Saturday, May 21, 2011

But Lonely Be the King

I now know why I had to be the first to say it every time.
Rejection is painful realization, my weekness springs from the knees.
I have pushed so many away just by mistake and shame.
This karma is such a bitch, I will beg for forgiveness.
All I ask for is a chance.
I'm so tired of having to be the one to prove something.
I have decided to numb myself against this, all of this.
Let's see someone else beg for a chance.
I can find my cruel hand, and put everyone else away.
I will no longer be crashing because of rejection or sore feelings.
No more emotions.
Because I do have things to offer. I give up on changing myself.
I have payed, and played my part.
I will let everyone pay me, and open themselves.
I will watch them writhe for my attention.
I will look a pageless blank.
They will tear their emotions through their porcelain veins.
Change will emerge in their churning stomachs.
But lonely be the king.
You owe me.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

This will be our best kept secret

When can we indisputably see one poisoned mollusk in the dissipated sea?
Thin water under a hazy sky is responsible for turning my lips and eyelids into the color of aged whine.
I was dubbed the yellow butterfly, as are the rest of those who are killed on a translucent day.
I have woken up the bay of a dead man's blistered memory.
Let us put these misleading hopes and fictitious chances to sleep.
Take away their kerosene lanterns. They are cemented in their own secrets.
Comb the sable hair and close the murky eyes.
This will be our best kept secret that is fed from salty tongues with a straight face and crusty eyelashes.
This will be our yellow butterfly. There should be another way.
But I'm  the yellow butterfly. They won't take me away from me.
Dry the body, hide the hate, calm the bay with a blanket of sleep.
As the wind penetrates the wounds, I think of the smoke stained walls that all came tumbling down.

Friday, April 22, 2011


In the morning I wake exhausted either by working late or laying around.
Everyone is tired.
In public school we are supposed to be working our way up society's high ladder. Trying to reach a respectable education even if it costs more than what we are worth to attend college. It's like some goals are forced upon us or planted in our mind. But I feel as if we have only the fate of Sisyphus. He pushes the boulder up the hill only to watch it roll down and then he pushes it up again. Perhaps there is a man at the top of this hill that pushes the boulder down for his own benefit, and for the cruel entertainment of watching someone struggle; However this process is known to be repeated as a punishment for Sisyphus. It is a strenuous task, but it never ends.
People work for companies that have some man with the upper hand. We go to work every day that it is required, only to come home and know that we will work again tomorrow. However the small details of the day keep us distracted from the bigger questions that we ask in our spare time. The special feeling from a stranger's smile, the weather, the jokes shared between friends. These details of our day are distractions. When they are taken for granted the questions seep through the cracks of our some what twisted imagination. We question any creator. We question our purpose. We question the scar we shall leave on this world. We question what will happen after we are gone. Only when we lose track of the small details does the worker's repetition become overbearing.
What would happen if everyone stopped working for a system and lived primitive instead.
I was once told by a girl who frowned at my lack of faith in god that religion--Christianity in her opinion gave life meaning and hope. That it gave all the reasons to live. But I can see no sense in living. I don't consider myself suicidal, but I have thought about it many times. I have only come to the conclusion that suicide is nature's way of ridding itself of the weak. I believe there was less suicide when people were uncivilized. I believe this because people were living to survive, not living for the economy to survive. Those who didn't work for their own survival couldn't rely on society all the time, although I'm sure they could sometimes.
I feel trapped by any maudlin feelings, and if I could change my race and way of life I would be something like a forest dweller in the Amazon or a Nordic Sami. I long to experience the way of life my ancestors did. Jack London might have felt this way when he wrote The Call of the Wild. I did not enjoy that story, but I feel my own calling to live freely away from a superficial society where the commoners push their own heavy boulders up a hill only to watch it roll down as the powerful man at the top of the hill grows wealthier.
I feel trapped by the maudlin expressions of our time and as the street people cringe it is made clear that there is no voice in the sky. Our minds are what we get comfort from and put heartache in. It is unnerving that even the memories we don't recall are a part of us forever. If I could get away I would have a more dignified relationship with nature. My work would benefit only me. I would be free from my distractions and experience new ones. I would be free.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


What is the weather like in the middle of an ocean?
Fallible and unkown?
I think I would like to know.
But no one will ever know.
Because when you are in the middle you are stranded.
And all you want to do is get away.
We don't really care about the weather.
We live for small talk.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Abstract is a Distraction.

These things,
these rumors
they are like love
potent and temporary.
Just guilty, justice is like
an alcoholic's hopes
mixed in aged whine.
Never to be drank.
Never to be questioned.
Aged or saved?
Devastaded, unacheivable.
They're sentenced
to waste time.
You didn't choose this.
Tell me how it was drank?
Yet still unquestioned?

Thursday, January 13, 2011


I never want to be alone. It's a patient fear,
but every morning I look in the mirror through sleepy eyes,
taking a moment to realize there is no one there but me.
It's really all I need.
I will be the last one standing.
If I stand alone.
Through any kind of weather. The days don't always get better.
Solitary and apathetic, a liar's eyes. I push everyone away.
Pasty and craving, a lover's eyes. I beg everyone to stay.

By: Andi Smith

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Time heals

Their minds will not be racing at that certain time of the day
Light is flat, the clouds are gray among smoke
There is a cut throat in the mountains
 there is sorrow in the leaves
 There is realization
 It is as strong as change is eternal
These flat winged eagles with beady eyes
these broken secrets, these forgotten promises
 these things aren't changed with kerosene. So I hear time heals.