when you can't escape your destination

this poem was assembled in my head over the course of a week or so. i had been thinking a lot about art, in all of its forms, and wondering about the state of our common plight. as people make things, i think it is important for us to remember why those things were made. when art loses its genuine nature and humble candor it becomes a mockery of what it is intended to be. it is no easy question of philosophy or integrity, i know, but i don't think it is too much for us all to give a level of deference to the crafts we use to make ourselves human.

when you can't escape your destination

seeing familiar names  

in a story never helps  

when surrounded by strangers

 all voices are new

and unnerving; it's true

 

it's why we

talk to ourselves

it's

why i misplace

facial expressions and

save loose change 

(because i don't know what i'm doing)

because i need

sounds i can count

 

rhythms that resound and implore me to

write a song about no one 

(and play it like it's for everyone)

hum melodies and lie to myself humbly

like the headliners who are stuck at home

smile for the camera-shy and

fill the blanks with modulations 

hoping to bless integrity with tactful wings

just by singing to unknowns or pestering those closest

or maybe i'll listen only

to the background noise for our

performance on strings,

(rusting hinges in all our joints)

like little dolls made to look happy

focus (or lack thereof)

i often sit, as i always blabber-on about, in a room by myself, reading or listening to music--things like that; but i also spend a lot of time wandering in my head. the walls i leave mostly blank for this reason. i enjoy staring at a wall and letting it put the empty space in my mind that i need to facilitate my meanderings--it brings me a relaxation that is paralleled by few things. 

now, this is not to be mistaken for some traditional sort of meditation; where one would seek to clear their mind of all thoughts in order to properly meditate, i would rather catch every loose thought and throw it in to a basket that i can set aflame--breathing in smoke is also something i enjoy. 

and speaking of breathing... this piece was inspired by the action of sitting and trying to take deep breaths to calm my nerves; though it doesn't always work, it is a great excuse to not move much for a while. i enjoy not moving, as well.

focus (or lack thereof)

people make better
  statues than puppets

really-
  if we could catch
 clouds in our mouths
at least our whispers would
   live up to their namesake; but

instead our sighs rise like smoke-
  taking obvious answers to a height
       that belies their origin

while we remain
    framed in pictures
 covered in ash that don't talk about anything
   no matter how well they float (or flail)

it's all the fault of the air-
  but we never complain while inhaling

we spoil the sky, the 
  oxygen with our weak lungs
and we expect to breathe wantonly
      until our last gasp
(and we'll try without meaning to)

we'll never fly without assistance
  but it will become a more 
comfortable fall every time we lighten our heads-

the atmosphere assures it:
  it thins itself out; mocking our
 smiles that are forced into place
       (mostly) by the wind