growing up/giving some things up

When you’re a little kid you’re a bit of everything; Scientist, Philosopher, Artist. Sometimes it seems like growing up is giving these things up one at a time.

— The Wonder Years

Advertisements

making sense of the unknown

It’s in the unknown that you thrive to dream. Build something out of nothing.  Adding little pieces that will make up the story or a society. Structures slowly gaining foundation. Though it’ll seem like a pulchritude, nevertheless, you bask in your power to control.

But you are not meant to have everything at the snap of your fingers. Beauty will always challenge you to take risk.  Paltering you for that power to control.  Eager to strip you from everything. An uneven trade for something you wanted to make real.

Regardless of the circumstances, never lose that power. You give your body. Your soul. Your heart. It’s vital to not lose sight of that power. In spite of being in the battlefield, you need to load a lot of ammunition with you. You fight for that power. Hold that tightly.

After all, you are the prime mover. Builder. Architect of that unknown that has been revealed for the world to be jealous on.

uninspired

I’m stumbling a little but still walking away. Without the guarantees, that definitive clairvoyance, it’s most reasonable to take a step forward. Move on. Progress.

You cannot repair something that is meant to be broken. Because it’ll remain a reminder. That little piece of  note you stick to your heart to keep it from settling for what is less than you deserve. Destined to provide you a ledge to hang on when you’re teetering to fall harder than you planned.

They may be unhealed wounds, but they are the primary contributor to your strength. In the end, in spite of some occasional reappearance, you grew to understand the human nature better and allowed yourself to love wiser. And it’ll all be worth it!

The First Straw | Jeffrey McDaniel

I used to think love was two people sucking
on the same straw to see whose thirst was stronger,

but then I whiffed the crushed walnuts of your nape,
traced jackals in the snow-covered tombstones of your teeth.

I used to think love was a non-stop saxophone solo
in the lungs, till I hung with you like a pair of sneakers

from a phone line, and you promised to always smell
the rose in my kerosene. I used to think love was terminal

pelvic ballet, till you let me jog beside while you pedaled
all over hell on the menstrual bicycle, your tongue

ripping through my prairie like a tornado of paper cuts.
I used to think love was an old man smashing a mirror

over his knee, till you helped me carry the barbell
of my spirit back up the stairs after my car pirouetted

in the desert. You are my history book. I used to not believe
in fairy tales till I played the dunce in sheep’s clothing

and felt how perfectly your foot fit in the glass slipper
of my ass. But then duty wrapped its phone cord

around my ankle and yanked me across the continent.
And now there are three thousand miles between the u

and s in esophagus. And being without you is like standing
at a cement-filled wall with a roll of Yugoslavian nickels

and making a wish. Some days I miss you so much
I’d jump off the roof of your office building

just to catch a glimpse of you on the way down. I wish
we could trade left eyeballs, so we could always see

what the other sees. But you’re here, I’m there,
and we have only words, a nightly phone call – one chance

to mix feelings into syllables and pour into the receiver,
hope they don’t disassemble in that calculus of wire.

And lately – with this whole war thing – the language machine
supporting it – I feel betrayed by the alphabet, like they’re

injecting strychnine into my vowels, infecting my consonants,
naming attack helicopters after shattered Indian tribes:

Apache, Blackhawk; and West Bank colonizers are settlers,
so Sharon is Davey Crockett, and Arafat: Geronimo,

and it’s the Wild West all over again. And I imagine Picasso
looking in a mirror, decorating his face in war paint,

washing his brushes in venom. And I think of Jenin
in all that rubble, and I feel like a Cyclops with two eyes,

like an anorexic with three mouths, like a scuba diver
in quicksand, like a shark with plastic vampire teeth,

like I’m the executioner’s fingernail trying to reason
with the hand. And I don’t know how to speak love

when the heart is a busted cup filling with spit and paste,
and the only sexual fantasy I have is busting

into the Pentagon with a bazooka-sized pen and blowing
open the minds of generals. And I comfort myself

with the thought that we’ll name our first child Jenin,
and her middle name will be Terezin, and we’ll teach her

how to glow in the dark, and how to swallow firecrackers,
and to never neglect the first straw; because no one

ever talks about the first straw, it’s always the last straw
that gets all the attention, but by then it’s way too late.

unexpecting faith

She’s not like that now. She knows better . She knows now that people lie , and promises can be broken as quick as they are made . She understands that she might never be loved , and too quickly good things fly in front of your eyes before you can reach out and grab them . She knows that you can’t change or help time, so every now and then it will just run out. There isn’t a place for everyone in the world, so if you’re standing alone for awhile, that’s why. Not everything in life comes easy , but when you work the hardest, that’s when it’s the best . You can’t always expect people to care, and even when your best friends stab you in the front, don’t think for one minute that they didn’t already aim for your back. They missed for a reason. She has found out to soon, that in the end, you are your own best friend . Everyone will be broken at some point in their life and more often than not , its gonna hurt like hell . But you can’t stop it. You can’t change your fate. Some things are meant to be and all the pain you go through will end up resulting in something huge . You don’t know what it is and when it happens, it will hit you like a ton of bricks. At some point, when you have experienced everything you can, the words ‘Life’ and ‘Risk’ won’t mean anything to you anymore. But don’t try and change that. Stuff like that is meant to happen. Overtime, certain things no longer have an affect on you . And that happens because that’s the way it supposed to be . But you’ll learn all that later in life when little things like a sunrise or a spring rain start to matter. But it might catch you off guard and happen sooner .

til i am in it again ♥

We often forget that if trying to find that certain someone is a tiring process, we have the right to stop. It’s often chasing what was once a vital part of our lives.

But by no means, are we allowed to deny ourselves the chance to be happy, in fear of being hurt again.

All trees grow leaves again after a cold winter, and each one of us has the chance to be happy again.

superhero grown out

Growing up we were superheroes. I wish we could be like that again, seeing the world the way nobody else could, through the eyes of an invincible 12-year-old boy. We saved millions of lives, not real ones, but ones that were close enough anyway. Growing up, we were superheroes, but now that we’re here I must say I feel fragile. I’m sortedly mortal when Ive always tried to stay out of categories. There’s only one thing to do now, that’s to prove that I’m not mortal, that I’m different enough to be a legend.

Growing up we were superheroes. Now I’m just a normal old woman training children to save the day when they’re old like me. Everybody knows that a 12-year-old is invincible but once they reach 17, they realize that it’s not just a comic book, or a video game, or a song. It’s life, and life doesn’t last long.

Growing up we were superheroes. We remember the things that happened in the past as if they were yesterday. Our superhero memory. The latent ability stored in our creaking bones is diminished but not gone because we haven’t forgotten.

Growing up we were superheroes, and now we’re just normal old men.