Walking Catalyst

The swing of things seem to be unbalanced once again. It teeters and veers in all directions, and the thread keeps slipping through my fingers. What joy it was to have the balance. I should have known it was only momentary. I've grown used to this, like the ocean in my ears. I know I will find the sweet balance again, I always seem to stumble upon it. But as always in a perpetual cycle, I will lose it once more. I'm beginning to realize that this is just the way it works, something definite; hardware: each corresponding piece has a specific function. But I feel that all this can be repaired with a more trying heart, a patient one too. I'm the catalyst in this.

Caravan

Newborns
sealed eyes
and putty minds
trapped sand in glass
liquid gold droplets
leaps and merriment
unbeknownst of time
wisps, vines
the mass entangled
"society"
acceptable is fraud
searching for solidity
in this stolen ground
we lay way ashes
battered by falsity
over time
bones wither
and the countryside
oh, the countryside
we all find homes
under daisies

"And in this moment, I am happy."

Constance at last. A fine hum. Touch is soft like spring petals. Nervous spaces like fuzzy televisions. The haze is most beautiful and I only wish that this state can last. I will make it so because I've found this graceful medium among the spikey brambles. I had trudged through the acid foliage to find what I now know.

I am, I was.

It's a startling feeling when adulthood gets a grasp on you. I can only describe it as waking up from a very deep illusion. I look back on my youth and do not regret leaving it behind. I only regret losing the childish spirit- so free and alive. I am at the start of my adulthood climb and I am content with its hold. These memories that I create with the people I now know are the ones that I will keep dearest to me. I tied a balloon on those adolescent memories and set them free to the bluey skies- for I have finally found happiness.

Lost Muse *Reward if found*

I'm finding it difficult to come up with something to write on these blank pages. I've noticed that most of my writing comes from raw emotion. That is when my fingers fly and words come easy. Could it be that everything is going so right that the turmoil I need to fuel my words is no longer available? Bittersweet, I'd say. I am the student and the teacher now. It is necessary to teach myself how to create without that turmoil. A very possible task, but one not so effortless.

Transition

I loved the days lost in the wild. A wooden sanctuary: opened up it's glorious gates for the temporary escape from a trivial life. My animated acrylic painting. Green parcels with historic faces amounted to the bark on the pine trees. No government tyrants breathing down necks as check after endless check was written. That suburbia wasteland . . . what a headache it is. Minnesota: there is only song. From the whistle of the trees to the hum of the earth. Boundless freedom. The feel of it in my fibers. Thrown back into civilization- cast into the same ridiculous routine. I look through enlightened vision and see the sad blindness of others. Though highly advanced, we still think with barbaric thoughts. If it's not wealth, it's fame or beauty. Greed is the perpetual force that fuels any action or thought. There will come a day when it will finally consume us. My presence will be gone before that happens.