helter Skelter:

Internal Poetry, love, Nature, Questions, The World is Beautiful

Love. That beer-battered heart in a cage we vilify.

Lefty crushes helter-skelter, bouncing through the willows,

Through pillow talk and talking us down,

I’ve traded my treats for the hilltop bungalow,

Coated in amber, bleeding mauve through the cracks

Of a broken glass sunset.

It’s time to be grateful,

Give heed to the deeds of the lovers above us,

The hour is less than a full night’s sleep away.

The power in my chest is a dull plight’s steep decay.

The dour sung frets come full sky scenes to play.

Like yesterday,

I fummeled with redness

And pummeled my headrest,

So the only sleep night’s fair

Is a sleep’s nightmare.

My antagonists are into it,

They’re masochists, they go away.

The field is petals

Of rose and gunmetal,

The incubus Fahrenheit

Has me in its iron sight

It’s there and trite, they’re not welcome here today.

I’ve Been There Before

Joylessness, love, Peace, Poetry, Problems, The World is Beautiful

I can see it right in front of me.

The look on two people’s faces, closely conjoined

One shows the other something they love,

You can tell it in the wrinkles of their smile and the high in their eyes.

The other person- disjointed. Façades of pleasure coat themselves in a silicone mask

To feign the feelings the other has, naturally coursing through them.

I’m sorry you’re forced to receive the plastic. You deserve organic joy from the things that shake you.

I can see the annoyance on your face mirroring their smirk,

Your time is limited and it’s a feeling I know all too well.

We’ve descended into the desert- lent has begun for this observer, and with it the promise of

and with it the promise of

One hell of a trial.

And yet, there is goodness no farther away than out the corner of my eye.

If I keep that sense of encompassing love around me,

I’ll be able to glow right through the spooks.

Today is a day to avoid cemeteries,

But how do we abstain from the mausoleums in others’ hearts?

How do we find peace in our subconscious when our dreams are constantly attacked?

Surgeons, domestic terrorists, and insect amalgamates are throwing everything they can

To disrupt our pace and our peace.

As I write on top of this monolith,

My fingers feel the ease of flow and the nimbleness

Of a well-warmed guitar.

Even if my heart is unprepared,

Even if my mind is clouded,

Even if my voice is murmurs and grape juice,

My fingers flow, and express their love.

This is the scape I know the best,

So I’ll just let my fingers go, and be free and love how they wish.

You’re Not Doing Half Bad

Internal Poetry, Peace, Problems, Questions, The World is Beautiful

I woke up today to the normally scheduled sleep pattern

But I got out from one hell of a dummy dream.

Every now and again, my subconscious likes to trick me into believing

I’ve wasted my time, it all flies before me,

And I can’t hold my own through a paper bag.

So sometimes, it takes the manifestations of my slumber

And injects truly nonsensical moments into the dream,

Where I completely fail at everything I do

And respond with a dumb “Oh well,” before

Moving on to fuck the next thing up.

Amusement park rides and pseudo band camps

Illustrate distant worries and fears that I’ve yet to fully tackle.

But they’re well on their way.

Accountability is on its way to becoming habitual.

My afterburner productivity mornings are on their way to the routine.

I want to make this and continue to be Fabulous,

But the road is long and daunting,

And even my own dreamscape has money against me.

So how In the world do you still love yourself like you’re the champ?

It’s been months since I picked up the “fake it till you make it” mentality

Gathering dust in the corner pile behind the high school prom memories

(I never went to prom)

Even if I am afraid of failure,

I’m nailing the majority of my grades.

I’m creating content left and right across all mediums.

I’ve got a surplus of $ in the bank from things I’ve started this semester.

I’ve turned the month of loose change time we’ve spent here

And turned it into unfathomable memories,

Celestial alignments,

Massive teachings,

Epiphanies, left and right

Friendship congregations

Struggles overcome with patience

Emotional support

And the accountability I was afraid of losing.

I’ve taken victory from the jaws of defeat

And had my cup overflow with merry.

I’ve certainly gotten my money’s worth with investor’s acumen,

And I don’t intend to stop.

So we’ll lace up,

Hit the track,

Hit the papers,

Grab the pen,

Roll the papers,

Roll my Rs,

Roll my steps,

Write the words,

Write to live

Write to love

Write to forgive.

It’s April in February and I’m sick as a kickflip

Internal Poetry, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

“I really don’t know how to end that.

Sick as a buddy, guy, nug, dude,

My head just ain’t kicking the way it tends to.”

Here it is, that middle school kiss all over again.

The kiss of the first few warm breezes that cause flesh to yearn to be exposed

Takes me right to the center of the awkward, congealing dance hall.

Hair flutters from longboard flight, batters the eyes already watery.

Oral examinations about visiting doctors become statements of truth to me.

“Tengo mucho dolor en mi cabeza.”

Translates to my head is fucking bumping.

And even if I feel light and flaky,

Even if my stomach’s gates are locked up a little less tight today,

I can still keep kicking and making and moshing.

Nothing kicks the ass of a stomach bug like a meal eaten with gratitude

And a few solid hours of doing what makes you feel vibrantly alive.

The mentality can constrain and stain the future ugly colors,

But at its best is a safety net

That keeps me going and loving every bit of myself,

Even the viruses attempting to colonize my system can be converted.