I drift as a silhouette. This paltry midriff rises only to thwart my cause. I am! Though, what am I really? A poet! Though I rhyme with the worst of them. A tempered Tantalus!? Though, that’s too grand a claim. In the end, I stand content to define myself by negation of those surrounding me. I’m like my father. I’ve never cared to hear or speak of that before, but I’m more content of its meaning now. The chaotic swirl of emotions that swim through our heads is overwhelming. No god could maintain such streams, though we think oppositely in that field. It’s relieving, to say the least, and I feel it might be the same for him. To know, deep down, that someone really does understand you, even if he may be thirty years my senior.  I heave steady breaths. The bottle of Pinot I have finished has made its stain, both to my lips and to my brain. The sentiment has risen, and in its rise I have understood quiet meanings I normally try to push off. What do I truly understand, though? Love. It’s embattlement’s scorned for sake of dialogue. The profound longing of the human soul. Curt nods. Soft kisses. Sweet touches amongst friends. The monologue of humanity! I’ll give you no other and please give me no more. If it does not beat the coarse reverberation of Adam, I’d rather pay it no mind.  I miss the warm embraces of trustful friends, but I realize how little I trust anyone. Everyone seems to stack so inadequately to a measurement I have found no meaning to. It’s silly really, to care so deeply only to withdraw to keep from hurting deeply. The desire abounds, nonetheless, and I find in a world with no pattern or absolute meaning that I have no clue how to satisfy it. I shift, so humans shift just the same. God seems fictional, or plays the abstain. Who to draw to? That is the question that reverberates a soft, slow melody constantly throughout my days.  The contradictions are endless, but this life is not. 
View Separately

I drift as a silhouette. This paltry midriff rises only to thwart my cause. I am! Though, what am I really? A poet! Though I rhyme with the worst of them. A tempered Tantalus!? Though, that’s too grand a claim. In the end, I stand content to define myself by negation of those surrounding me.

I’m like my father. I’ve never cared to hear or speak of that before, but I’m more content of its meaning now. The chaotic swirl of emotions that swim through our heads is overwhelming. No god could maintain such streams, though we think oppositely in that field. It’s relieving, to say the least, and I feel it might be the same for him. To know, deep down, that someone really does understand you, even if he may be thirty years my senior. 

I heave steady breaths. The bottle of Pinot I have finished has made its stain, both to my lips and to my brain. The sentiment has risen, and in its rise I have understood quiet meanings I normally try to push off. What do I truly understand, though?

Love. It’s embattlement’s scorned for sake of dialogue. The profound longing of the human soul. Curt nods. Soft kisses. Sweet touches amongst friends. The monologue of humanity! I’ll give you no other and please give me no more. If it does not beat the coarse reverberation of Adam, I’d rather pay it no mind. 

I miss the warm embraces of trustful friends, but I realize how little I trust anyone. Everyone seems to stack so inadequately to a measurement I have found no meaning to. It’s silly really, to care so deeply only to withdraw to keep from hurting deeply. The desire abounds, nonetheless, and I find in a world with no pattern or absolute meaning that I have no clue how to satisfy it. I shift, so humans shift just the same. God seems fictional, or plays the abstain. Who to draw to? That is the question that reverberates a soft, slow melody constantly throughout my days. 

The contradictions are endless, but this life is not. 

