Fastwalking

(It)

takes over.
It consumes.
It controls.
It has a mind of It's own and It comes and takes your life whenever It pleases.
It uses adrenaline wisely.
It's own little tool.
It shuts off your front brain and empowers the back.
The adrenaline makes your legs move fast, and It controls your direction.
It chooses a subject.
Something for It to hide behind.
It deceives your mind.
You faithfully believe It's choice is dangerous.
But It's inside of you all along.

I didn't know It was there.
I didn't mean to fight It.
I certainly didn't mean to win.


Maybe I didn't.

Consciously Slipping

This poem goes with a pretty intense picture I drew at 2 in the morning after some pretty intense stuff happened with my family...

Consciously slipping

Sitting on the Pickets
balance perfect
Swinging your Legs
Shoes falling into the fire
And your eyes are open

Letting go of the Handhold
face backwards
Let your little legs slip
Singeing your toes
And your eyes are open

Hanging from the Pickets
hands weak
Dropping an Arm
Kicking from Boils
And your eyes are open

One Finger Left.
Black and Charred.
Sigh and Surrender.
Screams of Burning.

There's a body in the fire
I suppose he tripped.
though his eyes are still open.

Happy Bubble vs. Reality Stick

Stupid, mindless, self-righteous, self-brainwashed, empty.
False humility strapped to your forehead.
"Afraid" of a cartoon Devil.
"In love" with a marionette God.
Connected to yourself three thousand times over,
While you forge connections to reality like a fantasy novel.
A white bubble of rainbows and unicorns covers us all,
created by default of atrophied minds.

Wake up and turn your brain on

Your pride is strapped so tightly to your forehead the blood doesn't flow.
You used your box of crayons to color the Devil.
When you move your hand God speaks.
Your same ideas circulate repeatedly until the mass of connections
is too heavy to be carried by anything but ignorance. It has no foundation.

The Bubble smothers.
The Rainbows constrict.
The Unicorns stab anyone who tries to pass.

Wake Up And
Turn
Your
BRAIN ON



I dedicate this poem to the following:
Laura and Israel, Rick Koerber, Maynard, Tori Amos, Orson Scott Card for his character Gloriously Bright, and all the people in the mormon church who act like Gloriously Bright.

Monkey

This is a bunch of weirdness that makes no sense whatsoever. Enjoy.


I'm either a monkey or I'm not.

If I am a monkey, why should I care?
There's nothing special inside screaming WHY except for a brain too big for It's own good. Changing any sort of outcome is beyond my reach, so worry? No. We acquire the need to be more than we are, to have something special, to be able to control a bigger object than ourselves so intensely, that we believe our thoughts can change the world. But If you aren't something special, and if they can't change the world, why care? If this is all there is, and I don't exist beyond the extent of, say, 60 more years, then I don't exist at all. Life is one big OH WELL. I don't remember not existing. That's because children have no connections or frame of references and so their memories are bad. Why is it that you can disprove everything, except that there is no afterlife. We all rush to make a way for us to live forever because we can't comprehend not living.

If I'm not a monkey, marvelous. I exist. Therefore, I exist forever. There's something special inside whispering WHY because we're supposed to find out. What is it? It's the thing that makes teenage boys cry. It's the thing that feels at peace even when the body is hanging on by a thread. Why do you die when your body is injured? Is there a point where the body has too many leaks to keep the spirit in? Enough will power will keep it in. The science book definition of what is alive is pathetic.
My final thought: Monkeys exist. Monkeys are alive. I don't care whether I am one or not. I don't care if I stay like this for eternity. I don't care if I have to be a polygamist for eternity. I just want to live.

The difference between music and books

Music enters my whole self completely because I invite it freely, and it fills every cell in my body. It occupies my subconcious, and animal mind which is pure instict. Music satisfies a beauty that I lack and penetrates the dark and empty places of my spirit.


Books enter into me, far less freely for they don't just pass though my ears and into my body: books pass through my mind and connect in flashes of lightning to every connection that makes up my brain, and diffuse in my mind luminescence. Books alter the processes of my thinking, so that every contemplation and reverie that occur, pass through the words that I have read in a modified and transformed state.