Early to bed, Early To Rise....

These last few days haven't been easy. Not only am I bored as hell, I'm litterally haunted by images from my past. The only thing I can actually describe it as is loosing something you really loved. Then days after you loose it, everything that you see reminds you of that one thing. That's what it's been like for me these past few days. In fact, that's what it's been like for me since the end of the summer.

That's how someone knows they love something a lot. When after it's gone, it's the only thing you want back. Nothing else seems to matter. My world has felt empty for the past few months and I think that's just the way I'm going to feel for a long time. Empty.

However long it's going to take me to undo the "thing" that is wrong with me, I'm going to have to live through. Whether or not I'm returned what was taken from me is another story. The truth is, I'm learning alot about myself now that this "thing" is gone. I'm able to see how much pain it caused me and how much it used me for all that I was worth and then looked for an oppertunity to get rid of me. However, I don't so much that it was waiting so much as something else in the midsts who was hoping to find some way to get rid of me.

Most of you are reading this right now and thinking to yourselves, "What the hell is he talking about?" I wouldn't blame you. Sometimes I have no idea what I'm talking about, but somehow that's going to all change soon.

One of the best parts about being a writer is being able to create characters at will. The true way that we do it is to adapt our characters from people that we have actually met or heard about in real life. This process seems to be the most easiest for me. I've met soom pretty colorful people in my few 22 years of life. Most of which were nice people just very colorful.

I say this for the fact that there is one evil thing about writers that no one ever thinks about. I've got a shirt that speaks bundles when it says, "Careful or you'll end up in my novel." That's exactly what I'm talking about. A writer's ultimate power is to take the people that he hates more than anything and to create a character that he/she can do as they wish. Once the project is done, the writer is able to sit back and have a good laugh at what he's done to the character based on the "asshole".

A project that I started a while ago is now back in process. After everything that happened this summer I didn't feel it necessary to continue it since the characters I created were actual people who I no longer have contact with. (Getting the picture yet?) But now that I've had the time to think it over and place my emotions to the side, all I'm left with now is the bullshit they left behind. So that's what I intend to do. You see, writer's analyze people before they ever concider what kind of character they would make in a story. I had six years to figure these people out and they never bothered to do the same to me. Now, I've got six years of fustration and I think some revenge is in order.

Project: Summer is now in full swing and I hope to have it complete fairly soon since I have most of the parts created. This book I will make available to as many markets as I can. Until then, still expect me to post stuff on here as usual. I know most of you are enjoying the poetry and as long as you enjoy it and come by and read it, I will keep giving you what you want. As a music performer, I know the most important part of the show is to give the audience what they want.

This next poem is about the one thing I had to learn how to do a long time ago, say "good-bye". There are lots of things that we say everyday now that we say because we feel we should, but we never stop to actually realize what we're saying and how much power it used to have. Take for instance: I love you. I've heard that a few times in my life and I realize now that those who said it to me, besides my parents, never actually truely meant it. Kinda sucks when you reach that point in your life when you understand how fake some people can be. And that's what this angel feels like in my poem.

Saying Good-Bye

Waiting to say good-bye
has always been the hardest for me.
From the day it all ended,
to the day I learned that our beginning
would lead to and end.

The war has left us
lost and alone.
and lost in a desert,
whose only known tenant is a star
who wishes no one looks upon.

You looked at me
and blew me kisses from afar.
I saw you walk into that tunnel of nothing.
Walking to a bird made my man
that tries to reach the heavens
that don't exist for the living.

For years, I was that part of you
that you adored like the song of the angel
that fell from the sky. Where is the love
you showed to me then? Is it where
you're going now?

I look through the shield
that keeps me from touching you,
from telling you, from loving you.
What is something so unyielding
that not even love may pass through it?
It's the steel of the hammer
that's breaking my heart.

I will keep my confession from you.
A symbol of my faultless epiphany which,
if I would have paid more attention to,
would have kept me from this moment in time.

It is, has been, and always will be
my curse.
It started from the beginning,
yet it gave no sign of and end. So could it be
that this is death? Could this be
the continuous, never-ending, beginning of my
melancholy way of life?

They say there is a light at the end
of every dark tunnel. But I just saw you leave
in a tunnel that was dark enough to swallow you whole
and then make sure you should not find your way out.
What kind of a tunnel is that? What kind of tunnel
lets you go forward, but not back?

I see you leave the earth on steel wings
that would not let any holy being fly in Heaven.
The walls around me close and there is nothing
but an opening to the sky above me.


God, damn these clipped wings!
What purpose do they serve if they don't let me fly,
if I can not wrap those in them who need me by there side?
What good is this sword of flame you give to your soldiers
if the shield you give them doesn't even protect them
from the fallacies of life, love, and friendship?

