Another Collage Piece...

New Poem

I hate fighting... I hate how it feels, how it leaves me and the others around me, how it leaves the air around me... sharp and bitter like blood on the air. It always starts like a balloon, with a few breaths blowing it up, sometimes its slow and slowly expands, and sometimes it's just like a sudden gusty expansion and then... POP... you're left with the pieces.

So when I'm overwhelmed by the anger of deeds and words, I use the very objects of my anger and write. They're not always spectacular, but the poem itself isn't the point, it's the bonus.


Fight Mantra, Fight Fair
aka In... and out...

Take a breath... in... and out...
Take a time... in... and out...
Be at this moment, at this time... not another... no before...
only here... present... now...
Just let calm... in... and out...
Just let the tears... in... and out...
Let the calm and the tears wash over... let the pain and the anger go softly...
down... like... rain...
Feel no anger... in... or out...
Feel no regret... in... or out...
We all live life at moments when hate overcomes reason, we all feel right or wronged when
there is... no... blame
Feel passion... in... and out...
Feel compassion... in... and out...
I will not forgive myself or others, but I will forgo the past mistakes
of myself and others and be... right... now...
I will be... right... now...
Here... right... now...
Don't let your fool heart forget... in... and out...
Don't let the fool words... in... and out...
Remember who you are... who you have been and who you will be...
you are more than words, more than this moment...
You... are... all...
In... and out...

A Glass Half Full

Sometimes it's not whether the glass is looked at as half full or half empty. Sometimes it's what's in the glass that counts.

Sometimes half full doesn't mean all is well. Sometimes a glass can be half full, but what it's filled with leaves a bitter taste upon the tongue or what was left in the glass should have been drunk or drained long ago.

I've always considered myself a closeted optimist, but now I think it's the pessimist in me that put me there. I have this problem with my memories. They're disjointed and slanted towards keeping me in the closet. I think I've forgotten so many good things but have remembered so many bad that I'm a glass half full, but with the wrong drink.

My selective memories have left a bitter taste in my mouth.