Imperfect Man

      I am a burdened soul. I wish to thrive wholly free but I cannot, for there will always be someone in this world who wishes to enslave me with the tightest of chains. There will always be someone who believes that they are entitled to a part of me. Even in my most liberal moments I must realize that even my happiness is caused by something or someone else and in that I am never free. It seems that my existence is for them and not truly for me. So that begs the question … am I happy? If happiness is sitting in a small room, alone with a heavy heart, then yes I am happy … and if I’m truly this happy, then I’ll never be free.

     When I look into a mirror, the face that stares back at me scares me. It’s not the face of a man who has enjoyed the years pass by but the face of a man who has aged beyond his years and like an intricate drawing, the sadness is etched in his eyes. The tears stay locked away, for my mother once said, “A man does not cry.” In silence I weep, struggling to be a someone for everyone. ..And in trying to be that perfect son, perfect friend, perfect person … I’ve become this imperfect man.

     

     - Unknown

The Senses - Part 2

This is part 2 of 'The Senses'. Part 1 was a similar poem to the one I have written below but the one below portrays 'Senses' in a different light. We can have sight, we can speak, hear, smell & touch,  or we may not have sight, be able to speak, hear, smell and touch. We're still human beings but what sets us apart is our vision, our voice, our ability to listen, our ability to pick up the right scent & to feel what is wrong & what it is right. We all have hearts but many are heartless- that's the truth.

The eyes can have sight but they may not have vision,

differences in blindness, determine this mission.

The mouth can speak, but may not have a voice,

the metaphorical tongue, is stealing this choice.

The ears can hear, but they may not listen,

having their own agenda, they create this prison.

The nose can smell, it may not pick up the scent,

used to the corrupt stink, the resources all spent.

The body can touch, but it may not feel,

as the emotions are stolen, the lives they'll steal.

The heartless person, still has a heart,

but they used their selfishness, for their start.

The sixth sense isn't psychic, it's being able to face;

a person's struggle is etched in their face.

The law says to live by the rules to placate,

those that would have us move and vacate.

The demise of the world, is in the hands of the people,

lacking their senses, they pray at the steeple.

See, Visonless choices, heartless and unhearing,

can't feel anything, is far from endearing.

Sleeper's Eyes

I find that poetry is an art form that can effectively create the illusion that my feelings are by any means- interesting. While my poetry ranges from freeverse to rhyme, my more recent work portrays a message of some sort. The themes vary from poem to poem but I have chose this poem in particular to briefly discuss. "The Sleeper's Eyes", discusses how people see what they want to see in order to make life bearable. They see grandiose illusions that appeal to the weaker part of their mind that wills these illusions to become true. Even a deer must see past the yellow grass illusions of the deserts to realize that a tiger lurks behind the stalks, waiting to pounce.

Even when a awake, many are still asleep,
reality is their slumber, they're still dreaming deep.
They cannot see, but they stare with their eyes,
at the masks we wear, at the tongue that tells lies.
Yet it passes by them, the ghost that cannot be seen,
high on our pedestal, haunted by our dreams.
The nuances of our life, tangled in a knot,
sleeping in oblivion, in this illusion of a cot.
'We stand above all', is the thought in our head,
but you're lying down, because you're still in bed.
Are we all equal? That remains to be seen,
see we're all average and that's what I mean.

Yet even the average person, has love in their heart,
still sleeping, when they say 'till death do us apart'.
The average person, does not love any more,
and it is this dream, that makes people so poor.
For when truly awake, the lover hears,
the sobs, the cries and the drowning tears.
'When the rain from your eyes, ceases to exist,
my being deceased will cease to persist.'

See the words of a person, who is truly awake,
will always reflect what is truly at stake.
But the eyes are open, they've closed their mind,
covering the windows- yes they're blind.
Vision is chosen, it is free will,
witnessing murder, but 'no blood was spilled'.
Call it a dream or a pleasant nightmare,
the clock ticks the time, warning to be aware.

If we ever do awaken, we will write a fable,
of how we all dined at the very same table.
If we ever do awaken, we shall see a fight,
a sight that can only be seen with sight.

Ponderings of a Thunderstorm

     As I gaze out my window, I see lightning flashes lighting up the sky and hear the constant roar of thunder as if some creature above was angry. The accompanying rain only perpetuates the storm raging in my mind. My thoughts are quite turbulent and as the storm rages outside, I shall write about the storm within.

     Often I come up with these ideas for stories and immediately I become excited to start writing. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I don't start writing but the excitement is still there. When I finally convince myself to start working, I can continuously work for hours at a time but I can get easily distracted by such trivial things as that fly on my wall- who perhaps is an actual person who wished to be a 'fly on my wall' but I cannot imagine why- I was told my room was a disaster.

     Instead of launching into a meandering monologue, which would serve no purpose other than to instill boredom in my readers, I'll just get to the point. I often lack the motivation to ensure my ideas bear fruition. Wanting to be a writer sounds nice on paper but there is a certain a bit of realism that comes with being a writer that one must face. Not everyone can write literature that would be deemed worthy of comparison to something written by Charles Dickens or Emily Brontë. Not everyone can write novels that would be appealing to the masses such as anything written by J.K. Rowling. Lastly, not everyone will notice you. It is a lengthy process to get a book published. It must be edited professionally, an agent is usually acquired as most publishers refuse to accept unsolicited manuscripts, it must be marketed well (it's a misconception that the publisher will do all the marketing) and people must love it enough to buy it. There are people at every step, people who could choose not to notice you and often that is what happens. I do not know if I have the talent to write something that could be published someday. It's that nagging doubt that steals my motivation away. 

     There's always at least two people in the world that will admire something within you. Anything. Maybe it's your sense of morality or your style of writing. Every person has a personality; every person has a talent. But for the second person to notice you, you must notice yourself. If you do not believe in yourself, then you will not progress far and no one will notice. I may not always have motivation, I may even doubt myself at times but I do notice what I have. I believe I have talent even if I don't know that, but it is this belief that keeps me going even when my motivation disappears. Never give up and believe in yourself but believe within reason. For better or for worse- at the end of the day that's all you have left to hold on to. 

     The storm has briefly stopped but it is still the 'calm before the storm', to coin a phrase- for the sky is starting to rumble yet again. The storm within has died off. Writing has set my thoughts in order, provided an outlet for the uneasy thoughts floating around in my mind. Another flash of lightning- the storm continues.

-Mango

Footprint Dreams

     For the duration of my 21 year existence, I've found myself in between various abysses-I never fall into them but I teeter on the edge and then miraculously find the will to balance myself seconds before I plunge below. I've had a tumultuous life but it has all led me to here- the present. I grew up with small feet and was expected to fill big shoes, stitched by my parents and gifted to me by everyone. In short, if these shoes create the standards by which I was judged growing up- then I have turned out to be an absolute failure. When I seem to be on the verge of becoming just short of a total failure, I lose all motivation, and struggle to find it again.

     For years I've been told I was not good enough or to put my dreams aside and fill a mold that was carved out for me before I was even a zygote. In short, I've been living vicariously for most of my life. I lost confidence in myself to pursue anything else other than what was expected of me but where is the happiness in that? I could wear these big shoes, become a successful man and yet be an abject failure. Or I could live for myself and live my dreams wide awake. I could find motivation in the need to better myself for me, rather than to afford bigger shoes. I could be free. I wouldn't have to wear shoes and I could walk bare feet. My life would still be dichotomous-I'd still become a successful man and yet be an abject failure- but at least I can leave my footprint behind.

-Mango