Mi Familia I drank too much tonight. A combination of sadness, fear of loss, aching, and nostalgia send me to the bottle. I’m okay with it. I tell myself my inhibitions have been lowered and that the feel is returning; at least the destructive part, the part that says the lovely girl that smiles at me may leave tomorrow, that the cold world is the only invitation sent to my door, and that the only god paying mind is the one made up in the imagination. I’m so self-destructive, so self-obsessed and loathing. Has there ever been such as me? Yes, most undoubtedly.  Today marks my mother’s birthday and I weep just a bit when I think about it. My mother, so far away from her children, the ones who have ran off to find their own adventures. My mother the loving, the caring, the unspoken vow of devotion in my life. I secretly wish I could store her in my pocket, keeping her safe from age and misfortunes.  When I think of my mother I see two immediacies’: I hear her laughter, which I have found no equal so far in this world. My dear god, her laughter resounds in my mind and I cannot quit it. I have found nothing so far in this world as lovely as my mother’s laugh. As I write this, as I dwell on it, I cry with all ferocity. The second immediacy? That would be her tears; the bitterest and most tragic events in my life are her tears. My sister may hurt (though I recoil to see it), my brother may hurt (though I would want to protect him), my father may hurt (though I would try to hold him), but my mother; nothing is so absolute than my want to abolish her sadnesses.  It’s hard to speak of her. The words simply do not seem adequate. Can anyone else comprehend? The hurt of human life resonates inside each and every person that I see; this is tragic, poetic, unjust, and fulfilling, to a means. The beauty man sees, the want and desire in his heart, is always to protect the women in his life. My mother stands foremost.  Salute: To my mother, mi familia! May you always be protected and cautioned by the unseen, may you find true happiness this year, may you stand on the hands of giants and view the world from up there. On the west coast of the stars and stripes a vigil is held, to a mother I cannot hold or embrace fully this season, but maybe another season. Maybe yet, I may carry you in the warmth of my arms and we will laugh as the world turns shades of gold, and burgundy, and summertime blue.  I love you, Michael
View Separately

Mi Familia

I drank too much tonight. A combination of sadness, fear of loss, aching, and nostalgia send me to the bottle. I’m okay with it. I tell myself my inhibitions have been lowered and that the feel is returning; at least the destructive part, the part that says the lovely girl that smiles at me may leave tomorrow, that the cold world is the only invitation sent to my door, and that the only god paying mind is the one made up in the imagination. I’m so self-destructive, so self-obsessed and loathing. Has there ever been such as me? Yes, most undoubtedly. 

Today marks my mother’s birthday and I weep just a bit when I think about it. My mother, so far away from her children, the ones who have ran off to find their own adventures. My mother the loving, the caring, the unspoken vow of devotion in my life. I secretly wish I could store her in my pocket, keeping her safe from age and misfortunes. 

When I think of my mother I see two immediacies’: I hear her laughter, which I have found no equal so far in this world. My dear god, her laughter resounds in my mind and I cannot quit it. I have found nothing so far in this world as lovely as my mother’s laugh. As I write this, as I dwell on it, I cry with all ferocity. The second immediacy? That would be her tears; the bitterest and most tragic events in my life are her tears. My sister may hurt (though I recoil to see it), my brother may hurt (though I would want to protect him), my father may hurt (though I would try to hold him), but my mother; nothing is so absolute than my want to abolish her sadnesses. 

It’s hard to speak of her. The words simply do not seem adequate. Can anyone else comprehend? The hurt of human life resonates inside each and every person that I see; this is tragic, poetic, unjust, and fulfilling, to a means. The beauty man sees, the want and desire in his heart, is always to protect the women in his life. My mother stands foremost. 

Salute: To my mother, mi familia! May you always be protected and cautioned by the unseen, may you find true happiness this year, may you stand on the hands of giants and view the world from up there. On the west coast of the stars and stripes a vigil is held, to a mother I cannot hold or embrace fully this season, but maybe another season. Maybe yet, I may carry you in the warmth of my arms and we will laugh as the world turns shades of gold, and burgundy, and summertime blue. 

