Do I Think Too Much?

What makes us happy?
Well, what gets us through the day?
Little things,
Compliments and memes,
Dreaming for the future
And sleeping next to someone sweet?

And what makes it work?
What makes the meaning maker?
Money and jobs,
Resources and transactions,
Decisions, directions,
And the endless need for labor?

What does it mean?
Weren’t we making it last verse?
Something that we earn,
Something we’re still learning,
A fantasy or a needed story,
A reason to keep it going
And to believe we have worth.

They cross and collide,
Meanings, means, and distractions.
Moving more apart
And then again together,
More despair and satisfaction.
Movement made momentous by the mind,
Our language for a moment’s passion?

Assembling Meaning

Every story

Is an empathetic connection,

People and ideas

Equally entrenched in my heart.

When you speak

You create meaning to decipher,

A flowery grove

Suspended in the callus void.

Consciousness creates.

Every fantasy enriches thought.

Images and ideals

Are the angels of mortal Gods.

Artfully imperfect,

Our subtle cracks, Nature’s profundity.

Our deepest griefs

Akin to scribbles drawn with passion.

 

Souls exist in meaning exists in thought

Expressed in art to be interpreted imperfectly

By the senses of living things.

Read, write, listen, and think,

So even the damned find salvation.

 

A Poetry Poem

I wish I could express

In speech as I do in writing

How much I feel about you,

How heavily I care,

How deeply you affect me,

And everything that means.

Mind to mind,

Or empathy to recognition,

In terms of verbal exchange

Is apt to be uncomfortable.

You can read my poems

And feel me more fully

Than you ever could’ve felt me

Face-to-face.

Extrordinary circumstances

Might expose our true emotions,

But the mundanity of self-consciousness

Prevents a simple telling.

I can try,

And occasionally do well,

But I’ve little hope of equaling

The context of the written word.

I love you.

Worse Then Hate

The extent of Justice

Limited by selfishness or fortune.

As is the extent of Love

limited by hate or the void.

The tyrant, to me more despicable

Than emptiness, the more strong.

Rage breeds destruction

As the quiet breeds death.

Nations, values, and ideals

Live or die by chance.

Time devours all there is

Noble, wicked, or in-between.

Hollow hearts crave sensation

As the sick and dying crave life.

The disimpassioned mistrust love

Misery, ever the more reliable.

Conquest or chaos seem like

Solace to the dispirited.

Surely anything is better

Than dwelling on empty chasms.

If chance dictates love

I can play it win or lose.

If purpose is a pipe-dream

I can revel in fantasy.

If ignorance is bliss

Then sadness is the more profound.

If life is pain

I’ll take it over nothing.