Letter to My Future Self ,

You may not know it now but I want you to not to forget how much you are learning about yourself right now. College, high school, everything before here was always a clear end to one chapter in your life and all your experiences led you to the clear end of a diploma. Now that you find yourself in the real world with a  career there is no golden, far off and ominous peak that has been classified by societies past. But, instead, you have the opportunity to build your own peak; your own idea of what you want to obtain. You don't have to white picket fence it, settle down, or be in one job for your whole life; you can do whatever the hell you want.

All the perceptions of what you wanted or needed your life to be before this do not matter anymore; the only thing that matters is what you decide to do day in and day out with the time that has been given to you (I hope you still recognize the Lord of the Rings reference). Sure, you might be scared sometimes and you might just want to find the ideal comfort zone and stay there but, I urge you, don't do it. Learn something new everyday, make a few mistakes, have fun because that's what life is all about. Life is not about conforming to some social norms that people expect of you but it is conforming to what you believe are norms; what you want out of this short time that you have been blessed with. If you do this, you will possess an open mind and a readiness for experience that people will be envious of.

You will not act your age but you will just act like you. Be this way, be liberal, be open and don't forget about this as life goes on. Don't become one of those grumpy old men you see now in the office because, well, this letter and every thing will just be hypocritical bullshit. You would have become everything that you stood against because you would have been caught in the materialistic world view that has swallowed so many souls. Exercise your mind and interests and through this you will release your soul and you will find reward in everything you do.

Have a conversation with a random stranger, get their viewpoint; go to a movie alone; talk to the coffee lady at starbucks; keep in touch with friends; have an open door; never talk down to anyone; leave it all in the gym; leave it all at work; write; read; love; and be the man that you want to be now and that you want to keep being. Get out of your comfort zone and you'll find the warm touch of a blanket on a cold winter's eve or the cool breeze of a fan on a summer day. Learn, live, love, and do.


Benjamin Krebs, 22 yr old male

Crossroads

He told me one day

After a long journey home

A story of life

Of how he had almost won

The eyes lit up

He was young again

A man of few words

Enlightened in a beautiful score

Of peaks and valleys

He told his tale

A man who had been there and back

Had lived in the belly of the whale

Jonah encompassed

Which way was north?

He had no clue

Only one pair of shoes

He had been in a schoolyard

Had scoffed at the notion

That women would at one time

Rule his emotion

It had been so simple

Just a paper and pen

Recess at noon

And a mom to pick him up after school

It wasn’t until a mistake was made

That life became a little more serious

And a lot less sane

In a good way; though

He came into his own

A well-rounded man

Never a bore

Never fully satisfied

Always thinking too hard

Nitpicking himself

When he didn’t meet the bar

Like a fine tailored suit

A long process to become

Comfortable in your own skin

And never be in a slum

Just as soon as it happened

College was there

Another change of scenery

Another round of cares

His father had told him

Nose to the grind stone, son

It’s better to think of a diving board

Because you’re still so young

He hadn’t felt that way

Four years of fun

He felt old and ready

To figure it out

Sail away under the sun

Society dictated

What it thought he had needed

What it thought needed to happen

When he made it through

An honored combatant

People followed the norm

All around him he saw

People catching something

Just to fit into a crowd

A whole life ahead

He thought to himself

But why is everyone

So eager to play house?

Is it the lighting of the floors?

The thought of more

The thought of opportunity

Can frighten people into a bore

It was this he saw, the man had said

That caused him to look ahead

Passed the material blend

To something that mattered to him

There in was the question

The thought of matter

What was this life?

A secret ingredient to the batter

A cross roads had been reached

But, the man wasn’t content

There was more to the gleam

More to a life

Mostly unseen

Was it a crown he wanted?

Or a white picket fence?

Or a chance to learn more

To delay the deafening roar

Of a world unknown

Of a comfort unfelt

Like a sweater that itches

Like a mist felt

Written up

Cycled down

Left for dead

Talked abound

What would the tree grow?

A rose of red or yellow

Would life turn out?

To be so mellow

Was it the blond with the smile?

Or the brunette with the brain?

That made all these choices

Seem even more insane

Had he come to a cross roads?

