Pay Attention

Take a moment to think of the best memory you have of your life.

Can you do it?

...

...

...

I can't.

And if you can't, then neither of us is paying enough attention.

The Wretched Warrior

I tread through the mire, forcing my way through the dense branches that reach out to collect my soul, pulling my boots out of the muck with a pop, stumbling forward onto a rotting tree stump. The life of a warrior is not without turmoil. Thrice have I been assaulted by creatures of the dark, and thrice have I repelled them. But an unknown amount of leagues lie stretched out before me, though I cannot see their breadth through the haze and fog. Counting my steps though, I figure that I have gone a little over nineteen. Nevertheless, my path will not always take me through this bog. For now, though, I am compelled to beg passage of the creatures that dwell within. My sword, rusted and pitiful with age, drags at my belt. My shield bears many cracks and weighs heavily on my back. But I trudge on, for I know that my present sufferings are not worth comparing to the glories of that hall to which, with every step, I draw nearer.

I hope that I will have the strength to make it through the fen before night falls - in the darkness, I fear, I may take a step too far and never set foot on the path again. If time will avail me, I can spark a fire and take some rest in the cover of the trees which I know lie on the borders of the mire. The sun sets red. My conscience wavers and I, for a moment, consider staying the night. Then I hear something to my left, and lowering my supplies onto solid ground, I draw my blade with caution.

A dragon of bone bursts from the ground on my left, forcing me to throw myself backwards into the bush. I narrowly avoid impaling myself on my own blade and scramble to my feet, shield whipping over my shoulder and locking into place. The dragon waits not and lunges forward. Terror seizes me, but not so much as to impair my reason. The dragon has no flesh, no blood, so I re-evaluate my tactics. The jaw of my oppressor snaps narrowly above my head, and spinning to the side I see a claw follow. I bare my shield, deflecting the limb for a moment before severing it with one great strike. But the dragon seems not affected. If anything, he comes at me with a fury unparalleled by any other foe I have herein encountered. Another strike at my shield shatters it into uselessness and my arm feels the blow. It responds sluggishly as if broken, and I swipe at the dragon to give myself rest. Suddenly he backs off, and changes tactics, herding me around my small patch of dry earth. I stumble backwards into the clutch of his severed claw - still alive, still grasping for my life. I kick it into the mud, but the dragon has seized his opportunity. Using the distraction, he comes at me once more with his jaws to finish my life.

Teeth meet bone and I cry out, for whereas the breaking of my arm had still been in question, it was no longer. He gives it a twist, sending pain throughout my entire frame before I composed myself to hack that fearsome skull from its body. It does not stop biting, though, and throwing my sword to the ground I grab his jaw and rip it free. The head falls to the ground like so many pieces of bone. I pause for breath, but my job is not done. Before me the body of the dragon flails with a passion, its separated head able only to see what is directly in front of it. I do not rest again until each bone has been torn from its brother, and all lie sinking in the waters. Blood trickles down my arm, and night has come.

Against my better judgment I decide to stay, and giving my useless shield one last task, I construct a fire. Using what herbs I could find I dress the wound and collapse, exhausted. The fire burns out but I am not aware. My only thought is to last the night. I may be, I think to myself, the most wretched warrior that ever lived. But I am a warrior nonetheless, and there comes not a day where the world is safe from its monsters. And there comes not a day when its monsters are safe from me.

Butterflies and Hurricanes - Muse

change,
everything you are
and everything you were
your number has been called
fights, battles have begun
revenge will surely come
your hard times are ahead

best,
you've got to be the best
you've got to change the world
and you use this chance to be heard
your time is now

change,
everything you are
and everything you were
your number has been called
fights and battles have begun
revenge will surely come
your hard times are ahead

best,
you've got to be the best
you've got to change the world
and you use this chance to be heard
your time is now

don't,
let yourself down
don't let yourself go
your last chance has arrived

best,
you've got to be the best
you've got to change the world
and you use this chance to be heard
your time is now

The Ballad of Dominic Peters

Listen to me as I tell you the tale
of Dominic Peters, the man once in jail.
He sought no forgiveness from those he had wronged
the peasants were happy, no longer they longed.

He'd robbed from the rich and given the poor
the things that they then were denied and much more.
A thief without license, at war with the ones
who did the same things by the threat of a gun.

He formed then around him some sort of a band
to fight along side him at freedom's last stand,
so when it had ended at least you would hear
how men of true valor must oft disappear.

But not to the gallows went Dominic P.
His band sought him out and at last set him free.
So listen to me as I tell you it's true-
For Peters lives on both in me and in you.

Marks

Thin rectangle, why do you taunt me so?
Why do you flash your uniform color at me
as if you and I have some sort of pact between us?
Do you not hear? Do you not answer?

I see your mind - you will not yield to pressures.
Delicacy is the key to your secrets.
I shall bring forth the one, yes, the one
and then you will talk.

