Play in the Sky

Go play in the sky,
The crisp blue, adorned with the whisps of clouds.
Let's go for a swim in the sky.
We won't be too long,
Maybe.
Or maybe we'll take all day,
floating in that sky.
So many possibilities to explore and dream.
Hear the singing in the trees, quiet at first, and then it grows.
Don't you want to join it?
Go play in the sky.
The golden sun beckons us,
We won't be too long,
maybe.
We'll come right back to this Earth at the end of the day,
maybe.
Nevermind, let's just go play in the sky.
I promise to bring you back in time for dinner,
Mom won't be too upset,
and if we're a little late, then I'll explain we were just testing the water,
and boy, was it sweet as ever.
Let's go play tag with the birds.
Listen, they're calling out.
Who knows how long the sun will shine,
Is it just today, or tomorrow too?
That is exactly why we need to go now,
Go play in the sky.

Take a leap, take a chance, take another cliche or two.
As long as you'll say you will play in the sky just a little longer.
We've seen this sky before, swam in it's waters many times before.
Hours and hours, we've played in that blue.
Do you remember the time Mom scolded us for missing the first call to eat?
I told you I would cover for you, it was my fault after all,
Instead, you ran ahead, a little further still, saying,
"What's five more minutes? Who knows if the sun will be here in the morning..."
Oh her face was red, when I said,
"Sorry, we wanted to go play a little bit longer..."
No matter how mad she got, we knew it wouldn't matter, if the sun returned tomorrow,
We would back up there with it.

We spent so many long afternoons in that play ground.
The sky was our place. The hours stretched into days, and finally months.
Eventually we decided the sunsets were just as fun as the afternoon blue.
Once or twice, we took a trip around the moon and the stars.
Orion had company.

Finally the sky began to grow cold, and less and less would the birds sing in the blue.
The days grew shorter and shorter, and even the nights were too cold to invite us out.
You began to fall back to your fear of your mom. She scolded, you listened,
Suppertime was no longer the only time you left for.
No longer would you say,
"Five more minutes."

Eventually, I was the only one to go play in the sky,
Not even the birds would come out to play.
More clouds covered the sky, and soon the warm drops turned to ice.
Playing in the sky turned to,
Sitting and thinking in the sky.
Thoughts I always pushed away when you were near.
Now that you're far, these thoughts have become my only company,
And I am left alone to think them.

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I no longer play in the sky, only on the ground.
The rest of the world moves around, and sometimes I join the game.
I look to the sky from time to time and think of those days we played.

Once upon a time, I thought I saw you there,
beckoning another to go play with you.
Maybe it was a trick of my mind.
Maybe not.


To be honest, I hope it was, and that the sky is still only a place for you and me,
but if this is not the case, as well may be,
Then fine.
I'll retreat back into my memories.
And let you live your life as you will, sharing the sky with another.
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Time to go play in the sky.
Time for a swim in the sky.
Just me and the birds,
Feel the sun on my face, warm the air around.
I'll be back in time for dinner,
Maybe.
Though, don't be shocked if I ask for just five more minutes.
When I'm scolded, I'll simply say,
I wanted five more minutes in my sky,
Be happy I came back at all.

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Go play in the sky, before its too late.
The time you have is precious and short.
For who knows what tomorrow may bring.
The tides are coming in, and if you're not careful, they may sweep you away.
Maybe I'll follow the sun into another sky, leave all this behind.

The birds are calling again, they miss those days too,
So long ago.
Maybe it's time I make new memories.

Playing in another sky.

Manipulation

Life is full of contradiction.
It knows one thing,
But does another.
Life is a giant hypocrite.
It reflects the people who live it.
Do they even know truth?
These hypocrites.
Manipulators of truth.

We are the manipulators of truth.
We know all the words.
How to use them,
Change them for our purposes.
To save our hearts,
To fix another.
To get out of trouble.
Do we really think we own the truth?

Is truth for one to own?
Keep it from another.
Is it right, is it fair?
What is truth anymore?
If we change it and hide it.
Shell it out slowly,
Does that make it ours?
How can we know that it if right and fair?

Fairness is subjective.
And changes from case to case.
What is just for me,
Is it just for you.
Are just and fair the same?
Does this make me a manipulator of words.
Of truth?

