And Again, Tomorrow

If rain were desire
and my mind the clouds
I could feed the rivers, streaming,
and if the trees and grass were need, they would not be wanting

if my mouth lay still as the sidewalks and smooth ground does, we would all be drowned
But you, dry and warm,
could not know the weight of it all.
You, neatly hidden, 
could not know the rain.

Turn

Autumn was a feeling that we just couldn't shake

Autumn was a leaf holding on too tight,

And fading with the green surrounding

What it needed couldn't be seen

What it wanted was to not need

So it fell away with the will of time,

and with it so did we.

How perfect we could be:
Loveless and free.

Honey

Soft eyes in the morning
Heavy arms resting still
Your grey hairs and smile: honest
Stirring as the day unfurled

Now the mornings ache
and the nights they moan
Too bright, then too dark
Two empty spaces, blank and then cold

The leaves are turning back into dirt
With them my heart falls still
Footprints and memories
Less than an echo, you're an empty space to be filled.

Only

Sinking with the sun
Fading with the sky
Filling with stillness
Turning with the shadows
Breathing in the electric lights
Pressing against these sidewalks
Wishing for fewer steps
and more rain.

Worries and Wishes

Come set your tangled head down
Let my hands cover your wanderin' eyes
Come lay down beside me
Lets not say goodbye

Tomorrow could be better
Tomorrow could be the same
Tonight let go of your sorrows
and I will let go of my shame

Come here darlin'
Please come my way
I'll shake the cold out of your clothes
If you could make up your mind to stay

It's time to stop your worrying
and time for me to stop wishing too
The night can be such a long time
Like the worst movie to sit through

I know there isn't a good ending here
No matter how we hold on
When two hearts have always been broken
There is no way to be but gone

Come set your tangled head down
Let my hands cover your wonderin' eyes
Come lay beside me
and lets not say our goodbyes.

102

Light flashing yellow, orange, then red
Shining through leaves changing,
Against a green wall unmoving,
Into eyes softly shifting

Dust between boards
Paced back and forth across
Shedding what was lost
What was not known, so not forgot

Eyes fading from blue to brown,
Eyes fading from brown to honey,
From honey to green
Haunted by a place somewhere in between

Thoughts caught in the cracks
With hands clasped to nothing
How many have sunk into this room, still spinning?
How many will leave this room, still aching?

All the time it takes for a night to pass
And a lifetime grows as the day comes down

Strangeness in Reflections

I am not sure what to think of myself anymore. Today I opened up my portfolio, full of the past and my life as an artist. Or rather, the time when I thought of myself as this. I suppose I still do think of myself as this, at least when I am feeling wishful. I haven't created something that reflected back at me for nearly 4 years. It seems everything I have made as of late have been silly things that I don't take seriously and thus remain continuous and I unfulfilled.

I wonder if it is just me that has resulted in this out come, or if many of my peers have ended up the same. I think of the people I respected as artists and I can't tell if they are the same as I or if they are still trying. My whole human life before art school was filled with forming my identity as an artist, and in my life after art school I have become fearful of being so. Maybe it was how I broke into pieces, maybe I just lost that piece when I was reassembling myself. Maybe I am just so scared of falling back into those pieces. When I think back on me making anything all I can recall is that gnawing feeling at the pit of my heart, that feeling that turns roaring as you work on something. It's that need to get what is inside of you out so you can see it more clearly, but that thing inside of you just gets caught somewhere at the back of your throat, just tickling the beginnings of your tongue, just stuck there. I have never completed a single piece, I have always stopped right before its end. Everything I have made is just suspended in time by fear. Most of who I am is the same.

I still feel the need to make, to turn myself inside out. Maybe that is what an artist is. I really don't know. I know a part of me has died, or maybe is just sleeping. I know that without that part I can't be certain of what is real and what isn't. I know I am more alone because of this part being dormant. I know that I am in no way less of myself because of it, but I am often mistaken in thinking this is not me at all.

When I boiled it all down to nothing the same damn pot was on my stove.