Or a dead end

Time to make new friends

And settle amends

I tell you, he said

The books still writing

The only thing I know

The horizon is quite daunting

As in any person will say

Its never just a settled thunder

It is often lighting

That leads to a plunder

Do not listen to yourself

Do not assume you know all

You’ll wake up one day

And realize you were never on the ball

“Are you even there?

After all this time”

I asked the man

Feeling even more blind

A tear streamed down

Leaving him strummed

With a thought lingering

A burning yearn

If you never tell yourself

You wouldn’t have done things different

Then you might be content

Like a mouse in a kitchen

Living off scraps

With others permission

But you’ll sit up at night

Thinking back

To a day of risk

To a day where you didn’t always round the same track

Live it as such

That’s what I say

Then the tears will come

Cause a risk taken

Is always easier to wash away

Miles Lincoln: A Sample from the Novel

Miles Lincoln was a tall man, a rather tall man. He stood 6’10 but most people guessed him to be around 7’0 ft.  He did not mind this misconception, he actually quite enjoyed it.  When one is tall or larger than most one tends to get confidence; they build a conception that they are superior to others.  If you wanted to find this conception in its abundance, you did not have to look further than Miles Lincoln. Miles had been a star basketball player, had attended North Carolina and played for a brief time in the NBA.  Though most of his time had been spent in a folded chair to hear him talk about it, it was like he had won a MVP award.  He bragged about going up against the great Dwight Howard.  Apparently he had blocked him but who knows. Miles had always loved basketball but the thing he loved more was teaching.

            While at North Carolina, between the parties and national championship, Miles had been able to obtain a degree in education and gotten certified as a teacher.  When he had taught summer school all of the kids had idolized him; gathered around him like he was some sort of god.  Miles might have told everyone else that he did it for the kids, for the joy in teaching them live lessons but really it was his ego that superseded all of that bullshit.  When he was teaching he felt like the kids where getting the best teaching provided; which was by him.  Whenever he stepped into the classroom he knew he would change someone’s live; that’s how much confidence existed in Miles rather large head.  This is the exact attitude that attracted the Thinker schools to recruit Miles to represent them.

            Miles was teaching in his home town of Odessa, Texas when he had heard of a new school coming to the area.  Miles had loved the idea of the Thinkers, the best and brightest leading the way, showing others the light at the end of the tunnel. He, himself, thought he was capable of being one, of showing the way.  When he saw the job announcement that they were looking for people to help out in any way he immediately jumped on the opportunity to show these “thinkers” that he belonged with them. Miles set up an appointment and the school was quite impressed with his appearance and drive.  Miles, though, would not be given a teaching job but would find his true calling in selling and recruiting for the school. Miles was not in the classroom, not “changing lives” but he was the face of the school, the representative.  This was enough to satisfy his ego.  The way he looked at it, these Thinker teachers would not have a job if it wasn’t for him.  He was hoping on this trip to make the teachers even more grateful for having him around.

            Patrick Smith, the boys name, the file really spoke wonders of him. He had produced greatly in the test but to Miles that meant nothing.  That’s way they did the test and then sent him in.  A face to face meeting, in Miles opinion, superseded any test.  He had been doing this job for 5 years now, and he knew when he saw a Thinker.  Even at a young age you could tell.  They would often keep to themselves, seeming to be in another place but at the same time they would be right there, looking at you.  Yes, that look, that was the main thing.

            Miles could clearly recall a recruiting trip to one Marcus Deeds, an 8 year old subject in Richmond, Virginia.  Miles had gone to the house, had coffee with the mother, talked shop with the father and had then felt a strange numb feeling on the top of his back.  Upon turning around his eyes had met with Marcus’s.  These eyes were bright green, and did not blink in the 10 seconds that Miles stared at them.  These were eyes that seemed to look into the depths of Miles’s soul; dissecting his life as intricately as a skilled surgeon. Marcus Deeds found out more about Miles in those 10 seconds then Miles’ parents ever knew.  These eyes were built for reading, for taking in everything. Marcus was now a thriving 12 year old at the Thinker school in Richmond, all thanks to Mr. Lincoln.

As he stepped out of the taxi in front of the modest house of the Smiths, he remembered the look, and hoped to get the same from young Patrick.

Knock, Knock.

“Hello, Mr. Smith I assume. My name is Miles Lincoln I represent the Thinkers,” Miles said looking down at the short man.

