simple truths

Escape, or even just a moments relief from the insanity, that can at times be our lives, is necessary. Some people drink to escape, some people smoke to escape, others may never escape and instead inprison themselves in the torturous doldrums of everday life. Others find healthy ways to break from the chaos, or monotony, and find bliss in a peaceful moment. Calgon had it right...Take me Away! Even if it's just to the bathtub for a warm moment of solitude. The muslims might have a good thing going with their three prayers a day- imagine ~ no matter what crazy shit was happening, three times a day you pull out your rug and just pray ~  A cup of tea and a good book, a new field planted in FarmVille...whatever! Don't deny yourself the right to escape. Just don't run away too far or for too long :)

"You should be a writer." Well according to my mother I could also have been the first female president (missed that boat by about 14 yrs..lol), a lawyer, a doctor, etc. etc. She really has pushed the writing though. Buying me books on how to get books published (that book must have been easy to get published..lol), signing me up for Writers Digest magazine and bringing up a career in it every time I wrote anything more than a sentence.  Problem being, I don’t know what the hell to write about. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s not that I have no talent in it. It’s not even that I don’t have the time for it. I simply have no inspiration. Now I know a lot about a lot, but have not mastered any one thing enough to say "I’m the expert, now read my book." I have a whole plethora of opinions, but then again don’t we all.  I have my life story, which could definitely have a book written about it, but we all have our stories and to rehash it all for the sake of b

Writing doesn't change a thing It lets me scream It lets me sing but really, it doesn't change a thing Lists unchecked and charts unfilled piles of journals filled with words that can't be killed My tongue is dry and my hand is cramped I'm tired but listless and still I can't I still can't write to make a difference I still can't write to meet indifference I still can't write to make others see Because all these words were only for me My own satisfaction My own voice to sing All my living breathing words will never change a thing.

Seal the deal Close the sale Yes or No tonight sir maybes always fail Asking the questions assuming the sale Hearing the answers but maybes always fail Unlike horseshoes and handgrenades where almost sometimes count Failure is surely where maybe will surrmount So before I pack the bag and let this go Sir, I'll have to ask you for a Yes or No Yes, a no will cost you Maybe a maybe if free But without a yes from you tonight I may just have to let you be

Paved roads and planted trees Carved stones and boxed flowers Pathetic miniatures of our sun, once a god, now a cold steel mockery, line the way to our destiniation Our massive crawling sprawling race bustling together to be on time On time, in place, ready to go As if we knew of tomorrow As if the morning star would lead the way We build our plastic castles and breed our fiberglass mares We trample the unconcious earth deaf to our mother's screams the hum of our new sun has drown her out However, inside the painted portrait of we, the civilized gods in suit lies a sleepy, if not dormant beast Dreaming to ride the rythms of the tides and to sleep by the watch of god.

What does love mean to you, please explain Love is a steady rock. A promise made not with words, but through loving actions. To be that person's lightpost when lost Love is unwavering, undeniable,  and understanding It will fight for itself Even to the surprise of those  who think they can arrogantly defeat it Love is wanting for the other and their needs as much as you want for your own It is knowing the person is worth more than the point To give way for the sake of the other is love not cowardess Love is accepting you are not each other and never asking the other to become, only to be Love is always abundant, always accessible and always receptive to itself.

Damaged goods is what they call us The poor little dears of the world Twisted and molded and pounded like dough to rise and become an image  of what could have been Grasping desperately  for that small thread of security In self and in others That small thread  that will remain so elusive Always slightly discontented Not knowing for sure what others want or need  or where you'll go Maybe it's better to let go than to arrive To be and not to become Is that the question? The answer is in the final product It's not what we became, it's who we are.