some thoughts...

worlds are precious. this is what carl sagan says in cosmos. that the chance of you being born in ‘a’ world is very tiny as opposed to you being born in the cold, vast, black, nothingness that surrounds us. worlds are precious. your world is precious and so is mine. the oceans of knowledge call us to dip our toes in the lights we see from the beacon below. we are lost somewhere between immensity and eternity, fighting demons that would devour us if we let them. what is it, to be human? who gives you the right to say, we live in a typical world. what is typical? typical is the black nothingness. typical is not life, it’s not world, it’s not habitation. we are blessed to think that our home is typical. we are privileged to say, we can understand the physics that governs our life. that is to be human. to be privileged of the power of understanding. how dare you complain about petty things when you are the most privileged species we know of? how dare you insult the Cosmos?

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lamentations of a mad man

there are words that inspire within us the purest emotions. you think, how is it possible for man to create something so soulful that it begs its listeners to be honest. you speak of justice, of oaths on bibles and on your dead mother’s grave. be honest. that’s all you want. silly how we seem to be going about it the wrong way. bibles and dead mothers mean nothing to the liars. you want honesty? show a man the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written and you get honesty. your words are lamentations inspired by Muses, and i bare my soul to you. i rip apart all that gets in the way of your eyes and my most honest place. that is what Art means. it makes you feel and it demands your honesty. that is what i am trying to do here. being honest, even if it kills me.

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Wake up, wake your soul up before your cursed thoughts stop you from taking your next breath. Words my mama whispered to me before she wiped away my tears. She would kiss the hurt away. I would think, it’s unsanitary. She would say, she has super powers-she’s immune from my hurts. My pain was ephemeral, she knew it. But she had this way about her, she wouldn’t let me feel small. There are mornings when I wake up, wanting to kiss the butterflies and paint the balcony in hues of purple and orange. We want to succeed. Who wants to fail? But you keep me grounded. Her voice quivers when my name escapes her lips. There’s a lisp in her emotions. They’re imperfect. She feels too much for too many. I think, that’s the place that holds all the courage in the world. I want to tell the lion from Oz to talk to my mama. She makes people strong. 

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the sounds my mind makes at this hour while begging to burn like the cigarette smoke reminds me of acid being splashed on the skin-the hiss of the burn, the chemical reactions that destroy your clay. my god, what beauty. what a terrible beauty life is. your carcass burns away with the nicotine. the fallen angels take you under their wings-they know what it is like to disappoint. peel your skin like a grape, your emotions are on display. what do you know of unrequited love? it burns brighter than Sirius. it’s painful. satan begs you to burn in hell, in hopes of eradicating the pain from this kind of love. this anguish, this suffering, that turns you into Icarus. you cannot help but be burned by the sun.