“Oh, hello, I wasn’t expecting you so early but it’s all good. Come in, Come in,” Mr. Smith said, studying Miles up and down.

He sure wasn’t expecting to answer the door and find a giant standing there, but life is full of surprises.  Miles Lincoln? He recognized the name from somewhere, some sport hero he thought.  Seemed a nice man but Mr. Smith knew that he was just being exposed to the cover and would have to read the book before judging Miles Lincoln.

“Would you like anything to drink Mr. Lincoln, maybe some coffee?” Mr. Smith said, as Miles crouched down to enter the house through the door.

“I would love some water with ice if you got it,” Miles said standing but having to crouch quick to avoid the fan. He figured he would just remain bent at the upper back to avoid any other hazards.  The position looked uncomfortable but Miles had gotten used to it over the years. Besides, this position gave him a better view of the whole house.

The living room was modestly arranged, with two couches and a television set up in the ideal central location of the room.  There were many military pictures; soldiers of past generations. This family had had many a soldiers but from looking at the elder Smith Miles could tell that he intended to be the last in the line. His eyes showed too much content and longing; not for himself but possibly for his son.

“My father was in Iraqi. Terrible mess that turned out to be don’t you think Mr. Smith,” Miles said turning his head to Mr. Smith, who was standing at the sink.

“Well, that’s where I happened to see my first action, Mr. Lincoln. I was serving my country sir and that’s all I’ll say about that. Here’s your water,” Mr. Smith said, quite sternly.

Miles knew that answer; that was the answer his father always gave him when he had discussed the politics of the war. As a soldier his father never complained, never discussed policies or such.  Miles had always pestered him but never got an answer. At the time Miles had perceived his dad to be hard headed and not much of an intellectual. As Miles got older he respected his dad for his stance because it had propelled Miles to strive to be original; to be special.  Mr. Smith, it seemed, with considering to put his son in a Thinker school was trying to branch out as well; something Miles’s father never did.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.  Is there any place where we can talk before I see Patrick?” Miles asked, sipping the water.

“Why would you need to see Patrick? I thought all the tests were done,” Mr. Smith said, sounding agitated.

“Yes, all the tests are done sir. I would just like to see the boy and get a feel for him. I know the school inside and out Mr. Smith. I know who will succeed and who will fail. I know the best teachers and the worst teachers. I am a representative and I represent the school and the school’s interests. The school’s interests are, of course, to teach young people to become Thinkers but in order to first do this we must have adequate students to teach. The tests are a portion of finding out if the student is adequate. Do you want to know what the other portion is?”

“I am assuming it has something to do with this visit,” Mr. Smith said, liking the confidence exerted by the man.

“Correct. You see I am the eyes and ears of the school. I observe and take in the students that are being evaluated for enrollment and I conclude. These conclusions I make will make or break your child’s chances of being officially accepted into the school. I say this now so you are fully aware of the visit. Now, where can we talk?” Miles said, smiling.

“Right in the kitchen, at that table should be good. That’s where I meet and talk with my friends and associates. You are one of those aren’t you Mr. Lincoln?”

“Yes. Since I am than why don’t you call me Miles, Mr. Smith.”

“Okay, Miles,” Mr. Smith said leading the way to the kitchen table.

Mr. Smith sat down, looking at the peculiar site of a 7 foot man squeezing into the small kitchen table chair. This man reminded him of some of the hot gun recruits that came in. Mr. Smith liked those recruits but what he liked even more was breaking them and then building them up, making them more confident than ever. With Miles, though, it seemed that it would be impossible to make his confidence higher. This was a good and bad thing Mr. Smith thought.

“Well,” Miles said.”Let’s start with questions from you, about the school, the teachers, etc,” he said, shifting back and forth trying to get comfortable in the chair.

“What kind of education will my son be getting? I am not really familiar with the Thinker curriculum, actually I don’t think anyone is,” Mr. Smith said, interested.

“The basic curriculum starts with the skills anyone would need to survive in this world, Mr. Smith. Math, the social studies, English, basically the same things taught in a public school.  The only difference being that it is all at an accelerated rate. The basics of all subjects, in Patrick’s case, would be all taught to him by the time he turns 13. We deal with exceptional students so thus we can have this accelerated rate of teaching,” Miles said, crossing his legs and finding a comfortable position.

