Maturing or Disconnecting

Today I found myself worrying about tomorrow, concerned about what I would be doing or needed to get done approximately 12 hours from that very moment I was standing there, living and breathing. It's fascinating to me how I can becoming so disconnected to the world when, at the same time, I feel I am become more in tune with the structure of its society.

All I seem to hear these days is how much school costs, jumping from job to job, trying to graduate "on time", preparing for that internship, sticking to the plan!

The fact is... life isn't something you can plan. God didn't throw us on this earth and say, "Ok, now go get your degree. When I get back, you better have that house on the lake, 2.5 kids, and a dog that doesn't eat your slippers."

I refuse to become a slave to societies quotas! I'm beyond tired of people trying to tell me what I need to do and when I need to do it by. Without even realizing it, I've started to become "functional" in the madness we call a society. It terrifies me to think of all the imagination, inspiration, and individualism we give up as we grow up, not to mention the time we waste planning.

Fame

I wonder how easily fame corrupts the most honest of men. It
fascinates me like Pandoras Box. I feel I will never completely
understand until I see it first hand, until I've become just as naive
as all the others.

But is it possible to live balanced? Can one learn to ignore flashing
cameras and stinging tabloids day in and day out? Is it worth ones
privacy to be familiarized by so many? I am curious yet wary as the
consequences may be irreparable.

My Nightmare

Three times shot in the side without a sound. We go out the front door quickly, careful not to spill a drop of blood. The day is suspended and played slowly, viewed with a filter of remorse blue.

I want to cry. I want my tears to make you better. I want this lump in my throat to choke me completely. But I must go on and fix what I made wrong.

You hang onto me as I drag you to a motorcycle, keys in and ready. My hands are trembling to the point I cannot turn the key. I hear you breathing softer. With the weight of your lungs and lame body, I must go. I must make it right.

A quick breath of consciousness allows me to start the bike. Although this is my first time, I know how to ride, I must. First to second to third in jolts and sprints as you, pail and pained, hold fragilely. The wet trees blur down the dark black back road. I feel my heart pulsing on the throttle. The bike tires roll along the road as the world turns, taking me closer to my destination, to my desperation.

Like second nature, my hand grips the brake. We have made it to the hospital with the yellow lights. All my anxiety is bled out through a murderous scream for help. The nurses come running to take you, my young brother, away. Like fire from my eyes, and rain from the skies, tears pour out leaving me nothing to disguise. I fall on the ground, soaking in the water from a puddle, dripping from the blood of your ribs, crying out to wake up from this pain, guilt, and bloody nightmare.

The Best Man

You fall into the web of wedlock. Captured from the younger years, you drift off into the sea of bills, pacifiers, daily routines, and the occasional freedom from machines.

A day has ended with the sun setting, not sure if it went over your head or mine. If only we had more time and a crystal ball, would the day end the way we want it to? Are we able to reverse the sun and watch it sail away over the eastern sea?

Drunk and angry, the blue october past by painfully like the Titanic to the iceberg. Two months later you tell me you're gone. The ship is at the cold bottom with the scaled fish. You are in your state of content.

My Puzzle

I wonder how my puzzle will be pieced together. Glimpse's of a bigger picture scattered across the floor and when it's time to assemble the art, how many parts will be missing? How many pieces will not fit, how many will be fabricated or jammed in to fit? Will the task be taken slowly and maturely or rushed to blur any flaws?

There are pieces for miles headed West on that black top home. There are pieces down by the creek with the ole' bamboo fishing pole. They're in dorms, bottles, beds, down Lavaca, outside donut shops, behind liquor stores, and beneath the ever present stars. Some friends hold more pieces than they realize, others have thrown out what I've entrusted to them.

Unless all the pieces are found, can you see the picture clearly? Clear enough? Can the puzzle be solved even if pieces are missing? Will you ever fully see or understand? I hope.

To Be Wed In March

March comes loudly like a parade of nostalgia down Memory Lane. Festivity all around mixed in with some floats you enjoy and others you would love to avoid. It's entertaining either way.

A tragedy has its dark humor and inappropriate irony while comedy is all too obvious and predictable yet assuredly to bring a laugh.

Park Bench

Love seems to come and go more frequent and in shorter duration. People on the sidewalk pass by holding hands while I eat my string cheese and apple alone quietly on the park bench. It's a beautiful day but seems to be bogged by sadness.

As I walk to class I catch a glance of a girl walking toward me. Suddenly I feel the need to pull her aside and spill my thoughts. Playing the scene in my head, I imagine she recognizes my thoughts as if they were her own and she is so glad I jumped on the sporadic gumption.

She walks by and I, eyes to the ground, smell her perfume. Inhaling regret, staying quiet but know the pain of speaking up, reaching out, and opening. Some day... someday might never come.

Unclear which inflicts the most change, regret or the pain of loss. Or possibly the loss of pain and regret when life starts to change for the better.