I may have already posted some of it. These are from all different times and moods.
You see something, don’t you?
What is it that you see though?
Do you see a dark splotch? A spreading stain of corruption
bleeding slowly outwards
from the heart?
Or do you see the purity that still remains, the limbs still with life in them, struggling against that slow spread of blood, that slow spread of corruption and death? Do you see how each moment is another drawn breath, is another thought racing along nerves, and another chance at survival?
Or do you see the futile beating of the heart, trying so hard to keep the body alive, but in its beating, like drums of war, only speeding the process of death as it pumps, second by second, the lifeblood of the people from their veins?
Or do you see reality at all?
Are you too self-absorbed, too blinded by your own needs to see what this world is?
I hope that someday I might see what this world is.
Books are the most important thing to me,
But I don’t care about a library because it is a candle next to the sun,
And even dimmer next to you.
How to be an (Aspiring) Writer
A sonnet by Kees Schuller
Once you’ve got the music set
Drink in hand, and laptop prepped
Start at once, do not delay
Words are the game, it’s time to play
Stop! And wait, there’s more to do!
All the world has claims on you
Down and Up, there is no end
Calls and texts, and shows with friends!
But find yourself some time to write,
Put the words down, all black on white
Remember though, that golden truth
Give up halfway, the rule of youth
Half of me is a lie.
And half of me is not.
Sometimes I forgot which half is which.
It...it is not easy to remember who I am anymore. I was once an innocent child, a good person. Now I am someone else, and I don’t know who that is.
Half of me is a truth, and I cannot remember which half that is.
From a distance, a blur, in winter white with snow-laden branches
in spring brown, leaves not yet grown
in summer green, in many shades
in fall a collage, reds, yellows, and browns.
Little branches shoot above the blur. Without good vision they can’t be seen.
These branches make the blur distinct, separate it down,
piece by piece, into its components;
spreading, branching, weaving wood, above just like below.
They don’t collide, rarely touch, yet grow so close together that it seems they must.
They know the others are there, giving, providing for the creatures within the
spreading, branching, weaving wood.
I see buds of new leaves, not sprung, like the eggs of spring, in their nests of woven things.
These eggs will soon hatch into new life.
From a distance they’re a blur. Up close they are lofty, distinct, interwoven life.