“What if the students can’t keep up, I guess they fall behind. Do you compensate for that?”

“In the earlier stages of teaching we can compensate for slowness. This is only because we have found, in studies, that there is a transition period for some students; being away from home and all that causes them to become lax and feel out of place.  We expect this period to last between 6 or 8 months. By then we found that the children start to take in their situation and make the most of it. 

If one of the children were to fall behind in his or her 4^th year at the school we would watch the situation closely for around 2 months. If there is no improvement within this time period we take it upon ourselves to reevaluate the student.  There is really no room for stragglers at this school.  That is way it is a Thinker school, Mr. Smith. Only the best come in but only the better of the best come out. That’s a little phrase I carry around with me. I like it but if you read in to it too much then it really doesn’t make any sense,” Miles said, laughing.

“So, if my son were to fall behind he would be kicked out, is that what you’re saying?” Mr. Smith said.

“He would be reevaluated sir; reevaluated.”

Reevaluated, wow, this guy really did think he was the shit, Mr. Smith thought.

“What are the costs like, to attend the school?”

“Well, sir, that is the great part. It is free, completely free. You see, what we do there is, we build for the world’s future; the worlds. We teach with the sole purpose of changing the world, for the better, through our students.  Our services are for the world, not for any profit or individual gain. Throw away the pep talk and, well, we are government funded,” Miles said smiling.

“It seems like since you are government funded, some money would be going away from the public schooling system.”

“Yes, I suppose. But, of the schools where do you think it would be better spent? With thousands of children who might succeed or fail or with a select few who’s only option after coming out of our school is succeeding?”

“Well, I like to think that every child can succeed with the proper chance.  Just because one child does well on one test doesn’t mean that they should be given any less of an opportunity,” Mr. Smith said, thinking back to the damn SATs.

“Yes, Mr. Smith, if only it could work like that. America is the place of second chances, but that’s only if you really mess up. If one has one bad test day , like let’s say in taking the SATs, they will face the consequences the rest of their life. But, in these situations, when all the cards are on the table is when great people, smart people step up to the challenge.  If you can’t step up then you must step down,” Miles said, sipping on his water.

“Survival of the fittest or a slow wending out of people, kind of like something I would do with a new batch of recruits. It seems to work with recruits but with children? My son is only five. I guess what I am trying to say is, how can we sit here and say that my son can succeed and survive when he can so easily be turned away at the first sign of failure?” Mr. Smith said, tearing up in the eyes.

“We cannot Mr. Smith, the only thing we can tell is…,” Miles said pausing, as he saw a head peak around the couch that was in the adjacent living room.

The eyes read right through him, analyzing all of Miles’s life in five seconds. Miles had seen the same eyes in other kids but these eyes, these were very original. The boy’s green eyes were the only eyes that Miles had seen power in.  This boy was hiding so much, holding so much power behind those eyes and he didn’t even know it.  This power, though, was it good? Miles was overwhelmed by it; taken aback; his chest filling up like he had just held his breath under water. Miles had seen power in the wrong hands, power used not for the good of humanity but for individual gain.  This boy was innocent, had no idea of his potential. What if this potential was unleashed? Would it serve a greater good or would it make this world an even worse place?

“With education at this school, no one can fail…blah…blah…blah,” Miles’s interviewer had said when he had gone to become a part of the Thinker organization. For the first time since Miles had taken the job he began to feel that this school, might bring out parts of this child that should not be brought out. But, this boy could offer so much, could help so many people Miles thought. Just because he rubs you the wrong way, well, it doesn’t mean anything.  For the first time, Miles began to question his importance, his value; for the first time Miles did not feel in control.  The boy, his damn eyes, were controlling him, making him unsure of himself.

“There he is, my boy. Patrick why don’t you come on over and say hello to Miles,” Mr. Smith said, ushering Patrick over.

Patrick was quite taken aback by the giant that was sitting next to his father.  Patrick thought that this man should go back up the beanstalk. But, like all things Patrick had not encountered before, he was drawn to the giant, to meet him; he wanted to understand. Patrick walked over, making sure to look the giant straight in the face, not taking his eyes off of him, just to show he wasn’t intimidated by him. “Stand tall,” his dad always told him.

