Haiku's

Helplessness blues grow
As the emptiness consumes,
Darkness takes over.

Float towards the sky
Life only made for the end
Watch the fading sun.

People say we dream
But we know it's just a lie
Close your eyes and see.

All the other kids
Are faster than my bullet
Out running my gun.

Putting on their coat
I wonder what became of them
Hoping for mercy.

Nature is beauty
She sits among the tall trees,
Waiting for the sun.

Silence engulfs us
The world aches for a drum beat
I would run away.

I'm ready to fight
Defeat the fire, no fear
Hit for hit, absorb.

Objects mean nothing
Crush a bit, a little bit
What a silly game.

Alone

When i was three my room was my escape. The escape from reality and the unknown world that seemed giant to my three year old eyes. The scary, confusing happening that i didn't understand, had vanished when my white simple door closed shut and i was inside, almost relieved. At this time my family was changing, i was clueless. The memory of the aggressive, booming voice of a man, and a frustrated, upset women battling it out beyond my door. The words, and yelling i didn't comprehend were all gibberish inside my room. The recollection of me hiding in my closet, trying to run away from the argument these people were having. Even the peace i once thought my purple room had, did not protect me from this hatred i could here. The yelling back and forth lasted for hours. But once it stopped i opened my door hesitantly and saw my mom just standing there, frozen. I didn't even have to ask but she said..." That was no one, he is gone now don't worry. " And from the window i saw the six' four giant teddy bear i called my dad, walk to his car and drive away.

pathos

Exactly...she said.
Astonishingly...he thought.
Gleefully...they sang.
Definitively...she decided.
Joyfully...he danced.
Longingly...they waited.
Commonly...she saw.
Mournfully...he watched.
Questionably...they worried.
Intriguingly...she listened.
Radically...they voiced.

cRAzy Is...

The sound of a muzzled kazoo at an orchestra,
the electric fence guarding the peaceful Buddha.
A flat billed platypus sitting on the corduroy couch.
a little toddler sitting in a tacky leather pouch.
The Star Wars intro ringing in your head day and night,
the wrong medicine inject after a snakebite.
A choir walking to houses singing rap songs,
a dreaded monster called King Kong.
The heat from a cold winters wind,
the ostrich eating something skinned.
A desire for a sandpaper bed,
a nightmare leaving you a redhead.
The need for more potato ice cream,
the love of nothing other than to scream.

Crazy isn't....

The sound of a muzzled kazoo at an orchestra,
or the electric fence guarding the peaceful Buddha.
A flat billed platypus sitting on the corduroy couch.
or a little toddler sitting in a tacky leather pouch.
The Star Wars intro ringing in your head day and night,
or the wrong medicine inject after a snakebite.
A choir walking to houses singing rap songs,
or a dreaded monster called King Kong.
The heat from a cold winters wind,
or the ostrich eating something skinned.
A desire for a sandpaper bed,
or a nightmare leaving you a redhead.
The need for more potato ice cream,
or the love of nothing other than to scream.

Crazy is whatever pops into your mind,
that could leave one potentially blind.
Crazy is something completely mental,
but not necessarily accidental.
Crazy is whatever you want,
to survive and flaunt,
what others might not see,
And open to world to possibility.

Melodies

The sweet harmonies ringing off of a perfectly tuned guitar is a sound that fills my body with overwhelming joy. The original harsh, cacophonous sounds vibrating through the air. E is first. The sharp, almost violent sound hits a spark in my brain. Cautiously twisting the golden knobs trying to hit the right note. The little black line in the tuner moves rapidly to the right and then to the left. Staying as far away as possible from the circle in the middle. Once it hits that hollow circle the happiness of success puts a smile on my face and i move on the next 5 strings. Each following the same directions. After each string has been tuned to perfection i start strumming some simple chords, anticipating, hoping for it to sound right. If not, the exact same process begins again. Those darn golden knobs are so finicky, turn it too much one way and its a horrible flat or turn it the other way and it becomes a screeching sharp. Once the turning of the smooth gold plates give my wrist a break from winding, i rest my hand and get ready to strum the new sound. The feeling of the strings imprinting on my soft fingertips. The moment that i have been waiting for. I pick up the apple red triangular pic and place it between my right thumb and index finger. The up, down, up, up, down motion hitting the strings perfectly. The sound floating in the room, ringing flawlessly. I place my left hand on the frets and strings playing chord after chord, the acoustics can make anything better. The feeling of completeness and joy for me can simply come from a tuned guitar. Music plays a huge roll in my life. And this job of simply turning round knobs to make a wrong note sound good means something deeper to me than just tuning a musical instrument.