Thursday, February 11, 2010

Mightier Than the Sword

This piece was written February 11 2010

This hunk of metal does nothing but impede me from leaving my home. Dancing across wood and flesh alike, its blade lightly scarring all surfaces. The metal holsters its deadly virus, ready to spread poison across many a nation at the mere click of a button. With the speed of an arrow, each click affects the bladed point. Pushing it from its shell or returning it to its sheath. Dodging in and out of its holster it will hide between its dastardly attacks. Oh this deadly weapon should be banned! Banned from all existence I tell you! Yet, there are those around me whom have already become intoxicated by its poison. Somewhere along the line I found myself joining these pitiful souls, the poison bypassing my defenses. Now I find myself justifying and excusing my usage of this horrible weapon with the pitiful excuse that peace can be brought through its use.

I am whatever you say I am

Written February 11 2010

I am of the wordly wise
One who deals out sighs and cries
Of the largest oaken trees
Whose leaves flutter in summer breeze
Of many colors and many shades
From drunken stupors to pride filled parades
Of the ancients and the legacy
The Celts are inspiration to me

I am from every summer's waves
Dealt to me inside my caves
From the distance and the power
To runners, may your grapes never taste sour
Of the wildest men and wildest dreams
Which come together for Halloween screams
From every night and every dance
Even those without my pants

I am not of simple upbringing
From an old family's singing
For now I am
Nothing for you to give a damn

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

This piece was written on July 31 2009

Rockin back and forth
In a long forgotten place
Where lots of people met
And others came to race
Many had seats
Many had toys
Everyone surrounded
By tons of noise
I came here by choice
Though I must leave
I'll come here again
If just for the breeze

I am sitting here again
Though the place with a breeze
Become a city of sin
There are few who remember
Though many more forget
And the very lovely place
Becomes a place full of shit

This Short Life We Have

This was a piece written on July 31 2009

I bear the ring of a Celt and the weight of the world. Which is not to say that I am part of one of the greatest nations to have walked this earth, nor is it to say that I am any kind of hero. With nobody depending on me it makes my burden much easier to bear, though that does not change much. I bear the ring of a Celt to remind me of those who have been great before me. I have recently discovered that my grandmother has been diagnosed with breast cancer, the same cancer that took away her daughter and my mother. Both of those women, my mother and grandmother have been nothing but great people throughout their lives. They seem to see death coming and only grow stronger in their convictions.

I have on many an occasion referred to humans as trees whose nutrients are made up and shared by those who surround them. The roots that seep into the soil provided by those around you. The trunk is comparable to the human body, holding information about the age of your life. The tree branches, supported by trunk, grown from the soil, all your beliefs, ideals and experiences. Each leaf, a facet of a belief, ideal or experience. Of course the most beautiful and final growth of a tree is the flowers, your final conclusions and your biggest revelations about life.

This is important because what fuels all of us together, is the world. The world which has provided a home for all that we know and all that we have yet to learn. It is important that we take care of this world, and it is something that seems in need of mentioning. It seems that we must do something about what seems like humanity trying to bring about its own destruction. I sti on a plane flying over the soil of the United States and I find myself saddened. U.S. soldiers sit in seats across the aisle from me, people young enough that they may still have the ability to attend a high school prom if the opportunity presented itself. My stomach twists itself around at the thought of these young men dying.

They are ready to set down their blood and even life for our country and the betterment of our world. I ask you if you are willing to do the same? If not, where do you draw the line? Where do you stop caring about this human nation? It is my life goal to spread love and erase the hate of at least ten people in the short life that I have been given. I ask you, what is your goal? What will you do to better our world?
A piece written on July 29 2009

As I watch you sleeping softly
I wonder about it all
Will things keep streaming by
Or will they stop and stall
Feel the need to hold you tight
But I see him standing there
It stops my shining light
So all I do is stare

I continue sitting near you
Wishing for the best

Trees Cannot Always Stand Alone

This was a piece I wrote on July 25 2009

"You do not seem to fully grasp what it is that I speak of. I try to let you in, I try to show you a tree in all its splendor and all you see are a few branches. You pick it apart bit by bit, examining its bark for similarities to other trees that you have seen before. There is a whole tree, in all its splendor and beauty, surrounded by many alike it in its forest home. Each tree with its own roots, its beginning, each surrounding tree affecting how it grows. As the tree grows, sprouting from the seedlings in the soil, reaching for the stars. Every branch represents our challenges, each leaf is a facet of a specific challenge."

I pause for breath, but not long enough for anyone to interject, "Again! you have claimed to understand, you believe you can see the whole tree as you examine only the few branches I have shown you. It is not the cause that you see but the affect. To truly understand me, you would have to dig deep into the soil and expose all of my roots and all of the those around of me. The problem with that is then you have taken away the nutrients and support for us all. The strongest trees will survive by shoving their roots deeper into the soil, but those such as me who have just begun to grow will fall to death. So I know that you do not understand." As I finish ranting to my step-mother I can already see the shock formed on her face. She may finally have an inkling of how I perceive things.

Thanks to Inspiration

Another piece I wrote on July 22 2009

The smell of a chili cheese hot dog still stains my fingers. The hum of small talk and deeper conversations encase me in a sense of comfort. I am again in an airport, this time in Minneapolis. My final pit stop for the day, my final destination is the small airport in Knoxville, Tennessee. A three year old charges onto the plane in front of his mother, "C'mon Mom!" I find that a chuckle has worked its way up through my lungs, playing my lips into a smile. The murmur of noise dies down as the line of passengers boards the plane, a bit of silence greeting my ears before I board.

Seated now on the final plane for the day, I find myself once again surrounded by noise. The all too familiar hum of cheerful banter, the flight attendants doing their best to get everyone seated in a neat and orderly fashion. The three year old from before is one seat in front of me, his non-stop questions form a sort of nostalgia.

"What is destroy?" His cute little face is filled with curiosity as he turns toward his father, "Why isn't the plane moving yet?" I love sharing my knowledge and answering questions and there are people who might say that love will make a great father in me. I still find my patience failing near this child. It is truly a wonder what we, as children, put our parents through, let alone the teenage and early adult years.

It is curiosity and the passion for life that have brought me thus far upon my journeys. The history of those who have been left behind brings even more fuel to my desires. Desires of greatness, the desire that keeps me from settling for something less. The desire to leave my mark upon the world. I have always had greatness as a goal and have consequently always found myself surrounded by great people. I don't know of many people whom I have ever met who were anything less than amazing.

The Gift of Flight

This piece was written on July 22, 2009

The diversity to be found inside an airport is humorous to say the least. I watch five college students chatting about their summer, all flying home to Seattle for the new semester. An older woman at the gate check-in line. Another line boarding the plane. I find it somehow sad that in all likelihood, all of these people take for granted their flights. The history behind which seems tiny in comparison to the feat itself.

From melting wings to the Orville brothers, from dying pilots to dying civilians. Still, all these people chat away as if their accomplishing flight is nothing. Even I am guilty of forgetting, I must admit, I've flown every summer since I was five. A grandiose thirteen years in the air. Only four of those years have I known the true importance and significance of flight. This shall be my first flight where I feel the true respect for this feat that it deserves.