WHAT GOOD IS A MORTAL SOUL TO AN ANGEL
TO MAKE HIM HUMAN
IF THE ONES HE LOVES, CARES FOR,
WOULD DIE FOR, GIVE UP HIS SEAT IN HEAVEN FOR, AND MAKE HIM WISH NOT TO GO HOME,
DON'T LOVE HIM BACK!?

WHAT ARE THESE WORDS I CRY FOR?!
THEY ARE THE WORDS OF A MORTAL,
TO WHICH THOSE WHO RIDE ON STEEL WINGS
HAVE TURNED A DEAF EAR TO!

THEY ARE THE WORDS OF AN ANGEL,
THAT NO ONE WILL READ,
WHO HAS LOWERED HIS SHIELD AND SWORD
TO BE MORTAL AND DO AS MORTALS DO
ONLY TO FIND THAT MORTALS ARE CRUEL CREATURES!

LET THEM HAVE DIVINE LOVE!
LET THEM HAVE THE GRACE OF OUR FATHER!
BUT MAKE ME A FULL MORTAL
SO THAT I MAY HAVE IT TOO!

I snap back.
You're gone from my view for who knows how long.

On the other side of the shield
a drop of water falls.
Is it rain, is it a water spot?
I will never know, but
to look through it from the other side,
would look like a tear from me.

Let someone else carry my sword and shield tonight.
Tonight, I sleep as a mortal and I leave my questions behind.
Lord knows, you have already.

Until next time.

Just before bed.

This one was asked for by special request. No essay or opening for tonight, everyone. Tonight, I'll just let my poetry speak for itself. Tomorrow will be a different story.

The King in Her Life

Today is my day.

I watched the sun go down

on the day before today

hoping that something would change

from then to nowbut things have not.

The day is passing.

The night that I have waited for

is finally here.

My prince is in his carriage

almost to my door.

There is not much time to prepare.

I must start now.

I go to my mirror.

I open the make up in my music box.

The memories of you return to me.

The thoughts of your voice telling me

no matter how much of it I used

I would never need it.

The song that kept playing

as you showed me how to dance.

How great it was to be a child

when you were here.

With every brush of my hair,

with every dust of my face,

I'm only trying to hide my scars.

The woman in the mirror

is nothing without you.

It's strange.

I always thought

you would be here for this moment

and yet

you feel miles away

because you are.

I go to my closet.

There is the dress.T

he costume to hide the princess

that is really a pauper.

I take it from it's prison

and remove it from it's noose.

It fits perfectly.

But somehow, the embrace of your arms

telling me that you would protect me

from now until forever

fits much better.

The night is almost over me.

The symbol we gave to each other

the night you left on wings

and left us here without you

is shining high in the sky.

You told us to watch it with you.

It was how we would know of your love

and how we could keep our faith

that we were still with each other.

I watch it from my window.

I wonder if you're watching it with me

while you're protecting me.

In the distance,

I can see my prince.

You have not met him.

I hope you will.

I love him, but not as much

as I will always love you.

You would be proud.

You inspire him to be like you.

My guardian, my friend, my life.

A knock at my door.

The love of your life

How she covers the thoughts of pain

with the smiles she's given me since you've left.

I know what love is because of her.

That's how I know I'm in love.

"He's waiting down stairs."

she says to me.

"I wish he could be here"

I say as I look at your picture.

"He is, my love."

I walk down the stairs of my castle.

There is my prince.

In his uniform, just like you.

A symbol of protection, just like you.

And then he speaks...

"I have a gift for you tonight.

It's better then any night at any ball,

any gift of jewels,

or any dance with me."

What could it be?

He takes my hand and leads me to the door.

"Your wish is on the other side."

I turn the handle...

a rush of life...

the last moment I saw you leave our home....

the last time I saw you smile at me...

the last words...good bye.

There you were.

In your suit.

In your armor.

The armor you wore to protect us all.

You had the smile I saw you with last.

The smile that brightend up my days.

You stood with a tear your eye

and I couldn't see you.

My tears had blinded me.

My king had come home.

"I missed you so, my princess.

You're beautiful.

God let me come home today to see my angel like this."

"I missed you more,

my soldier,

my king...

My daddy."

Until next time.

Do you ever wonder...

...where they go?

Today being All Soul's Day, I figure I would put up this poem that I've had for a while. I never really understood why I wrote it until now. There are things we don't really understand at the time why we do them, but we know somewhere deep inside that in the grand scheme of things, they will have a bigger purpose later on.

That's where this poem comes in. Now if my internet hadn't gone out a couple of days ago, I would have completely forgotten I had t his poem. By the time I would have posted it wouldn't have had the same effect as it might have right now.

For those of you who know me beyond this blog and know sort of my backstory of my life, you know that it's been sometime since I lost my little brother. He was the only sibbling that actually looked up to me since my sisters were very much older by the time I was born. I was sort of the last one that my parents actually planned on. Then Alex showed up. There was lots of drama during that part of my life which I won't get into, but the point that I'm trying to make is that he's gone. I often wonder why it was I never actually mourned for him like I have for others who left my life. I loved him unconditionally and to this day I miss him very much and wonder what he would have become if he hadn't died so early in his life. Maybe I knew that in the grand scheme of things he would be going to a place that I wouldn't have to be sad about. I should be happy.