I love you,

Michael

Like Dreamers Do The Unknown Ways, I got it from a Whitman poem (surprise, right?). I think it speaks volumes about how I view the world. I find myself curious and adventurous and desiring and eager. I’m still so young and I believe I’m understanding myself more as time passes. Maybe I should change this blog to “The Unknown Man” because sometimes I don’t understand who I am and how in the hell I think. With each new challenge I set myself into I find I begin to crumble, to fall entirely apart as a human being. Each time I descend into darkness, near insanity, downward spiraling faster and more dangerously than the times before, and amazingly, one day I wake up and I’ve shed my skin, its heaps bent and torn at the foot of my bed. I no longer see grey. I am content, I am daring, I am brave, I am not afraid of being alone. I was ill Sunday. I slept all through the night and all through the day. Through the day I dreamt I had this baby boy back in Tennessee and that I had come back to visit him. The woman was someone I seldom even had conversations with through the years, but in this dream I had impacted her and her family in so many dark and happy ways. The last bits of the dream I spent holding onto the boy that was mine. I looked into his eyes and saw a cluster of stars swirling about in his pupils, it was a brilliant sight. I woke up disoriented, wondering whether I had actually left someone behind in Tennessee.  For the record, I do not have a boy back in Tennessee, but I did wake up in a peaceful place, here in this rainy city. Sometimes I enjoy my dreams so much that I forget the cold and brilliant world that’s waiting for me when I wake up. I woke and I was happy. Even though it hurt to move, I was a glad man. I was someone that didn’t need to adhere to his own set standard of manhood. I did not have to wonder whether I was capable, or brilliant, or of any worth. I was content. Whatever poison was in me these past few months had passed through my system within these last weeks and in my half-conscious awareness of dream and waking, I was able to absorb it.  I seldom hit the mark, but when I do, oh the ways I rejoice. “Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.” -Edgar Allen Poe
View Separately

Like Dreamers Do

The Unknown Ways, I got it from a Whitman poem (surprise, right?). I think it speaks volumes about how I view the world. I find myself curious and adventurous and desiring and eager. I’m still so young and I believe I’m understanding myself more as time passes. Maybe I should change this blog to “The Unknown Man” because sometimes I don’t understand who I am and how in the hell I think. With each new challenge I set myself into I find I begin to crumble, to fall entirely apart as a human being. Each time I descend into darkness, near insanity, downward spiraling faster and more dangerously than the times before, and amazingly, one day I wake up and I’ve shed my skin, its heaps bent and torn at the foot of my bed. I no longer see grey. I am content, I am daring, I am brave, I am not afraid of being alone.

I was ill Sunday. I slept all through the night and all through the day. Through the day I dreamt I had this baby boy back in Tennessee and that I had come back to visit him. The woman was someone I seldom even had conversations with through the years, but in this dream I had impacted her and her family in so many dark and happy ways. The last bits of the dream I spent holding onto the boy that was mine. I looked into his eyes and saw a cluster of stars swirling about in his pupils, it was a brilliant sight. I woke up disoriented, wondering whether I had actually left someone behind in Tennessee. 

For the record, I do not have a boy back in Tennessee, but I did wake up in a peaceful place, here in this rainy city. Sometimes I enjoy my dreams so much that I forget the cold and brilliant world that’s waiting for me when I wake up. I woke and I was happy. Even though it hurt to move, I was a glad man. I was someone that didn’t need to adhere to his own set standard of manhood. I did not have to wonder whether I was capable, or brilliant, or of any worth. I was content. Whatever poison was in me these past few months had passed through my system within these last weeks and in my half-conscious awareness of dream and waking, I was able to absorb it. 

I seldom hit the mark, but when I do, oh the ways I rejoice.

