Deepest Cuts

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It always takes
The deepest cuts
To wake us up
To wake us up

It always takes
The sharpest knives
To change our lives
To change our minds

It always takes
The strongest pains
To make us brave
To keep us sane

It always takes
The deepest cuts
To wake us up

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Shards

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It’s not right is it?
A train wreck, rain check face with half-paid smiles and fever red lips
Pasted over a last chance resolve that never made it out of bed when the digits dropped
It’s days like this
When badly photocopied eyes
Which couldn’t afford the full color prints
Take up space on that billboard
Days like this
When angel laced asphalt screams obscenities from wheel-worn poverty and the collective reply of the masses is “suck it up
Everybody hurts”
And I ask myself
How it is that we manage such mayhem
Tucked in pinstripes and patted down with disposable lint rollers
To fill a world so desperate for everything else with the one thing we have in abundance
Rejection
Percentage-wise, we’ve never been a willing lot of responsible users
For all our talk, we salvage less and suffer more than skin can show through tight black fishnets on distant side streets
Only to look ourselves in the mirror
With badly photocopied eyes
Lie
And return again
But underneath our ink and recycled paper
We are dying for some color
Just a life less ordinary
In a disposable population
With reusable souls
That do not need to be told
“you look good today”
We need to be held
We need to be picked up off the sidewalk
And, with the shards of our broken mirrors
Shred these simple sub-standard pie charts
And drive the razor edge into our veins until we bleed the deepest shade of candy apple red onto this monotone mess
All the dreams
All the dreams flowing out into a Pollock mind blaze of a stain big enough to wash away days like today
Until eyes speak like Pluto in exile, saying “we will not go quietly”
And the shards of our broken mirrors become tools of redemption
Cutting through hollow point media masquerades and idealistic beauty
Slicing these badly photocopied eyes off rain-washed billboards
Until shards of our broken mirrors become weapons
Our Constantine sign of rebel beauty
Our anthem of being more than a mass of flesh and social statistics
Rebirthed carving out a new generation
Unwilling to dwindle quietly behind conventional wisdom cooked up by cultural bias
And the shards of our broken mirrors
Will become the passkey to a new beauty
A new breed that bleeds bright eyed dreams into our empty streets
With shards sharpened like knives against the skin of what we have been
To shed those faded yesterdays
And set us free
To be tomorrow

Friction And Popular Fiction

“it hurts” she tells me with a sense of acute emotion. A twisted wince and shudder brought on by, well, just life I guess. I stop to wonder why is it that at the first sign of pain it’s our natural reaction to digress. But I suppose that’s instinct for you. Survival and all. Keeping the race alive and helping us to reproduce. I do find it difficult to swallow the paradigm of just living and making babies because thats what people do. See, I think inside of us each somewhere there is a spark waiting to fly. A fire that could erupt if we ever let it go. And we want to. We really want to live with that sort of passion but we’re scared of all the things we don’t know. I’m sure the first fire started without man’s intervention. Probably lightening or some act of God, but then the people wanted fire and they fought to create it. They tried new techniques until finally one of them caught. I’m sure the first time they struck two flint stones together and ignited it people were astounded and that’s all well, but while they warmed themselves around their newly developed passion did anyone stop to ask about how the stones felt? I doubt it. Why would they? Rocks don’t have feeling. You just use them until they break and then get a new set. But people…well, we are different, but it still requires friction to get us fired up–and it’s the reactions you get like: “it hurts”. Well, yeah. Of course it hurts to find out you’ve been broken into pieces and your burning from the inside out. But in a way perhaps our lives are like a fire. We don’t last very long but we live better when we’re brighter. And, in the end, the ones who never caught a spark may have missed out on the friction but their living in the dark. Emotions aren’t for hiding and a the fires aren’t for fighting. The pain is just the process and it’s nothing that should seem frightening. after all, without a little pain we would never end up stronger. If you don’t ever stand up then you will never stand up longer. If you refuse to suffer you will never learn to heal. If you refuse the senses you will never learn to feel. If you run from everything you will always be alone. And if you run from yourself then you will never feel at home. If you can’t take the weather you will never feel the rain. If you plan to get the pleasure you will need to endure some pain. If you think life is supposed to be about always feeling happy. You will wake up one day realizing you really don’t have anything. See life is not about it all just falling into place. Life is hard to calculate and it gets in your face. If you want to be better then you’d better find out who you are. And if you want to burn brighter then don’t be scared of all the sparks.

Chrysalis

Woven of my visions
Beautiful incisions
Strands of separation
Threaded over me

Darken my surroundings
Closing in around me
Motionless suspended
Waiting for release

Chosen for entombing
Frozen in cocooning
suffocating slowly
Conscious of the space

Every fiber changing
Figure rearranging
Twisting through my framing
Captive by embrace

Patient for the broken
Remnants of this coffin
Shed on wings arising
Lead me into light

Chrysalis rebirth these
Eyes for only earthly
Wake me as a new thing
Wake me when it’s time

Forming ressurection
Lifted in perfection
Shatter these restrictions
Bring me wings to fly

Far beyond the surface
Higher to my purpose
Change us and rebirth us
Take us to the sky