“Hello, Patrick. It is very good to finally put a face with all of the talk. There has been a lot of talk about you, my boy,” Miles said, eyes watering up a little.

“You’re a big man, really big,” Patrick said, staring into Miles’s eyes.

“Yes, I have heard that before. I like being this big actually, maybe one day you will be.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Smith said, “but I highly doubt it. The tallest person to come from my family was only around six feet tall,” Mr. Smith said, smiling.

“What about his mother’s side?”

“Mom isn’t here anymore, she left to go help people. She’ll be back though, that’s what dad says,” Patrick said, smiling thinking of his mother.

“Yes she will, yes she will Patrick,” Mr. Smith said, holding back tears and trying to hold back memories of a bad past.

“Oh I am sure she will,” Miles said gazing at Mr. Smith.

It was that kind of gaze that Mr. Smith knew, the kind that said, “I’ve got you made suka.” Miles knew about Mrs. Smith, knew what had happened three years ago; on Christmas Eve out of all the days.  It had been tough, so tough that Mr. Smith still couldn’t come to terms with it and thus was lying to Patrick. He was trying to warp reality to hide the demons of the past. He figured if you lied enough it would all eventually turn to truth.  

“Yes, well Miles would you like to talk to Patrick a little while, one on one of course?” Mr. Smith said trying to change the subject.

“Yes, eventually but I would like to talk to the both of you together first.  I like to see that the parent and child are on the same page, that there are no secrets, no information that both do not know,” Miles said, smiling.

That bastard, Mr. Smith thought. Who is he to judge what he should or should not tell his child? Patrick did not need to know the hardships of life, what pain a woman could cause, not now. Or did he? Mr. Smith had often voiced his dissatisfaction in the sheltered youth; the kind of kid that thought that the world was a gentle place not a place that would eat your life up. These kinds of people had to be shown that life and this world is tough, that things don’t always go your way. By telling his son a lie, Mr. Smith was really sheltering his son and making himself a hypocrite. The people that he criticized he had now become. He would have to tell his son, if he were to go to this school he would have to tell him. If he didn’t it might hurt their relationship the rest of their life.

He wanted the best for his son, he wanted to give him the world. Mr. Smith, though, would not be able to show his son the evils and let downs of the world for a long time.

Personalities Unknow

What I saw wasn’t there

A picture unpainted

A mouse untrapped

Behind a blank curtain

It is not for certain

Mind unseen

From a glitter no gold

Come on up

Show us on the board

Step lightly through the dust

Make no fuss

It is through the night

That a light dims none

A cycle of content

Through a landscape of discontent

Not knowing anything

When you’re expected to know all

Sensing a society

Not known to a later

Thoughts of culture

Seen through the eyes of clowns

A car not fit for five

A life undone by prose

A hook-up to nothing

Stepping closer to infamy

Climb the tree to be fit

Stay closer to me to remain unseen

Get up to never sit down

Throw-up from another night out

Can’t understand the thinking

Behind experiences made

Throughout countless hours

Memories lost and gained

Through dust the boots kick up

Over a blonde dawn

To a brunette evening

Without cause to be made

A lack of daunting

But always wanting

Minds fixated with greed

Faces invested with lust

Drinks made with the leaves

Of sexual flavors made undone

Heartless thoughts unveiled

Of fractions of constitutions

Clear and pictured from form

Clothes worn to many plaids

Conforming to make norms

Attesting to Gods unseen

Principles cemented

Heart cut in half

Too many times to know

Just wanting a straight answer

From personalities unknown

An Instant As A Dog

Oh man, oh man, oh man....gotta get, gotta get up....something's outside, something's outside; I gotta get up. Now I'm up but no one else is....what's going on? SLURP,SLURP, SLURP....Good water, oh man...what am I going to do today? So much time so much time...oh...wait....something's moving; walk time! Walk time! Oh man, oh man.....I got to jump....I'm jumping....

Lick! Lick! Lick!

"Max! Get off you...Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah..."

Ears back; ears back....keep bugging him...keep bugging him....he'll get up....he'll get up. Lick, lick....

"Blah, blah,blah....outside."