Or simply human.
Trying to live my life as everyone else.
Is my truth the same as yours?
Do I hide behind half-truths and lies?
Or lay it all out there?


We are the manipulators of words and truth.

His name is George

So, the other day I flew to the moon, and saw something no one would ever have expected. Instead of rocks and sand and that ratty old flag, there was treasure too amazing to behold.
It's a conspiracy the guys from NASA keep spewing at us.
There are colors everyhere, and the music is so fine. If only I could find its source.
But for the time I was there, it didn't matter.
I was happy to simply be there.
And there is a man on the moon.
He's pretty cool. We fished for stars in the sky.
Had some pretty kick-ass cheese too. He had the most rad stories about Orion and his dogs.
I only wish I could have brought a friend or two to share in the majesty.
I was kind of sad when I had to leave.


Think you'd want to join next time?

Oh well, back to my dreams.

Rain Will Make the Flowers Grow

She escapes to her own reality
Greens reds purples cerulean
Everywhere she turns there's color
Bursting
Free
She loves this place
Her garden
Oasis
To spend hours tending to it
To escape the reality of grey

Outside it there is no rain
Only clouds
Menacing clouds
Threatening to flood the world
Wash out the lives
Instead of complying however
They just hang there
Teasing them
The people below dread the rain
The storm those clouds promise
But do not deliver

It is the fear of the danger
Not the danger itself
Gods are taunting the dwellers below them
Will they be struck by lightning and hail this day
Or next
Or never

Is it worse that it may never rain at all
Outside her garden
These poor creatures may never see the colors
Die without knowing the joy the blossoms can bring
The joy rain brings
Instead they dread the pain the storm may bring
So the gods take delight in their fear
And only threaten

PDBAZ

We are a generation of followers.

So many before us had been thinkers.

Real thinkers of their days.

Without the internet to answer their questions.

Mathematicians, writers, scientists, poets, painters, philosophers.

Unfortunately, the human race has been so full of thinkers

before our time,

That we youth do not really need to be thinkers.

Or at least that has been what we were taught.

Have a question,

Look it up on Google®, Yahoo®, Wiki ®...

You do not even have to sit and come up with possible solutions.

Graphing calculators are an honors student's best friend.

Even universities seem to discourage independent thought.

Large lecture halls specifically designed for long winded monologues.

Students copy only what the professor has to say.

You'd be lucky to have discussion at all.

Arguments and counter arguments must all be supported by another's idea.

Do not tell me you actually came up with that on your own.

There is no original thought anymore.

Yes, knowledge is free for everyone, or it should be,

but this knowledge is no longer worked for.

I am just a copy.

The clothes I wear.

The thoughts I think.

The silly bandz® on my wrist.

The Bat Signal® on my shirt.

The polish on my hands and feet.

The "style" of my hair.

The phone buzzing on my lap.

The ska blaring from my mac's speakers.

My joys, my angsts.

The Mt. Dew® on its way down my throat.

My beliefs were ultimately thought of by countless others.

I just kind of picked through them.

I am no leader of some revolution.

I am no independent thinker.

I am just a carbon copy of my Generation Y.

I go to university for a degree that will allow me to teach children.

Teach them to be just like their fellow students.

With the hope that they might break the mould.

I would like to think my stepdad is spending thousands of dollars

So that I may learn to teach children to be different.

Full of knowledge and wisdom beyond their years.

Here's hoping...

It certainly did not work in my case.

I am apathetic.

I do not watch the news unless my parents do.

I do not have a job.

I do not really know how to take care of myself when sick...

except to sleep.

I do not read the dictionary for fun.

Or willingly play Scrabble®.

I gave up on my saxophone after senior year at WGHS.

I never paint anymore.

I run from math.

Political discussion bore me.

I only enjoy philosophical discussions when half asleep.

I have a 3.5 GPA

But I do not feel any smarter.

More knowledgeable.

I can just barely name all of the states, most of their capitals,

and if lucky, their placement on a map.

I am utterly ordinary.

A copy of my generation.

And a poor one at that.

Sorry.

PDBAZ.

I'll try...

But, well...let's see how that works out.

Jellies Just Sort of GO

I like how you jellyfish just go.

Bloop bloop bloop.

No minds of your own.

You simply exist.

Food comes to you.