For the most part, death makes us realize things that we don't fully understand until we realize the person who's gone no longer has the time to figure it out. They're going to find out up close and personal. That is, if there actually is a Heaven or Hell, but we'll save that for another blog.

For now, I leave you with this work long lost in the Archangel Archives. I hope that after you read it, you find the same comfort that I did in knowing what we hope happens to us after a greater power than anything we know takes us off our journey though life.

Waiting

And here I sit.

Watching you from your window sile.

Being ever vigilant like the stars.

I'm watching you say your prayers by your bedside.

One for you,

one for your mother,

one for your father,

one for your sister,

one for me.

I can see your eyes in the moonlight.

The tears are forming.

You don't understand I'm right here.

I've never left.

I've kept my promise.

You wipe the tears from your eyes

and slip into the bed holding your angelic body.

Hours have passed and you've not yet closed your eyes.

There is no reason to stay up for me.

Leave the night to angels and demons.

This is no time for you.

Thought I lay somewhere with my eyes closed,

I can never pray, sleep, or dream again.

Turn to watch the moon.

See how it can fill the soul with things we cannot understand?

Remember how I told you to watch the moon if I slipped away?

I'm there.

I'm not that far away from it.

I'm not that far away from you.

By the light of the moon,your eyes become tired.

The sandman of your stories has come for you.

He sprikles his sleeping dust and calms the soul no angel would dare touch without my consent.

I rise from my perch like a bird of grace

and walk to your side.

I kneel like the knight I would have been to you and I here I will stay until morning.

No nightmare will hurt you, no fear of falling, no sense of loneliness.

I'm here with you.

Leave the night to angels and demons.

They have the night to carry out the business we cannot see and do not understand.Tonight, in this room, the night belongs to us.

Until next time.

Looking to the Skies

By now, you might or might not have noticed the medium for the basis of most of my poetry. The moon and stars seem to have this effect over my imagination that I have never been able to control. The Hunter's Moon this year was begging me for days to write something about my most favorite constellation in the winter sky, Orion.

Mediums for writing seem to be the hardest things for most writers to find. When you slowly make that discovery that you are a "Writer" then you start to realize that it's very easy to say you're a writer, but it's also another thing to sit with a pen and paper all day or to sit in front of a computer screen and write for hours on end. It's easier said than done. Then to top it all off, you might not even like what you're writing. I've been writing since I was thirteen and let me tell you, it never gets any easier. The writer who tells you that it gets easier after you've written so much, is pretty much full of it. The muse of your life changes and sometimes the biggest thing that you need in order to write some of the greatest pieces of your life, support, is never there. I guess that would explain why I've never actually completed a novel and in my heart I would love to.

The moon has become my muse as of late. It's a constant friend that I know will always be in the sky to guide my mind at night into a new poem or some new urge to get something down on paper. Writers are not born in the mind, they are born on paper. Although, anyone who has been writing as long as I have will tell you that without a mind, you can just forget about writing entirely. And then again, a few of us writers lost our marbles a long time ago. Hell, we take the chance of writing something everyday that might not ever get read by even the every day Joe or Jane like you reading now. Doesn't that tell you something?

Me on the other hand, I don't really care. Writers and artists are one in the same. We try so hard to create something that we hope others will flock to and stand, or in this case read, in awe and we will earn the admiration of millions. For a select few of us that actually happens. The majority of us stand back and just write what we know.

Perhaps one of these days I'll write the greatest novel of the twentieth century. Hey, I'm young, it could happen. But I won't spend the rest of my days thinking about it. I know that eventually I'll finish the novel I started three years ago about a reality that I really wanted and now I know will never happen. I guess that's why we have those little things that are part of us that give us hope. The reasons that we move on from the evils that conquer our spirits and help us to see that there is more beyond this one point. Tonight, I look to the stars one more time. This time, I look to the moon to wonder if a friend is still watching it with me.

He opens the back door
to his home and steps
into the veranda

The chill in the air
raises each hair on his arm
as sentinels standing guard

He wraps his blanket tightly,
his only protection
from sensation of the dead
moving in the night

The roof
made of crystal clear glass
to let in the sun, moon, and stars
and to proudly show
his favorite constellation

He waits for this moment
every year, through every season,
through every cover of clouds,
he's waited for his return

In all his glory,
there in the winter sky,
is Orion the Hunter

How proudly he stands
with the belt we know so well
and his arm stretched
brandishing his sword

How mythology has forgotten you
oh great Orion
but the stars make you shine
more brightly than the rest
in my favorite time of the year.

The Hunter's Moon
beckons your return
and all those who would be you,
but those who remember you
know there will always
only be one Orion.


Until next time.