Month: January 2014

Early Bird Bookmarked

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We will be re-read into a New Life
But no one
Not even ourselves
Will recognize us
Nor will we remember
But only kind words
Can help us
Transport us onto Pages
This is who you are!
Can I take the past words from the old life, to New
Can I mark my last story while I’m picking and choosing?
It would not be painful
If it wasn’t for re-surfacing memories
Those memories tied, buoying
Above the surface with such
Persistence, it’s annoying
We are all trapped in some story
Forging through the library of Life, Good Deeds, and Dying
So in a rush to end the next chapter
We forget to enjoy the journey
Early bird bookmarked, right mid center
Trying to get ahead of a story not too keen to finish
Of a story not too knowledgeable of
Taking our minds for a walk down
Roads of letters and print
Wishing we could fly across them
With speed and Accuracy!
We are so ignorant of why there are stories
So ignorant of pain that grueling Red Herring
So ignorant of happiness that dish best, left Cold
Bombarded by the thought of turning another page
Makes us anxious
Let’s get it over with! This part is so long!
Am I living the wrong story?
Re-read into a story not of my own?
Am I two chapters in or two out?
Do I even here, belong?
I feel my heart is made of so many messed up
Mixed up pages
Scattered, unedited, needing a revision
Early bird bookmarked, right mid center

Unkempt Mind

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“You will be haunted […] by Three Spirits.”
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

There is an unkempt mind that whittles in
Seemingly innocent, but salaciously latent
Settling cool, waiting in hallways and in neurological pathways
Keeping the echo on and the lights out
A pub-like brain crawl
Animals see it, hair on end
They hiss and are alarmed
Jumpy I suppose?
This world is made of interactions
The spirit set second to what we see
Blood rain, doppelgangers, dark silhouettes
Your future held in a cup of tea, unexplained lights,
Group hallucinations, another time slip
Suspicious of anyone on a ghost hunt or psychic
Can’t believe the thought of a paranormal analyst
Seen as a philandering fringe scientist
Whose only roadblock is a scanty skeptic
But in truth all interactions are kismet
I think there is a certain line we draw
When we tell people we see things
There is a certain line we cross
When we tell people we know things
About the person, you can’t see, standing beside you
About the oranges you smell when oranges are not around
About hearing your name being spoken aloud
At odd moments of self actualization
About the visitor who’s visiting outside your dreams now
Dodging the truth—you’re a little untidy
A little insane
You are not alone and you can’t be
Your existence is of interactions
Anything beyond that is not real
But you still hesitate in darken hallways
You thought you saw something
But then again
Wearied-eyed-stress is such a mess
Your mind unkempt
Settling down
Sedentary
Sediment