Transportation is free.

You have managed to survive all these years.

Can you imagine that?

Spending your time floating around.

The current takes you where ever it wants.

Food just comes to you.

Gets stuck in your tenticles.

No effort on your part.

You just exist.

While all the rest of the ocean dies,

You live on.

You exist.

Floating in the currents.

Being swept away.

But you know no different.

This never affects you.

Hell, if your lucky,

You can live for eternity,

So long as the elements don't get you first.

There's the catch, eh?

To have the power to exist forever,

Without protection at each begining

Of the cycle.

Oh, did you not know?

The only way for you to live forever

Is for you to turn back time,

Become a polyp

Over and over and over.

Eventually disease may claim you,

If the predators don't first.

But, what does it matter,

You simply exist.

No worries.

No cares.

Food comes to you.

Natural elements take you where

You need to be.

As if you needed to be anywhere.

Remember, you just exist.

You just sort of

Go.

I like that about you.

You just go.

Existing.

My roommate also says you guys taste pretty good.

Go figure.

Am I Lovely?

What does it mean to be lovely and desired?

To be noticed and cherished?

To be wanted and sought after?

To be beautiful.

To act beautiful.

To sound

To look

To feel beautiful.

Lovely is not just a word to be tossed around.

Just as Love is not to be thrown around

Lightly.

When I say "I love you,"

I mean to say,

"I. Love. You."

There is something about you that I find beautiful.

There is a trait or several that I find lovely

Or handsome, as it were.

Every person has something that is beautiful about him or her.

Something that is desired.

Wanted. Needed.

Unfortunately, we use the phrase "I love you"

For everything,

Especially if there is no meaning behind it.

When there is no truth in it,

If the phrase is rejected,

It does not hurt so badly.

If it is accepted,

Whoopie, what was there to accept,

Without meaning and truth behind it?

It is because of this,

That we do not feel as beautiful.

We've lost the meaning of love and beauty.

What it means to feel truly compassionate

And to notice all forms of beauty.

So, dear friends.

Please try and understand,

I find that this is an atrocity,

That love and beauty have lost their meaning.

Therefore know, that if I say,

"I love you,"

and "I think you're beautiful,"

There is no lie behind those words.

So to answer the first question of this note,

"Am I lovely?"

In all respects, to everyone,

Yes,

I am lovely.

You are lovely.

To be noticed, desired, and cherished

Is our ultimate goal,

And if it is to be accomplished,

We must put meaning back into

Beauty and love.

Red, the Color of Desire

there is no such thing as good and evil

nothing at all

only desire

for power love food acception affection comfort

all we ever want

spelled out in six letters

human beings want

need

fight for it

good and evil are only ideas

words used to describe passion

or lack thereof

one could even say it is all just

relative

whatever it is

it truly cannot be evil

or good

only desired

or discarded

i do know that it is passion

and fire

or apathy

and ice

what i want

what you want

rarely match

but this is not evil

nor is it good

this is life

beauty and wretcehdness

perfection and imperfection

this is relative

to the moment time thought need

desire

we desire relativity

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just as i desire punctuation captilization

and complete thoughts

yet i denied myself all of these things

to make a point

or to just be lazy

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie

She was a slave to her kitchen. To her oven. To the cookies that had to be made. It's not like she had any particular reason to bake them. There was not a family of four small children that she had to provide money to support, nor was she a a baker who depended on the sales of marvelous items everyday.

No, she simply baked because she liked to. She was a woman who lived alone in a house with a fabulous kitchen. She had one German shepherd named Phineas and one goldfish named Merlin. And she was, well, content. Not exceedingly happy, but not devastatingly depressed either. It's true that baking her cookies had made her smile light up like the fourth of July, while burning them made her heart metaphorically break, as if there was any other way for a heart to break, unless it was stabbed, and then it wouldn't really break. Baking the cookies was her life, and not just any kind of cookie, but chocolate chip cookies. Sure, she COULD bake spritz and pumpkin, sugar and gingerbread, but only if forced. She really just wanted chocolate chip. Simple, dependable. Easy fix.

