Come August Come

As soon as August hits, an experiment will begin. I'm going to attempt a month without television, and if it goes well, more. I originally wanted to pledge a year without it, but figured I will start small and see what benefits it will produce. I cannot remember the amount, but there is a statistic that reports how much more an individual will spend in ratio to how many hours of television they watch in a day. Sitting in front of the box, lifeless and brain-dead, we exist there only to soak in influential dribble while we are convince we are not cool enough, good-looking enough, in-shape enough, rich enough, so on and so on. What if I can go an extended period of time without a messed-up pop culture shaping me into someone who cannot find happiness? What alternate activities will consume my time? I'm thankful that I already spend very little time watching television as there is little on that is worth my time (Good-bye LOST), but cutting that bit of my evening out will surely only benefit me. For awhile, I have desired to live in a time when all that would concern me is that I had bread for my stomach. Forget everything about our culture that needs to look good on the outside to feel anything. Give me a stick, a line, and a lure and let me catch a single fish for a day's meal and I will be content. I would at least feel alive. Eagerly awaiting August.

Green Grass

Green grass withered with ease, upon the neglect of weary hands.

God, it seems to beg with plea's, to richly meet your strong demands.

It tries and tries so faithfully, but brown becomes its color depleted.

For under nature's spell so devilishly, hope's bright hues have only retreated.

Now the grass turned brown and cold, will die with each passing night.

For who shall render with hands so bold, a reversal of nature through arduous might.

It is I who gather the grass in hand, and whisper sweetly what words I know.

But my flesh, icy and callous-bland, cannot convince the grass to grow.

So gone is green as brown ensues, reaching towards its unfit rest.

And it is I who pay the required dues, as decay consumes what has been left.

My

not really sure if any of these flow together. i wrote them all on separate occasions with the same basic premise, only with different directions. perhaps more will follow.

My head is cool but my hands remain unsteady; testament of betrayal. My inconsistent tendencies will soon by my end. I do not wish to delay the coming of unparalleled beauty, but the weight of strings retracts misinformed steps. Let it be. My head is cool, my hands are steady, but my heart will not comply.

My silent heart waited anxiously for a reply, as if implying I was somehow worthy of such enlightenment. What does it take for a man to comprehend his place, both in this world and within himself? A separation, a tear from Providence. My silent heart received its reply, when at last it knew its place.

My feet shuffle forward despite a reluctance that resides deep within them. They do not understand what they have been burdened with or why; it is merely enough for one foot to be ahead of the other. A weighted step remains a step. Perhaps someday they will find rest from their toil; albeit the heart passes with assured confidence.

Sunburn

The skin on my shoulder is peeling. A layer of skin, fresh and raw, has surfaced amidst the shedding of what has been burned and destroyed. It's preceding layer gave the best it could, holding out with its well-intentioned failings, withstanding the barrage of strikes it could not turn back. Who has left this vulnerable organ to such disarray? Who, with disregard for one of its members, has turned its back to passive aggressors? It is the one who must guard the newborn layer with precaution, as the seasoned veteran has left under his disregard. A second chance, with remembrance, will intend to alter his altercations, preserving the skin he has left.

I was bored and felt like typing something. The rolls of skin coming off my shoulder was all I had to write about apparently. Been a slow day maybe?

The Corner

A corner withholding, a man to start

Will open his eyes, his soul and heart

With glass reflecting a compromised gaze

“Stay inside,” it says, “And count your days.”

Panes ill-equipped will provide still light

Turning his eyes, a diverted fight.

They rest silent, aging upon his shoulder

For through them, behind him, eyes grow older.

That candle-lit corner, aglow with earnest ardor,

Awakens recessed blood, now thicker than water.

His grasp encompasses boiling lead,

Fulfilling panes through words unsaid.

With pen he'll purge what tongue cannot,

Expelling sprites no longer sought.

And where page and print have merged to one,

His fingers unveil what hands have done.

The window again addresses soulful eyes,

“Venture out,” it says, “And lift absconded skies.”

With catalyst enlisted, his gaze turns out,

For his corner has retired, paired with his doubt.

And now that corner, empty of his wanderings

Awaits sure corrosion and failings.

For he is absent, carried out by purposed feet

And inch by storied inch, his steps outrun defeat.