Puzzle pieces

The walls built to keep out the cold now close in and smother the warmth.

The doors once open now but windows through which I look out into the world as it passes me by.

I stand. Enough. The walls were never there, just barriers in the mind now no longer necessary.

I step out into the world I have seen through the eyes of one who wanted to participate yet felt unable.

Like a puzzle piece taken out of the box I search for my place, but the world is ever expanding and more pieces are added every day. The image is unknown but slowly parts come together. The corners, first, but you are the center. It may never be complete but that is the beauty. Puzzles are merely paintings pixelated in parts and once an image is complete it may, itself, only be a piece in an ever scaling tapestry woven in DNA. Each one of us contains the pieces put together from the very beginning of the Universe and not a single part is insignificant.

Everything comes together to form the present and perfect you. Without you paintings upon paintings will be left without blue skies and green grass. Like the Mona Lisa without a smile you are the key, the most quintessential part of everything that will ever be from this point on. Within you is the power to repaint the sky, fill the ocean, and shine as bright and as fiercely as the sun but you have to find within you the strength to go on when the sky darkens and rainclouds threaten to wash away everything you’ve accomplished.

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Disturbing the silence

It is the darkness Simon and Garfunkel sing of;
The steroid to my senses that creates thoughts without fences.
Like a mad horse without a saddle, my mind goes back to the battle,
And with that singsong rattle and unsolicited prattle,
The mind starts talking again.

As eyes close, vision clears, sometimes with tears
caused by the fears over the years, now, simply…
pixels on a screen placed there by machine interpreted… by you it now seems.

You may be the reason I type, but you are not the reason I write.
In my mind and in the night, such thoughts emerge with force.
These incredible and powerful feelings of such deep understanding,
stemming from the time allowed for leisure spent in mental seizure—without remorse.

This thinking hits a nerve, and the light once again takes hold.
I feel it, and behind the glasses and behind the face, it illuminates the hand.
I  value the cards, think of the bet, and fold.
Now these words, for a reason, not written in sand.

Parallel Perspective

We thought with emotions painted on paper,
Thoughts from a place devoid of structure,
Formed from disjointed views and parallel perspective,
Screaming to be heard but speaking to be ignored.

We knew the form and but not the function,
The words but not the meanings,
The sounds but not the feelings,
But this is not true.

The form was old and the function too,
And with the words, so too was true.
The sounds from our mind
Only insight of our time.

As a child looking up to the world,
We were parallel;
Not yet looking down,
But no longer gazing up.


Just to say a little about this, I just had what could very easily be described as a bad day. When I returned home, in an attempt to get my mind of what I had just been through, I cleaned my room. I am often seen by others as being unorganized, but in my own way I know where everything is. My desk is covered in useful material, all placed conveniently…see by others, my desk is covered in junk.

Anyway, as I was putting everything back where they “belong”, I came across a book. It was a compilation of poetry written by High School students from Spring 2009, and as I saw it I remembered that it was given to me because my work had been published. I took it off the shelf, sad down on the couch, and started flipping through the pages. I found mine eventually, and was shocked when I realized that I am proud of what I wrote. I was still in a bad mood, the whole drive home I had been thinking about how I had always been so naïve and continue to be, so I naturally assumed that I would cringe to read something I wrote in tenth grade.

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So many people seem to know what to do,
So many people must live in a zoo,
So many people go along with the crowd
And so many people keep falling behind.
That world is so fake.
Someone smiles
Someone laughs
And someone knows it isn’t real,
That they don’t care,
That they won’t wait one moment to walk away,
And never see you again…’til the next day.

Oliver, Grade 10

I continued to flip through the pages, and I began to see that these were the thoughts of my generation as we grew up. These were thoughts from people who have now lived for more than half of their lives in a world that felt the shock of the attacks on September 11th,  and for nearly 2/3 of their years we have been at war. Some talked of life, love, spirituality; others of loss, sadness, and angst. Mine was nothing special, simply the view of a lonely kid in a big world and a small school.

Collectively, these were the thoughts given form by those of this new generation just starting to see the world as it is.

I sat down and thought about all that I had read, and it flowed, so I decided to share it. Thoughts?

Life’s bus stop

Sailing the waters of this consciousness,
I get trapped in the doldrums of my mind.

Sitting at the bus stop on a busy city street,
Cars go by, and people too,
but here I sit with nothing to do.
A photographer has set up his camera,
He is taking a time lapse photo of a city in motion.
I sit opposite, head hung low, with nowhere to go.

As my mind starts to slow,
The scene starts to flow.
Colors come together,
And lights are long lines going on forever.

The sidewalk is full of ghostly figures,
Some sitting next to me, some walking by.
Buses come and go, people get on and off.
All this happening so slow

I sit here,
Nowhere to be,
Nowhere to go,
Nowhere needed,
Nowhere missed.

And the cars fly by,
And people too,
Each passing by,
All with such important things to do.

Time has passed,
The crowd has thinned.
Here I am.

Moment, memories

One day you look back
And you see yourself much younger

One day you look back and remember
Riding a bicycle, throwing a ball, catching a frizbee.
Next moment you look back,
Tears, sadness, and loss.
Next moment back,
Graduation.
Moment,
First year of college>
Moment,
Graduation.
Moment,
Job.
Moment,
Marriage.
Moment,
House.
Moment,
Child.
Moment,
Graduation.
Moment,
Graduation.
Moment,
Retiring.
Moment,
Marriage.
Moment,
Grandchild.
And as it all comes back,
So too the reality.
That cold and harsh
Actuality.

Moment,
Memories.

Beautiful and sad

It’s that feeling you get
As an ambulance with it’s lights on passes you.

It’s that feeling you get
When you see the flag half-mast.

It’s that feeling you get
When you turn on the news at 6.

It’s that feeling,
Where for a brief moment,
You experience a myriad of emotions.
It’s that fear, that hope, and that memory,
And they all hit you at the same moment.

And that moment passes;
It passes as fast as the ambulance,
The flutter of the wind,
And the change of a channel.

It’s that single moment,
That is so gloriously sad and the passing of something beautiful.