You will speak with the voices of others,
of girls and boys, of dragons and robots.
You will speak with the confidence of men
scribbling away as they mark you forever.

And I will speak through the one
And she will speak to you
And you'll say what we've all been thinking
Or at least what I have been thinking.

You will speak with a voice not your own,
and I will hear it all the clearer.
I will see what was previously hidden
in the marks I leave on your soul.

I will blacken you out,
hide the nakedness of your skin.
I will cover your shame with words
as the artist might with pictures.

I will cover you with words of comfort,
words of anger, of love, of indifference,
and you will tell the tales of our heroes.
You will relate to us deeds unattainable.

In your blank stare I tremble to think,
to dare to be another
and another
and another

Thin rectangle, I mark you thus.

Who am I if I'm Not Myself?

And if I find of late that I am one such coward, what then? Shall I bury myself beneath the iniquities of my own shortcomings? If I taste the bitterness of complacency, should I capitulate before the liberation of my mind? Perhaps I should.

My position is pitiable - for all my claims of daring, for all my wishes of adventure and gallantry, I have not the conviction to see them through. The very thought of fulfilling my greatest desires leaves me trembling.

Is this what life is? To be forever confined, forsaken from our most grand of dreams?

There is no oppressor but him of my own making. Nothing tangible arises to lambast my path, to preclude my intrepidity. Why, then, do I shrink as if the hand of death is upon me?

And who am I if I'm not myself?

Life Goes On

I didn't ask for this, he said.
I didn't sign up on the cosmic list of life,
didn't apply for a position on the earth.
I didn't want to be a protector of the weak,
didn't expect to be held to rigorous tasks.
I didn't ask for this.

I don't deserve this, she said.
I didn't earn the infirmities,
didn't warrant the wrath of the "better."
I didn't incur the positions of poverty,
didn't beg to become a beggar.
I don't deserve this.

I didn't ask for this, he said.
But I got it.
I didn't ask for this,
but it's mine to do something with.

I don't deserve this, she said.
But I got it.
I don't deserve this,
but it's mine to do something with.

Life goes on as
lives goes on and
lives are different
But they're ours to do something with.

The Valley

Break the dams
and flood this valley of ignorance

Let the tides and eddies
tear at the pages of our lives
Let the books be drowned
in the rush of new light

Words that never gave hope
but in that which fades
How is it that we know so much
yet understand so little?

Damn the breaks
and close this valley of ignorance

John the Warrior

On that day, so long ago
I raised myself up,
praised my skill,
and, using Arrogance
my weapon of destruction,
struck down my state
of depression.

But Arrogance
has an icy grip of its own
and it wove itself before my eyes
blinding me to reality.

I thought I was something,
not just anything,
but something.
I thought I had it figured out.
I thought I knew the formulas,
had the reputation.
And worst of all
I thought I was the best.

I tell you this because
it is an insidious beast,
snaking around and behind
to launch its killing blow.
Why, just today I turned and saw
that cobra head
flared to strike

To be honest, no fear seized me
for I knew in an instant what it was.
That serpent bore the markings
of my trusty blade
and though it had seen me through much
my life was now on a precipice.

But, seeking the truth,
I knelt before him
leaned in close
and told him "no."
And the serpent then
did something strange.

I know that in his dance
he sought to mesmerize,
to carry me back in time
back to my naiveté
my ignorance
my Arrogance

But it was too late
for I had seen one greater than I
with a blade not as sharp
but sharper.
And, telling him, he fled from
those words most deadly:

"I don't believe you."

In his absence
I sought the company
of the blade warrior
who alone holds the strength
the true strength
of humility.

Strange Positions

Of what consequence the viewer
on the nature of the art?
Hath he sway so much as a tempest full?
Nay, but that which is merely seeking
to exist must find itself in positions strange.
Wherein to know what a thing should be
is as the man to question the sun
why it shines so brightly.

Things Go On

A clock does not cease to run
when we cease to look upon it,
its existence not dependent on our desires.
And I would not that it was.

No creature, creation, or construction
needs to bow before me.
I am no maker besides to what I am alloted.
No words have come that have not been.

Things go on without us
and maybe they should
since we have not the wisdom to repay the favor
with care and compassion.

Things go on without us.
The world is in your hands.

A New Day Begins

a new day begins, is born
as another dies with the passing of the sun
a dependable entity to us maybe
but to the days, each one abandoned time after time
it is a fickle creature
which cares not for that which it reveals
but demands respect for its ability
a hypocrite
in his absolutism, he becomes vain
every day he rises to give light to a new world
relaible
but every night he abandons us to the darkness
like so many broken promises
and half-ways
not like the moon, who tries her best to accommodate
scrambling to make ends meet
even though she shines light not her own
despite that she shines light not her own
she tries to lift that darkness, when she can
flexibility making the deed that much more personal
noble
appreciated
as a new day begins