It's true that she had been so accustomed to the baking of chocolate chip cookies, she began dividing her life into nine to eleven minute segments. Eleven if she liked the people in the moment. Nine if she didn't. She had these times pegged to the nano second. Never would she spend less than nine minutes with a person or by doing any particular activity, nor would she exceed eleven, and that was rare. Eleven was pushing it. Eleven was burning. Similar to altitude in the air from sea level and condition of the oven for baking, altitude of interest dictates length of discussion. But only with a margin of two minutes.

She is a slave to her kitchen.

To time.

To cookies.

Beep.

Times up.

Your initial nine re through, and she's bored with you.

Where's that glass of milk.

What the Beauty is

Who decides what is beautiful and good?

We do.

We give meaning to even the smallest things,

Call them beauty, disgrace.

When our actions match our minds, words,

There is true beauty.

Illusion happens first,

Confusion arises between what we think is good

and what we know is bad.

This is when we call everything beautiful.

Or ugly.

There is no in-between.

Nothing is anything,

And today, we are alright with that.

Because that is all we know.

After illusion, there is exploration.

We pick and choose our battles,

Decide what we need, and what we desire.

Uncover what hurts us.

Play with it for a while.

Dissect everything.

Throw it against a wall,

Does it shatter?

Is it whole?

Through exploration, comes discovery.

We celebrate in our joys,

Horde what is good

Take pain in what hurts us,

Cast aside what is evil,

(though often pick it up if desirable)

And try to understand.

Only after we really understand

And work for what is true

In what we see and know,

Through our faith, minds, and love,

Is there Beauty.

Winter Rainbow for Kristin

I love the way those beams hit the crystals

The light bounces in every direction

There are rainbows everywhere,

The colors are inexscapingly beautiful.

The sky above is blue as a robin's egg,

With white as pure as a bride's gown.

Birds fly around, waiting,

As if in anticipation of what's to come.

All that's around is just a preview for the

Beauty that is yet to come.

You can feel it in your bones, your heart.

But, for just a little while longer,

This winter yells at you to hold on just a bit,

It says,"I have treasure, I have adventure,

I have beauty beyond compare."

And I must agree, dear Winter,

You do have adventure, you do have treasure,

You do have a beauty for which I am lost for words...

But what is yet to come is so utterly exciting and

Wonderful, I can hardly contain my breath.

I am sorry Winter, but I often forget the treasures

That you offer me everyday,

But if you only understood.

The Birds, Sky, the Sun,

My skin, these all long for a warmth that cannot

Be found in you.

But I understand time, and the way things must be,

And so, I accpet you, and will accept your beauty,

And give you joy and wonder,

An adventurous spirit, and loving heart.

An appreciative soul.

A glowing smile.

Pickles.

The Higher Power and the Labyrinth

One does not need to hit rock bottom in order to find their "higher power."

Before life was made to die, rather than enjoy.

Suffering was the labyrinth, not life or death.

She escaped the labyrinth straight and fast,

Whether she had meant to or not,

Right into an oncoming police car.

This labyrinth is not meant to be awful,

Terrible, harsh, and cold.

It is simply what it is.

You can take it as a prison, and feel disgustingly awful to yourself

And others for eighty or twelve years,

Or anything in between.

Or, you could enjoy it, see it as an adventure

With its joy and sadness in turn.

The day may be dark, the morrow is bright.

This world is not broken,

Its inhabitants are, and whether through God's grace,

Or their own, they will find contentment.

Not everyone will agree on one belief in a supernatural being.

Not everyone will even believe in an all-encompassing idea.

But we must believe something.

For it is in our nature, to question, search, joy.

In our own time and place.

I believe what I believe.

Which is love and acceptance.

Searching for truth and justice with a side of ridiculous enjoyment.

You believe what you believe.

We'll discuss and debate, but not force one another,

For the sake of our souls or bodies.

As to that labyrinth, I believe it is exsistence,

We do not escape or merely endure.

We venture, and question, explore.

Express and joy.

Bring this day hope and color,

And a new turn in the maze.

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A lot of the ideas presented in this came from reading and contemplating one of my favorite books, Looking for Alaska, by John Green, and reading The Higher Power of Lucky, of which I enjoyed the themes presented more than the writing itself.

Take from this what you will.

The labyrinth mentioned is from the last words of Simon Boliviar, and presented in Green's text.

Higher power is obviously from HP of Lucky.

Read a bunch, contemplate, enjoy.