(magnetic Poetry @ 2 Am, Thursday, December 14, 2006)
Love is Difficult
but i will ask these new days
to teach volumes of wisdom
:a novel laughing against fear.
for here
life could create
-cover over-
filling in our cracks
with no stranger soul
than truth
(another hard mark
to haunt man
as a first chapter
to plot and tell).
the sad sentence must begin there
but inspire magic through mystery;
speak dream,
explode desire,
wander device.
explore a beautiful escape,
skim some ancient good,
search every page
: find
and never turn or curl
like the spine of an old empty book.
imagine in only epic language.
write spirit between every paragraph.
question her heart like you would fight evil.
whisper,
as if romance were easy.
~MEH
Home?
All my life I’ve heard it said that home is where a heart can truely be free.
Looking back I’ve realized that this world has never ever felt like home to me
And I yearn to see the promises that are waiting There for me,
Beyond all my dreams, and I know that I’ll be there because You’ve given me Your secret signature on my heart . . .
Forever will be this longing to be where You are. . .
I’ve been trying to track down this song forever. Still haven’t. It’s sort of painful, both the lack of musical apprehension, and the reality of the song.
Of late the issues of my life, the common christ-less crap that arises has begin to atune my heart to this melody.
This is not my HOME; I’ve said that for 2 years and some change. Colorado is a divine lay over with no apprent stand-by flight in sight. My identity has been wrapped in being from Boston, an East Coaster, someone who knows how to bloody well drive in the snow, wind, rain, or a clear sunny day at appropiate speeds. I enjoy Dunkin Donuts, I know what a packies is. And jimmys. I know who and why people have a ‘Boston accent.’ I break for ducklings on the highway.
But what if this is where I will remain for a while? What if the pilgrim mentality is a hinderance at this point? I’ve already felt the effects, those marginalized because I am ‘just passing through.’ It’s hard to echo Vonnegut’s seniments of “loving whoever is around to be loved” if you are focused on leaving them in short order.
I realize how much “family” I’ve abnegated unintentionally because of devotion to the ideal of HOME. For that I am sorry.
However, this is not my home, not yet. And I honestly don’t know if I ever want it to be.
And all the people said: fuck.
New Music And Site Changes
New songs uploaded/moved. As well as new pics, comments, posts, etc.
Working on making this place more user friendly all around, while I redecorate my apt.
That is all. Stay connected . . .
Zion I - Silly Puddy
I used to listen to this song almost every single morning on my way to work in Middleboro, MA. Nothing else to say. The words of the song . . . yeah.
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Excerpts:
Gimmie what I need gimmie what I need /To help them trace my tracks
Lord Gimmie what I need gimmie what I need / To stand and face the facts
Lord Gimmie what I need gimmie what I need /To lead them not astray
Gimmie what I need gimmie what I need /To say what I got to say
Now if you put me through any time of need, I’m sure I’ll call for help indeed
Daily I stay silent, thinking thoughts at lightening speed.
Heightened by the feedback and forth reciprocation.
Situation rather unexplained I remain relations
In laymens it’s a vibe I felt: De ja’ vu inside myself, I speak it verbally
Made sure all them fools have heard of me
Believe I’m well connected
Not a prophet who’s been resurrected
Trust and I expect it, when I bust it’s higher effects to match your spects
Of my blue prints and the true sense of these words
God he lives within, all of this he’s heard:Every word (every word)
(Zion I. ft Grouch)
Full text in comments
On Writing Songs . . .
* “Behind the melody the words don’t mean a thing when every note I play would give whatever I’ve not said away.” ~Nickel Creek
* “What can you learn from living life; what can you learn from what I write? I study until my limbs are bloody, to Him I’m just some silly puddy…” ~ Zion I
* “I never wrote you great poems, I just meant them.” ~ Gavin Castleton
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It’s a dangerous thing. It scares the hell out of me. Everytime.
I may expand on this one day.