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.” -Edgar Allen Poe

La Vie en Blanc Within this heart beats two rhythms. One being that of the cold, stale bread of a melancholy, wrought in a world of loneliness and cowardice. The other, the fresh marmalade of the poet, seeking the lustful exploration of the world and people around.   Silence.
 I can’t remember a life outside of this dream, of the back and forth sway of some girl sweet singing. I see her cutting through this wreck, a disaster forayed by loving lips. Here, in this jungle inhabitable, I find myself blanketed in thoughts so pure and white I squint and turn from their direction. I turn and find the miserable stillness of past anthems; of memories so sweet that my teeth ache, knowing the taste will never come again. I turn back and find my cherubim grace down a long road, so smooth and silent that to echo any type of reciprocation would cause blasphemy. Any venture toward that road becomes such an uphill clawing that my nails crack and bleed in such profuse profanities that I weep like a child. I find such a moment, this moment so clear that everything else becomes a dull roar. I sing hallelujahs to god’s believed, but never existed. I weep at the alter of great poets and writers. I hug invisible souls so resolute that they can never be removed from memory. I hold the hands of old friends and we remain as we were before any fading. I see the new, resolute and understanding.  In this moment, so clear and virtuous, I hold the keys to doors long since locked. I find myself alone, but not lonely as my life has projected. I see all of those I have met; we dance, laugh, and sing until the morning dawn breaks so anew that all sadness ceases. This was such a dream that to wake from it in a lonely place has broken my spirit. 
View Separately

La Vie en Blanc


Within this heart beats two rhythms. One being that of the cold, stale bread of a melancholy, wrought in a world of loneliness and cowardice. The other, the fresh marmalade of the poet, seeking the lustful exploration of the world and people around.  

Silence.


I can’t remember a life outside of this dream, of the back and forth sway of some girl sweet singing. I see her cutting through this wreck, a disaster forayed by loving lips. Here, in this jungle inhabitable, I find myself blanketed in thoughts so pure and white I squint and turn from their direction. I turn and find the miserable stillness of past anthems; of memories so sweet that my teeth ache, knowing the taste will never come again. I turn back and find my cherubim grace down a long road, so smooth and silent that to echo any type of reciprocation would cause blasphemy. Any venture toward that road becomes such an uphill clawing that my nails crack and bleed in such profuse profanities that I weep like a child.

I find such a moment, this moment so clear that everything else becomes a dull roar. I sing hallelujahs to god’s believed, but never existed. I weep at the alter of great poets and writers. I hug invisible souls so resolute that they can never be removed from memory. I hold the hands of old friends and we remain as we were before any fading. I see the new, resolute and understanding. 

In this moment, so clear and virtuous, I hold the keys to doors long since locked. I find myself alone, but not lonely as my life has projected. I see all of those I have met; we dance, laugh, and sing until the morning dawn breaks so anew that all sadness ceases.

This was such a dream that to wake from it in a lonely place has broken my spirit. 

As 2011 draws to its end I find myself converging in a room of classically trained, passionate intellectuals. Portland has hidden its most prized possessions as a last coup de grace of what it has to offer me. I consider it a death blow, their whimsy and deep minds have me in overload, I struggle to retain the brilliance of their hearts and minds.  I listen. I listen deep and long to each and every one of their hearts talking in unspeakable ardor. I listen concerning statistical analysis’ of choice majors and the direction they’ll take me. I listen concerning the appreciation and uprising of the arts in Mexico, the essence of the Italian Renaissance and it’s history, and how it trumps anything otherwise European, and the ability for nerves to grow despite what experts inform a choice man.  I find myself silly with wine and champagne, focusing whatever remains of this southern, supposed genteel mind on the wisdom that the room has to offer. I look over reflectively, gazing on the passionate soul that has brought me to this assembly. She stands in a reflection of her family members, a true heart wrought of Whitman qualities, essences I would consider almost holy and absolute. This is rare, this is a thing of the remarkable. As an observer I almost become bogged down with the day to day of life necessities, but the God up above sees fit to give me a house of consideration, igniting the fledgling depths inside of me. I stop and acknowledge that if the great God exists, he has blessed me on this night.   Slowly the crowd departs. I become a man tired in body, but active in mind and soul; this night should not end, but must. We say our goodbyes and I drive home laughing. I laugh so hard and long that I weep from the intensity, and then I laugh some more. I laugh for all of the quickly forgotten joys of life, I laugh for the beauty of a God I sometimes doubt, and I laugh concerning passion, love, and its unfathomable depths. The joy is uncontainable and the writing must loose it. Happy New Year, dear friends. I hope I move and inspire you to see the joy in your own walks of life. This, this is all I truly want in life: Connection and Passion. 
View Separately

As 2011 draws to its end I find myself converging in a room of classically trained, passionate intellectuals. Portland has hidden its most prized possessions as a last coup de grace of what it has to offer me. I consider it a death blow, their whimsy and deep minds have me in overload, I struggle to retain the brilliance of their hearts and minds. 

I listen. I listen deep and long to each and every one of their hearts talking in unspeakable ardor. I listen concerning statistical analysis’ of choice majors and the direction they’ll take me. I listen concerning the appreciation and uprising of the arts in Mexico, the essence of the Italian Renaissance and it’s history, and how it trumps anything otherwise European, and the ability for nerves to grow despite what experts inform a choice man. 

I find myself silly with wine and champagne, focusing whatever remains of this southern, supposed genteel mind on the wisdom that the room has to offer. I look over reflectively, gazing on the passionate soul that has brought me to this assembly. She stands in a reflection of her family members, a true heart wrought of Whitman qualities, essences I would consider almost holy and absolute. This is rare, this is a thing of the remarkable. As an observer I almost become bogged down with the day to day of life necessities, but the God up above sees fit to give me a house of consideration, igniting the fledgling depths inside of me. I stop and acknowledge that if the great God exists, he has blessed me on this night.  

Slowly the crowd departs. I become a man tired in body, but active in mind and soul; this night should not end, but must. We say our goodbyes and I drive home laughing. I laugh so hard and long that I weep from the intensity, and then I laugh some more. I laugh for all of the quickly forgotten joys of life, I laugh for the beauty of a God I sometimes doubt, and I laugh concerning passion, love, and its unfathomable depths.

The joy is uncontainable and the writing must loose it. Happy New Year, dear friends. I hope I move and inspire you to see the joy in your own walks of life. This, this is all I truly want in life: Connection and Passion. 

It’s late at night, just before the normal bars close down and leave the cold world nothing, but the dives. I’m sitting inside something respectable, something a man of perfection and nit-picking would go to; nothing dirty or swill, with just enough edge to make me feel cliche. My father’s generation of songs rattle on the radio, I always think of him when they do. I want nothing more than to hear he just happens to be on my block. I want to give him a hug, man to man. I want to exchange quiet sadnesses and virtues as only men can do.  I reflect on my plight. I’m in a place far away from family and safety and every once and awhile the fear of it creeps up on me. I wonder if my father in all of his travels and moves ever felt the same way. He’s a stronger man than me, no doubt about it, and I’m clearly of the more reflective and emotional type. I wonder when I’ll ever truly consider myself a man, not just some boy.  Still, I dwell on the thought of my father. I wish I could dip back into the cold of the past and watch him at my age. I want to know his fears, his burdens, his mistakes; I want to know his strengths, his fortitude, his passion. I want to know where he went wrong and where he went right.  I make the journey a couple of blocks away to my nook, fighting off the cold and the constant misting rain. I’m rattling on to myself like some maniac. One half of me is saying I shouldn’t worry, that it is completely rational to talk to yourself when no one is around. The other part of me fears someone overhearing, as if judgement would be past down on me at that moment. I tell myself Tennessee was no different, that I still had nights like these when I wandered home alone, miserable. Miserable is simply something I must learn to face. I must grit my teeth and bare it for the night, the morning will bring more vigor and opportunities. I’m growing into something to contend with, I’m becoming a man that does not stray away from the chill of life. I’m becoming like my father; strong and brave, persevering, perennial with the justices of the human soul.  This night, in all of it’s harsh beauties and sadnesses of life, are in dedication to my father, a man willing to sacrifice, a true man wrought of tragedies and mistakes. To my father, the best man I know. 
View Separately

It’s late at night, just before the normal bars close down and leave the cold world nothing, but the dives. I’m sitting inside something respectable, something a man of perfection and nit-picking would go to; nothing dirty or swill, with just enough edge to make me feel cliche. My father’s generation of songs rattle on the radio, I always think of him when they do. I want nothing more than to hear he just happens to be on my block. I want to give him a hug, man to man. I want to exchange quiet sadnesses and virtues as only men can do. 

I reflect on my plight. I’m in a place far away from family and safety and every once and awhile the fear of it creeps up on me. I wonder if my father in all of his travels and moves ever felt the same way. He’s a stronger man than me, no doubt about it, and I’m clearly of the more reflective and emotional type. I wonder when I’ll ever truly consider myself a man, not just some boy. 

Still, I dwell on the thought of my father. I wish I could dip back into the cold of the past and watch him at my age. I want to know his fears, his burdens, his mistakes; I want to know his strengths, his fortitude, his passion. I want to know where he went wrong and where he went right. 

I make the journey a couple of blocks away to my nook, fighting off the cold and the constant misting rain. I’m rattling on to myself like some maniac. One half of me is saying I shouldn’t worry, that it is completely rational to talk to yourself when no one is around. The other part of me fears someone overhearing, as if judgement would be past down on me at that moment. I tell myself Tennessee was no different, that I still had nights like these when I wandered home alone, miserable. Miserable is simply something I must learn to face. I must grit my teeth and bare it for the night, the morning will bring more vigor and opportunities. I’m growing into something to contend with, I’m becoming a man that does not stray away from the chill of life. I’m becoming like my father; strong and brave, persevering, perennial with the justices of the human soul. 

This night, in all of it’s harsh beauties and sadnesses of life, are in dedication to my father, a man willing to sacrifice, a true man wrought of tragedies and mistakes. To my father, the best man I know. 

Written 9.22.11, just two days into being in Portland, Oregon: “Spent the whole day alone, but I do not feel that way. I feel reborn, unknown, ghostly. I used to live in a place where everything felt like replays of past anthems. Now, I walk as a wisp among active, breathing things. I am neither hindered nor helped. I am free of everything except the future. I’d like to die advancing on into the unknown.” It’s the late hours of the night. I’ve just left The Lotus, a late night 80’s and 90’s karaoke bar, and have made it just in time to catch the last train, the Blue line that will carry me to my car, parked illegally in the mall parking center, at which point I will drive another 40 blocks to my quiet nook buried underneath the ground. For those who don’t get the meaning, I live in someone’s basement. Yes, I have taken on that comfortable legacy of great men living in other people’s basements. As I ride the train through the stops and over the Willamette River, I’m as usual, cracking a grin. I’m recalling and recanting in my mind the shared experiences I’ve just had with people I work with; blown away by the unknowing depth and commonality of some, and the humor and joy of others. I rub my right pant leg, it’s wet and smells of skittle infused alcohol. I’ll wear them tomorrow and I won’t mind one damn bit.  I imagine my great friends back in Tennessee, wishing they could be here to share in my experience of life. However, I’m sure they’re off experiencing life in their own patterns. It’s a peculiar feeling, one that keeps reoccurring, knowing that I’m growing older and older, that every moment is one to be cherished, and that the past is fading farther and farther away, and that it will never come back.  I feel a torrent of mixed emotions, the basic premise of human beings. I’m saddened by my mistakes, which parts of them seem to crop up now that I am in this distant place. I am joyful and passionate about the present, about the future I’m creating everyday I wake up and fight. I’m lonely, walking so far from home. I’m mindful. Hopeful. Scared. Vibrant.  One day, I’ll look back and pat myself on the back. One day, I’ll have to cover my face as I weep from the cold touch of the past. One day, this will be the most glorious day I can remember.  I will remember these memories. 
View Separately

Written 9.22.11, just two days into being in Portland, Oregon:

“Spent the whole day alone, but I do not feel that way. I feel reborn, unknown, ghostly. I used to live in a place where everything felt like replays of past anthems. Now, I walk as a wisp among active, breathing things. I am neither hindered nor helped. I am free of everything except the future. I’d like to die advancing on into the unknown.”

