Why Write?

Write because it subjects your mind to the beautiful
Write because it is freedom
Write because you can connect to others
Write because it is a war you need to win in between you and time
Write because it can last much longer than you.
Write because writing enlightens the enlightened.

My Brother and I

Going up to the counter at the store
and being oh so small evermore.
The laughter contorts my face
all over and under the place
A fort- grandiose and large-
we would pretend it was a barge
or a spaceship flying to the stars,
no thoughts or scars
my brother and I.

Saving the world-
Our capes unfurled
held to us by clothespins,
in my age everyone wins.
The capes gave us the power to do nothing and everything
Our capes gave us a theme song we used to sing.

Playing Gameboy under a blanket fort-
Our parents eyes we would secretly thwart.
our capes flying in the fan-
we had the biggest wingspan,
my brother and I.

The Mountains of Sound

The Mountains, a happenstance of collision 

abjectly placed on the frontier-

Like a jarring drum,

a heart's strum

a note misplaced-

a terror not faced

instead, a beautiful explosion from the earth,

making its way out of the dearth.

Embolden

I feel, finally
Then the note strikes me
I feel somewhat larger than myself
I am a great light
with the burden of the feel
and I scream like the sun.

A Non-Sensical

Bofroggle of undertangle

austanch of newfangle

a hop, a scop,

and a wobbly-flop

flowery, towery

inter soury

and a splong.

The light. its too much.

 this is normal, actually probably not anywhere else besides the mitchell residence.

Eternal

Twelve circles

going round

each felling a giant.

And, 

in their own,

Turning Blue

in the new

circle

and the green is circling.

So different

My fingers shivering -
others thoughts delivering-
They all scream the individual soul,
and I am finally whole-
I awake.

Doubting my Lines.

I often wonder why the erasers on pencils are so small
The graphite scratches wrong
(was it me?)
a misplaced line infinitely long.
and I turn the pencil over in apprehension
(of what you ask?)
the thing I can barely bear to mention.
That my eraser is fading slowly
(will it be there next?)
and the thing that makes things holy,
perfect in fact,
(are they perfect after it truly?)
but the paper is cracked.
Lines etched in doubt.
and a fading eraser.

Yes.

 Be Grateful for EVERYTHING! 

when I think about all the things I am grateful for-I am blown away. 

SO MUCH.

SOOOOOOOO MUCH!!!!!

A dream within.

My eyes, blinking out the sunlight, dream otherworldly things

And my ears hear as the creature in me sings

A melody almost lost in the world.

My flag left unfurled-

but only in a dream.

My dream of a dream, it may seem,

To have significance unseen.

But my true self shows, hopeful and clean

In that dream of a dream.

My imagination’s creation

stirs the nation.

Inside of me lies what I have always wanted to want

But deeper than that, because my brain, seems to taunt,

Taunt me with underlying significance streaming.

In fact sometimes I forget I’m dreaming-

In this dream of a dream.

The edge of my reality is shattered

Not that it really actually mattered.

Instead my rules are broken

Without a word spoken

In this dream of a dream.

The truths of life and gravity

have no place with me

at least not anymore,

and I have no idea what I have in store.

in this dream of a dream. 

My Dream Room

“Generate” I tell my brain in me. I do not utter the word, but I do. My eyes fluttering off to sleep, I am slow embodied in a single moment. The grandfather clock against the wall’s arms slows down with effervescent tics. It is silently, but loudly drifting me to sleep. The eyes in me open.

In a room

That I

CREATED.

The light is warm and modern, and it fills the room with ethereal melody. My theme plays- the one I have not discovered yet, but have before. I sit on a worn rocking chair, the thought of sleeping gone. The architecture in the room reminds me of my own style, much more enclosed, almost hugging me in its warm embrace. The warm ceiling curves down to touch the ground with walls of the past. Cutouts from magazines line the walls, and memories drawn by a lifetime stream past. Fashioned out of paper, my creations line the shelves next to the ceiling. I am home, finally. It is where I spend almost half of my life. On the ground around me are bottles of ink, collections of feathers, and stacks of yellowed paper. Thick and deep, the paper is enough to carry my ink and stories. I look over to see the wastepaper bin- completely empty except for a couple of scraps. I don’t ever throw anything away, it all too important. Across the room- directly at the vantage point of my vision is a door with a golden handle. This is the door where all my dreams come true. Then I stand, memories accosting me with bliss understanding. I know where I am now.  I am in my dream room. Next to the door lies an infinite cabinet, made out of mahogany. I open the drawer of my understanding and imagination. It is stacked full of paper, all written on with perfect cursive. The loops are mine. I pull a stack of the paper out and lay it down on the floor in full arrangement around me. This is a story I wrote, a dream I have not lived yet. The plot gives me goose bumps, and I shiver. It is beautiful, but I wonder what I am supposed to do with it. FLASH. The memories of thousands of times I have done it rush back. I clasp the papers in my anticipating hand and grasp the golden handle of the door. The papers in my hand rustle-a living, tangible dream. I turn the knob and open the door to the wind behind. It is pitch black. Nothing exists on the other side, at least not yet.   I throw the papers to the wind. I see the world behind the dream morph into something drastic. I shut the door behind me and walk into a new world-my dream.

New Bounds

Breathe in and out

and open your closed eyes.

Holding them shut will not stop the world.

Open up inside,

Holding your feelings

will NOT stop you from feeling them

Do not be afraid, 

fear is nature's invigorator- 

and it will not stop you from believing 

Look at the lines-

the bounds of common man-

and pass over them

Skip across.

A Short

Still holding on now

I don't know if I can keep it

But I try to stay.

 Baseball gloves and a bike. win.

 a blur with smiles all around.

 a vacuum and a thought.

 Kristina with her ethereal goodness

 fixing the cuff.

 and for the best one.

The word and the Man

A Man holds his ears shut in anticipation of the word

he 

hates it. 

DESPISES IT.

Crawls in a corner to try- try to escape it

his heart doing backflips.

his huddled, shivering form in denial-

denial of a single word

the word he hates?

it

is 

CHANGE.