The Long Drive

18 04 2005

I just got over getting a migrane, so I need to begin reading. Interestingly enough, take some ibuprofen, some Pepsi, and some Xbox, stir for about an hour and it works out. Well I probably can’t patent that, but I bet you my brother wishes that was the do-all remedy.

Today was the first day I made the long drive on my own. Finally.

Listen Close

Listen to speaker’s pay,
What he’s dying to say,
But I don’t honestly care,
The analysis isn’t there,
I’ll do it on my own,
What he said I know,
I took into account,
But the jury is still out,
I don’t mean to be cliché,
And I don’t mean to aggravate,
But you got to hold your own,
Find out what you know,
Leave him to his devices,
And let the mice play,
He’ll put his pieces together,
Not only the reality, but better.


17 04 2005

I have a bit of homework so I’ll comment more on FDR later. Meanwhile I wrote a poem on heroism just now that applies to the heroism of FDR. This doesn’t count as politics, okay.

The Walking

It’s something you can’t say,
The next hero’s led astray,
And all those times you thought,
That the hero can be bought,
There is a certain price,
Of the hero born in ice,
Rising above it all,
Isn’t without its falls,
And I’ll tell you just what’s more,
It’s the rising that makes the score,
And even though you wished,
It’s not the soaring that was missed,
Something in his blood,
Something brought him up,
Took to his paralyzed wings,
Made him more than a simple thing,
It’s what you never found out,
A man who took his town,
And saved his democracy,
That oh, just was ailing-
And needing and trusting and bleeding,
An economy dying and new life still breeding,
It was all coming down,
Arose the cripple who wouldn’t back out.

I’ve Been Writing

13 04 2005

Between Time

Tomorrow I watched the tide come in,
I saw it drench my clothes,
Refreshed my smoldering soul,

And tomorrow’s dreams came,
She said she knew I could,
Only yesterday I promised I would.

A Me Not Me

Fallen between shadows,
A me that’s not me,
An emotionless haze,
Of a dreamless gaze.

My life ain’t death,
Because I’m still here,
Inside somewhere,
Myself nowhere.

It’s not all that bad,
My shoes keep company,
Lame man walking,
Lost man mocking.

Behind the Scenes in My Dreams

I’m lost enjoying this metaphor,
I got this feeling we’ve been here before,
And you remind me that life is never sad,
Sitting in the clouds, digging our feet in the sand,

I’m back at the day we met,
Never quite seen the same sunset,
And you reminded me of the blurry city lights,
That even when we’re gone, we’ll still shine.

I’m enjoying something I can’t comprehend,
I feel it and show it, still confused in the end,
And you remind me that I’m just alright,
Life is just moments, wishing under the bright moonlight.

I’m looking at something I can’t see,
Staring at it, and I tell you, it’s looking at me,
And I’m reminded of listening to our songs,
There’s more to the news than what makes it on.

Today, Not Tomorrow

Tomorrow I cried,
And the next day she died,
But today I knew,
Change won’t do.


Morality plays on the weak,
A trampling of the walkers,
When our leaders are wise,
But the wise are not leaders,
It is our day in age,
To choose the game.

Happy Times Ahead

Let the good times roll,
We won the war yesterday,
Forget the noon ‘death tolls’,
Midas hand on our hearts of clay.

Cheaters Prosper

Let them copy,
Give it away,
On the next try-
Give him an A.

Who really cares?
Who honestly knows?

There isn’t a system,
Only a war,
Give them the grades,
It’s all they want.

Who really cares?
Who honestly knows?

Those who don’t,
Are simply too weak,
Conscience born cold,
The naïve don’t eat.

Who really cares?
Who honestly knows?

If you believe your story,
Amidst the laughter,
Then hand empty grades,
Pass out knowledge after.

Teach what matters,
Because cheating will get you far,
But I know what it takes,
Para que su alma cruce el mar*

Goodness, I asked.

What is your perfect good they asked?
What makes me happy I told my class,
A swift rebuttal, they responded,
Your good must be good for all that saw it.

Then I thought what if someone,
Thinks that all my good is bad,
Then is it all corrupted,
Is my goodness had?

Then we shouted that all good is relative,
Truly the least defined theory of all of ‘em,
Good isn’t good to all,
Nor does it to everyone appall,

Good is good relative to me,
A good perhaps different from what you see.
A blend between relatives and absolutes,
A thin line of goodness’s truth.


A death of liberty, a death of freedom,
Clichés of my infernal, endless Easter,
The words last night were spoken,
And the shadow soul was unbroken.

Wicked Woods

Where the wicked woods end,
And the leaves no longer tear my face,
Where the unconscious good lives,
And not a fallout grace.

In the land of happy-go-lucky,
Where the heart rules on high,
Let me tell you, the land,
Is the insurgent lie.

Love conquers all,
Or so they all say,
But have they seen,
The darkness without day?

I say screw that,
Live in this real world,
Not some made-up-crap,
And find your own meaning,
That gods cannot unfurl.

The Chart

Made my chart and set my course,
Dreaming of repair,
I set in stone my heart forced,
The life lacking despair.

Were it not but one thing,
All my endless teachings,
May have in rock seen,
A callous death of failing.

The Shame of Flame

My riot is burnt,
The simmering flames,
Of a cremated protester,
The Rosetta requiem,
Rocky effigy born in helium.

Train Station

My body is without a soul,
Without the life that makes me whole,
It invites the dreams,
And kills my dreams,
My body is waiting for a soul,
Not mine to bear-
Born to burn others’ coal.

Some night, Some street

Where have my voices gone?
What cold alleyway did they run to?
Last night, I cried in bed,
Wondering where my senses left.

*Para que su alma cruce el mar = so that one’s soul may cross the sea
“Cheaters Prosper” is my reaction to the absolutely ridiculous students at SMES who cheat and continue to do so. Word honestly cannot describe my fury. They have every opportunity, yet they feel they must manipulate the system at the expense of everyone else, and for those who do it blatantly enough to get caught. Copying homework isn’t a capital sin, but it shouldn’t be dismissed either. Mrs. Stein says she gets “frustrated and disappointed” but where is the justice? Where do those who actually work get recompense? Eventually? In college you can’t fake it? Well, as a high schooler I’ve heard enough stories to convince me that if i could get someone else’s notes, it would be possible to skip most classes. So really where do I get my justice? The only place that transcends the injustices of a materialistic cutthroat amoral high school existence, the soul..