Search

Charcoal Story

Poetry and short texts. Words that shape invisible statues

Black and Old Rainbows

No, no, no, no.
Yes, yes, yes, yes.
One day high,
One day low.
Does reality show, the show?
Does my brain make up the world?
Is it just the chemical reactions,
That make rainbows black and old?
Some things you see every day,
Reactions are not usual that way.
What happened to the juice?

Drums Tremble

Drums sound like elephants,
Vibration crumbles all our porcelains,
Atoms are in a hurry to make way,
For others to push until they gave way.

The sound is rhythmic as blades of grass,
The sharp tremble swipes all and gasp,
There are only flexible knees,
On the ground, we securely freeze.

Is this the truth?

People want to speak about love,
Hope, getting from maybe too sure.
Spilling all the fuzz, filling with how good it was.

Is this the truth?
Half broken love junkies on the move.
Getting a fix, a half smile, soon.
Running from problems and pain,
Just to live for another day.

Walls Made of Skin

I have a big hole in my side,
I can see constellations inside.
There is a small universe building,
A lot of suns just now beginning.

All the matter is there for the bricks,
Everyone is opposed like it shouldn’t exist.
Feeling like I’m free to expand,
In a black hole losing my whole land.

I see forces that are beyond,
Pulling apart what I want to keep in,
If I look there it’s only wind,
If I feel there it’s walls made of skin.

I Walk Like a Million Thoughts

Duplicates, illusions, and fire,
Despicable art that sings like a choir,
More water to pour on my wound,
Hoping to run into the soft ground.

All these seismic regrets,
Leads to a life of a marionette,
Golden teeth poke through the skin,
I’ll take my life for a nice little spin.

Millions of spikes cut deep,
My steps are too steep,
I walk like a million thoughts,
Thinking of all the missed shots.

 

Featured post

A Big Bad Thorn

Billions of years just to make you,
Millions of uninterrupted links,
Just for you.
Every step made, one gene placed,
This is so humbling,
If you look at this space.

Don’t be the link that brakes,
Don’t be the thread that ends,
On your tomb will say,
Big Bang – your last day.

I do believe there is more to you,
Than your genes.
This archetype that seems,
Codified in your very proteins.

The long unexpressed word,
A feeling of the truth.
There is so much a brain can learn,
So much one can do.

Yet it’s all in you and it wants to get out,
Each generation extracts it,
Or passes it on.
Like an unresolved puzzle,
Like a big bad thorn.

How to Run?

Fix what you can fix and see what happens,
That little knob that squeals when you turn,
A crooked painting that hangs too low,
You’re own hand, the cracked skin that learned.

There is always your spot and a thing that circles,
Move in your zone and fix everything you know how.
To be a maker you have to fix the fixer,
No better way than to start with reality, mister.

The final fix of the biggest problem without preparation,
There is no such thing,
More than a kid winning a speech contest with Martin Luther King,
Start small and forget the big.

I mean don’t forget it, build a staircase,
You don’t expect your body to know how to run,
If all you did was sitting down and hmm.

A long battle of imperfect circles

I found that people that can pull themselves from themselves,
That can escape the gravity well of their own past,
Are free.
The price is a constant struggle to escape,
To be forever in greater motion,
So that the accumulated mass of memories and trauma,
Can not devour you.

It is our own solar system, our beautiful sun.
The light, the energy that feeds us is there,
At the center where it all began a long time ago.
We feed off of it and we try to escape,
A long battle of imperfect circles.
This is a balancing act,
Run away and you become sterile and cold,
Get too close and you are burned.

One thing remains constant throughout,
One sun, one past that orders your galaxy,
One center that you have to resist.

Suffer the pain

Once our image cracks and begins to unravel,
Punched in the face by reality,
We begin to understand that,
Substance is not wished or imagined,
It is created by will and work.
There are no wonderful people born,
No talent or luck or magic,
Only people that more than others,
Longer than others or smarter than others,
Suffer the pain.

We often mistake the image that we want to achieve,
With what we are now, no there is work to be done,
Get that cracked mold that holds you back and,
Begin to transform yourself into something of value.
The value of being one of the few that can sustain pain,
The one that others cheer because they know,
Because they feel drawn to your power,
Because you conquered the tallest peak,
Of the tallest mountain,
And you are there to show them the way.

Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: