Drip Drop

Drip drop. Drip drop, but nothing else. No one talks about the other part. Where is the splash, where is the clash, where is the end?

The drip. A birth of uncertainty. Falling into this world with a view of optimism. By nature optimism is all we are offered. A view of green and blue, anything is possible.

The drop. Our possibilities are quickly limited to wind and wear. We control but where our focus is directed, whether our scope is honed in or not is in the hands of destiny.

The splash crash catastrophe. We spend all our time focused on our promises and possibilities of the future. We never really reach a destination of satisfaction, just the end. We don't realize, the future has been staring us dead in the eyes since the beginning, just at a distance.

Our only real promise is the uncertainty throughout it all. When you're uncertain, the possibilities are truly as small or as big as you make them. And that's where you'll find the splash.

My Nightly Shower

I think about possibilities. Ideas cascade my thoughts like the hot water does to my face. I breath in a deep resonant steam as if for weight so that I don't float away. Nothing to cloud me, only vapor, I am open to new and wonderful beginnings.

I am brilliant, to write a book. A book of many pages to be announced a novel. But the pages have few words. They are simple. A novel is not written with verbose diction. It is written with words. Words are all I have to offer.

I am intricate, to follow the path into the woods. I have deep scars of things written on me from long ago like a tree through the years of young lust and old love. These scars are not painful unless they are ignored. When I do, they cause a great deal of white noise that I can not shake. As if to rattle residual water out of my ear, I violently thrash my head only to be found a fool and water still remaining. However, when I encourage my roots I can feel the sun warming my future as I grow closer to my past, to our past, to nature.

I am profound, to sing a song. The overwhelming power of melody and harmony. A wave of sound and soul crash down on tightly wound heart strings only to play along with the cadence of the symphony.

I am bound. These are only thoughts, these are only ideas, these are only words, and this is only a shower. The towel works in a way to dry up my ideas and to crack my thoughts. I quickly dehydrate into a withered realistic man. My clothes assure a safe keeping as if in some way doing me a favor.

How do I present myself naked to the world without becoming callas and scabbed by the rough grounds of criticism and scorn? The answer surely inhabits Utopia.

These Two Are Not The Same

Not the same as when I first was introduced. Not the same as when I first loved, cared, and belonged.

I am an oddly placed plastic mannequin in the room of two lonely statues. They are grey and brittle. What is to be done of a statue, so familiar, when cracked and shaken? Plastic is only tolerant to so much weight. 

I must leave now but timid to leave such a quiet ruin. Not for its beauty, but for its pain I must let it rest and let time heal the wounds.