A Good Great

Amherst, Peace, Poetry, Stuff to do

I glance across the monolith

To the boy chewing on his headphone cables

And wonder what he’ll end up becoming after his time passes.

Will he make it big in his corner of the world, like I hope and hope I will?

I don’t know him well enough to find that truth.

I don’t know myself well enough to know my fate.

So I agonize over these forces with an imaginary locus of control.

I think of the article I almost wrote. The novel I’ve been trying to finish.

Something clicks in my head, an invisible loudspeaker materializes

With veins bursting in their forehead

Among the obscenities and cuss-outs, I hear this.

“Take it day by day and just fucking do it.”

All of this existential future dread took up the space that my improvement needed,

So I fell off of my rails and succumbed.

No more.

It’s back to the poetry. An easy routine whose greatness becomes easier in time. A photo a day to complement.

In a life where time is the antagonist and greatness the ends,

I realize I have nothing but time and greatness is subjective.

Bad people can get what they want and win.

They’re called great without ever being good.

Why put time in energy to compare myself to these vastly differing goals?

I’ve got skills to develop and time

To make my path to a good great.

 

The reflection in the mirror after 4 years at UMass will not encase me in who I’ll be for the rest of my life.

All we can do is move forward.

What a beautiful gift of a “can” that is.

Lobby Day

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Peace, Poetry, Politics, Societal Poetry, Stuff to do

It was a regular Thursday. 

Wax oozed from the walls and the pores of our faces. 

We stepped through the marble edifices of political gods, 

Men and women like most of us. The wax was doctrine. 

The surface deflected every scent but superiority. 

Quiet howls shrieked, smothered by business casual. There are no people here. 

Only lobbyists. 

Pentacles carved into these wondrous halls can’t be a coincidence if nothing is coincidence. 

I am not coincidence. They are not coincidence. 

So why I’m the world do we feel so out of our own skin? 

Photo opps, flag halls. Pseudo strategy. Stop the anxiety. 

The wax drips from these Corinthian bullies, 

Bright eyes in white guise stand marbled with intimidating decorum. 

If only we could connect with this history. 

Of Sarah, and patriotism, Oliver Ames, Amen I say to you. To history. 

Timidness stands where reverence deserves, 

The wax coats these bodies fully

And I haven’t the chisel to break it. 

Hurry up and wait. 

Heat the wax, so it may set

And paralyze us all. 

Why must this be so on Lobby Day? 

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.

Peace After Pain

Fear, Internal Poetry, Peace, Poetry

Scraped shins and chagrin always shared their names.

To feel pain and peace never made any sense

Cause I’d never ignored at the other’s expense.

But I knew what I stepped into the moment I did know,

The bubbles of intent actualized Pro Quid Quo.

The identity scaffolding I’ve built has been crushed under lump snow,

The ritual had been broken by millions of teeming snowflakes

And a fresh pocketful of sunshine when there’s no sun to spread.

I need to continue meditating, breathing, loving, and healing,

But the systems against them are so damn appealing.

Here I am, starry-eyed and unable to tell you what today is

(Other than A Hell of a Day)

I’ve got homework to do, further writing to be demonstrated,

I’ve gotta read like a motherfucker and keep my aspirations close.

Cause it IS the last day of the weekend,

It’s in order to propel my creator self towards the sky

And continue to fight the fight and realize the glow up.

My psyche’s taken a vacation from the rigid structure of ambitious perfection,

But the breaths I’ve taken in between sprints have been pretty damn sweet.