Outside....oh man outside....there's so much stuff out there.....trees, rabbits, toys, rabbits,rabbits, rabbits!!!!!!
Its never bright out here; why is it never bright out here? Oh man, no rabbits...I should lay down and save some energy....walk time is coming; its getting close. I got to go...I got to go.....ah, got some on my leg....ah man, ah man.....BARK! BARK!...Now they know I'm here....everything can start now...come on bunnies, come on bunnies....lets go! lets go!.......I'm tired.....

The Ritual

The lights were dim, making the whiskey shine through the transparent glass. Before the first sip there was an instant where he didn't even want to drink the whiskey; where he wanted to sit there and admire it for the two hour Friday ritual that had been a constant for the past few weeks. The ritual took place at some bar in some different part of the city every some Friday. All different faces, different music except for three constants that were connected to him like extra arms or legs.

Constant 1: Whiskey on the rocks

Constant 2:  An empty stool to his left and right

Constant 3: The constant feeling of "what now?"

The feeling swirled around in his mind like the whiskey he would sometimes swish back and forth before the second or third sip. Before the ritual all of the dealings of the day; work, family, friends, working out, suppressed the feeling; made him live in the moment. But, the ritual brought him back to the grand picture, the idea that had evolved into being dubbed his life. What would he do now with all the time in the world and empty stools next to him? He expected the ritual to figure this out for him; as if the ritual had developed into an entity all by itself; filling the stools next to him and pouring his drink. 

But, the ending was the same but never the same. A drink or two later he would see a pretty group of girls sitting across the bar; laughing, talking, surpassing the same feelings he was sure they shared with him. He would smile at one, maybe two of the girls; hoping to find some electric attraction that would sometimes levitate him to the other side of the bar; only in time to get a number or disguised words that said "get away". Accomplishment would set in as he was able to take the easiest step on the path to getting to know a woman but it would eventually lead to disappointment as pessimistic Jiminy Cricket's danced around in his head telling him that the phone call or text would end as so many other phone calls or texts had ended; with no return. It was all the same ending; as if the number had never even transgressed between the two. He would end up knowing the most about them before even knowing them. 

The argument with the cricket's was than interrupted by the surge of optimism offered by a Mr. Jack Daniels or a Mr. Jameson. They came booming in; men with long breads, happy guts and optimism followed by meandering to invite some of their brothers in to join the party. They were always very convincing; sometimes convincing enough to lead to a cab ride home. Most of the time he sobered up; with a water and some bull shitting with the bar tender who was caring just enough to warrant a tip. By that time any ride, whether it be in a cab or in his own car, led to a period of self reflection that only made him never want to do the ritual again. 

He thought it was all pointless and settled nothing; he even thought that at this very point it had made everything worse. All of this nonsense that led to nonsense; all of this thinking that made him never want to think again. The ritual had ended on another Friday night with him alone and those same two empty stools circling in his head; no longer occupied by Jameson, Jack, or the cricket. Instead the feeling of "what now" was the only constant that followed him from beginning to end in the ritual. You could say that one constant was the whole reason for the ritual; the whole reason he woke up the next morning and felt like it had all been worth it. 

He had learned something, he had found something out about himself through the ritual and he wanted more. He wanted to learn, he wanted to figure it all out through experience; through getting lost in all kinds of places, even if those places were at the bottom of a whiskey glass. He wanted to wander, he wanted to enjoy; he wanted to get as far away as possible from all the of the thoughts that swirled in his head at the end of the ritual. Then, though....it all set in: Work, Family, Friends...everything that made him come back to the ritual; to a different bar, on a different Friday, with a different glass. All that he had learned or thought he had learned the week before was gone and was all hidden; at the bottom of a glass. 

Encounters

Act 1

Times you act

Like you’re not what you are

Everyone questions

You know its fact

What you say

What you do

It is pure and

Good

You go off instinct

Off a gut that lingers

For something more

Something so soft in your fingers

Flowing brown hair

A smile worth a million words

A body and mind

That shows the beauty in the world

 A talk that is fluid

Like you never didn’t know her

The most natural thing

That makes your heart sing

A chance encounter

Something with a little liquid courage

That turned out to be

Just your bowl of porridge

You couldn’t stop looking at her

You couldn’t stop talking to her

You met an angle

That you didn’t want to let away

To another night of regret

To another night of content

That voice, that talk

The stuff that made her

Do that walk

The whole package

The real McCoy

I hope I see her again

I hope I didn’t annoy

A Poem

What happened to you, myself?