It’s the late hours of the night. I’ve just left The Lotus, a late night 80’s and 90’s karaoke bar, and have made it just in time to catch the last train, the Blue line that will carry me to my car, parked illegally in the mall parking center, at which point I will drive another 40 blocks to my quiet nook buried underneath the ground. For those who don’t get the meaning, I live in someone’s basement. Yes, I have taken on that comfortable legacy of great men living in other people’s basements.

As I ride the train through the stops and over the Willamette River, I’m as usual, cracking a grin. I’m recalling and recanting in my mind the shared experiences I’ve just had with people I work with; blown away by the unknowing depth and commonality of some, and the humor and joy of others. I rub my right pant leg, it’s wet and smells of skittle infused alcohol. I’ll wear them tomorrow and I won’t mind one damn bit. 

I imagine my great friends back in Tennessee, wishing they could be here to share in my experience of life. However, I’m sure they’re off experiencing life in their own patterns. It’s a peculiar feeling, one that keeps reoccurring, knowing that I’m growing older and older, that every moment is one to be cherished, and that the past is fading farther and farther away, and that it will never come back. 

I feel a torrent of mixed emotions, the basic premise of human beings. I’m saddened by my mistakes, which parts of them seem to crop up now that I am in this distant place. I am joyful and passionate about the present, about the future I’m creating everyday I wake up and fight. I’m lonely, walking so far from home. I’m mindful. Hopeful. Scared. Vibrant. 

One day, I’ll look back and pat myself on the back. One day, I’ll have to cover my face as I weep from the cold touch of the past. One day, this will be the most glorious day I can remember. 

I will remember these memories. 

Being a writer is like having homework every night for the rest of your life.
 Lawrence Kasdan (via kcowyo)

Source: kcowyo

beenthinking:

You want to cry aloud for your

mistakes. But to tell the truth the world

doesn’t need anymore of that sound.

-Mary Oliver from, “The Poet with His Face in His Hands”

via ahuntersheart & aperfectcommotion

Source: mythologyofblue

My authentication: If you’ve ever read any of my notes or poems before, you’d see I put a lot of stock into dreaming, being absorbed in thought to the point of laziness, inaction, being asleep, not acting on your desires. I say this over and over, because, over and over I’ve allowed myself to do just that. I have no excuse. Within the past year I’ve literally left a whole life behind. Whether good or bad is beside the point now. I look myself in the mirror everyday and challenge the determination in me to beat out the complacency; to see my dreams and goals transpire into reality rather than simply hope for them. I’ve done well, not great, but so much more than ever before. I write more, read more, share and love more, think more; and September marks my first official adventure out on my own.  I am taking more risks in order to live a more authentic life. Life’s too short for these dull, dreamlike days. No more forgotten days, no more postponements. It’s all about advancing on, to die advancing on so that when I’m gone, in the air will still hang the molecules of my pursuit. 
View Separately

My authentication:

If you’ve ever read any of my notes or poems before, you’d see I put a lot of stock into dreaming, being absorbed in thought to the point of laziness, inaction, being asleep, not acting on your desires. I say this over and over, because, over and over I’ve allowed myself to do just that. I have no excuse.

Within the past year I’ve literally left a whole life behind. Whether good or bad is beside the point now. I look myself in the mirror everyday and challenge the determination in me to beat out the complacency; to see my dreams and goals transpire into reality rather than simply hope for them. I’ve done well, not great, but so much more than ever before. I write more, read more, share and love more, think more; and September marks my first official adventure out on my own. 

I am taking more risks in order to live a more authentic life. Life’s too short for these dull, dreamlike days. No more forgotten days, no more postponements. It’s all about advancing on, to die advancing on so that when I’m gone, in the air will still hang the molecules of my pursuit.