Is It?

Is it too much to walk on a path of thorns

When the well-travelled road is like industrial porn

Is it wrong to refuse the shoes

When they were bought in endless queues

Is it okay to swim against the tide

Rather than accept they lied

Is it out of style to sing out loud

A different song sung by the crowd

Is it okay to be me

And remain myself and free

Is it wrong to want to be odd

When most worship the golden god

Is it too much for me to want more

Than what is churned out by the media whore

Is it okay to question the status quo

Than to drown while going with the flow.

 

 

 

 

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What ifs…part one.

If there was a way

to open the doors of time

to shuffle across a dusty floor

kicking up the ashes of memory

turn back the lost days

the hurtful ways

all the cuts that scarred

all the things that marred

in that room of time

could i bring myself

to pull back the curtains

let light shine on the dark

and change my life…

 

 

Backward.

I like to walk backwards through a life less told,

Through rooms that have cobwebs from being so old.

I look over shoulders at days left forgot,

I shake my head slowly at memories for not.

I say good-bye to people easier than most,

Remembering them as you would a ghost.

Some say I have demons that hide in the dark,

I think I show them with an impersonal mark.

I have never been true to people or me,

I prefer to never let anyone see.

The masks I wear I hang in my mind,

Always at hand and easy to find.

For a time I was free and able to share,

Like a child acting out on a dare.

But as dares go they tend to hurt,

And leave you face down in the dirt.

So I walk backwards locking some doors,

Left to die on forgotten shores.

 

Everyone Else.

To a whisper I say hello

To a wind I say follow

To a storm I say hold

To a wall I say break

To a word I say repeat

To a child I say live

To the old I say give

To a friend I give love

To an enemy I give a hug

To the lost I give the way

To the night I give the day

To myself I say…

To myself I give…

nothing.

The world.

When the world looks at me

Does it see hope

Or does it shake its  head

When the world holds out its hand

Do I reach back

Or roll over in my bed.

When rhe world is in trouble

Do run to its aid

Or hope someone else runs its way

When the world cries its salty tears

Do I comfort it with love

Or have nothing to say

When the world needs me

Do I stand in line

Or feel it’s too much

When the world needs my help

I hope I will be strong

And feel it’s gentle touch.

A whisper, A tear…

And I heard it as a whisper,

Rustled in the leaves,

A tear that came from nothing,

A moment in the breeze.

I felt the warming light,

Lost within the leaves,

Like spots of molten gold,

A shadowed golden weave.

And what did I hear in that whisper,

I barely made out the words,

I strained to listen closely,

To be sure of what i heard.

The tree was being thoughtful,

Reflecting on its years,

It saw the world in silence,

And that’s what made the tears.

For a tree does not know violence,

It doesn’t know how to hurt,

it lives beneath the sunlight,

It eats moisture from the dirt.

So when it sees the sadness,

Caused by those that hate,

All it can do is whisper,

And hope to change man’s fate.

 

 

 

Old Man.

Sometimes the old stag stood on the mountain, chest puffed up as the rain poured down. His broken antlers shining in the wet. His fur matted to his skin. He had earned every scar and every scratch. He still looked powerful even with his age. So many battles won, now just a distant scent on the wind.

If deer could feel, he felt his age. His shoulders  burned, his knee joints ached. He had struggled to climb so high, but this was his mountain, his ground to guard and as the rain fell on the old stag his knees buckled. He fell to the ground, the fast beating heart quickened slightly and then began to slow. He rolled onto his side, looking up at the dark clouds.

If deer could feel he would have been scared, or maybe he was reflecting on his many children. He helped populate the mountain and the forest below.

If a deer could smile, perhaps that old stag would be smiling as his heart slowed and the rain poured down and his heart stopped, but the rain kept coming unable to wash the scent of life off the mountain.