No more hope wandering

Weighed down by the pillars of society

Trapped in a cubicle jungle

Laughing with dying men at sour jokes

Lying through teeth of tigers

Fierce at the hunting hour

Stalking a pray of grandeur

Forcing the misconception of relevance onto dullness

What happened to you, myself?

Of questioning sprits now unearthed

Scrolling past statues to judge lies of steel machines

Conjuring up get-rich quick scams for 20-year lives

Commuting back and forth between dream and reality

Finding no time to take a leap

Only questioning one’s self

Fear of failure playing faint tunes

What happened to you, myself?

A year away from commonality

Scaring yourself into the back of the herd

Wanting to lead but not be led

Writing to release contemporaries

Prosing through to express pink undersides

Feeling the urge of the seductive temptress

Wanting to seem the stronger person

What happened to you, myself?

Playing tricks in the back of your head

Dealing our hands against the odds

The future unwritten

Splitting the atom of success and anonymity

Correcting the state of boredom through drug

Finding an excuse four nights of the week

Put it on the rocks to comfort the headache

What happened to you, myself?

Now you must become a man, son

Look into the light

And feel the weight of responsibility

Stuck in a roller chair of lost aspirations

Lost in a sea of text, paper, dried ink of waste

Floating on a platform of what ifs

Young discontinuing relevance

What happened to you, myself?

Struggling above the line

Crawling away from the pit of victims

Summing up feelings through plastered after thoughts

What happened to you, myself?

Entangled in weeks of false lore

Stepping in puddles raining from doubt

Thinking ever turn will led to a dead end

Doubting the conclusion that you’ve done enough

Running from pestering ghosts

Climbing to meet expectations

Only breathing on the weekends

What happened to you myself?

A brick in the ocean

Floating along; waiting

Past rosy afternoons fading into black evenings

Running out of false time

Intro

I write because I’m lost. I write to find the meaning through the words. I write to settle in the pages.  I write to escape to a place where I can be found. I write because there’s no other universe where it would be proper to not. I write because of the way it makes my fingers feel. I write because of the thoughts I can’t communicate any other way. I write to impress. I write to feel sophiscated and form thoughts of grandeur. I write to pass the time. I write to hang out in coffee shops. I write because it sets me apart. I write for words so I don’t have to talk. I write without prose or purpose to give my world order. I write to feel the day again; every action, thought, and perception. I write to capture. I write to be free. I write with the independence and imagination of a child and the ignorance of a senior.  I write because I hate people. I write because I love all human beings. I write to find love in words and to justify not finding it in reality. I write to describe unknown entities. I write because it’s my label.

                I write to focus. I write to pass the time and justify a cappuccino. I write because it comes so easy and so hard.  I write to show the mind I still can. I write to set myself apart. I write to give interviews, in my head, on the new best seller from Ben Krebs. I write to find more reasons to write. I write because I have no reason to write. I write to rhythm the keyboard with my life; but not in a cheesy way. I write to amplify feelings and actions. I write because I know at least one person will be reading. I write because it flows well with Pink Floyd music. I write late at night just to stay up. I write in the morning to put myself to sleep. I write to change it up. I write to tell a story. I write to be serious. I write to be funny. I write to see if it sounds any good. I write so I have something to talk to other people about. I write to make myself interesting. I write to feel different. I write because it is what needs to be done. I write to live away from the mundane and hectic. I write to stay inside a larger box. I write to see all of myself. I write because I can’t say these things to others. I write because I’m afraid. I write because it is what I want to do. I write to connect on another level. I write to climb to the top of the bean stalk. I write to catch the fish. I write to travel to California. I write to get away from Big Brother. I write to represent my section. I write to find the Dark Tower. I write to destroy the ring. I write to float away into bliss; invisible from all. I write to take the road less traveled. I write to find the inferno. I write because it’s just business.  I write because I never fucked your wife. I write because tigers love pepper. I write for the glory of it all. I write because I’m not five foot nothing.

I write to find the one thing that I’ll be searching for every day, every hour, every minute, every second. I write to find meaning. I write to eclipse convention. I write to unite under non-commonality. I write to keep traveling so I can find myself. I write because it is the one thing I know I love. I write to find appreciation. I write to find love.