if it doesn't make sense

i cant hurt you. i dont want to hurt you. and i'm scared that i will. and i know that i will. and you just need to find this. i don't think i'm too big of a fan of immediate reactions.

this wall has been up from the start.
the start of everything.
and i thought that you knew that He would always come first.

i don't do hate and i refuse to be mad.
i do not expect the same.

no matter who you are,
you will only ever rank second best.
and you may be my world, you may be my home
but i have to---

i have to.......you......
you have to...
i don't know what to do.

--MRS 3/30/08

and if this doesn't make sense
you will know that it's not for you.

and if it does...
it isn't about you.
it's not for you
or against you.
if it does,
it is to you.

shamrocks

Each moment holds a memory,
Each memory sacred to me.

I can remember when I first arrived,
Condemned to this world.
And I remember that I was different.

And every new year would be something new,
Would be something brought up for a day
Until that thing was taken away
and I would cry, and I would stay.

Each friend could hold a memory,
Each friend would walk away from me.

For every soul contains a fire.
Masked by truth, there hides a liar.

And every moment sacred to me
I could not touch--I could only see.

Painful lies held memories
Each was revealed as real to me.

Then sadness took completely over,
Tearing and shredding my four leaf clover.

And darkness seeped into my mind.
It deafened me. It made me blind.

Each moment held a memory,
Each memory sacred to me.

As my figurative life reverted to ash,
Into deepness and darkness I fell.

Thrown by a person. Another liar.
Another clover to burn on my pyre.

Each liar held a memory
Each pyre took that liar from me.

And by the time my life is over,
There will be nothing left of my four leaf clover.

There never were to begin with, though.
But I tried not to let these weaknesses show.

Each moment was just a false memory
And I've lost all that is sacred to me.

And yet nobody really cares.
Why do my tears fill their hearts with such joy?

Each tear will hold a memory,
Each memory, nothing to me.

They will crumble under graves of stones,
Their bodies withered, down to bones.

Each bone holds all their memories,
Each memory...nothing to me.

Death's ocean sweeps their lives away.
And here, I cry. For here, I stay.

--MRS '04

Refugees

here's your last opening to save her from an absolute ending.
the pitfalls are calling her down, down.
you can hear them, right?
she went and fell.
instead, you've wrapped her problems in a sugar coating.
and she's melting and she's ruined.

you knew what revolution you spurred.
don't run from her.
don't run from me.
you can't shut her out.
you can't shut her up.
you can't shut her in here.
but she can't make this stop.

You can get her out
and you can save her life
and you can hold her hand!
you can take this back,
and you can still be free
but you just have to crack!
and you have to help me!

--MRS '05

"dance and explode"

doors shut down on her and the walls cave in
so that all she can see is the end
that is her last debut.

so she's been shattered and sitting in the depths
of your empty heart and now you've broken her
she's snapped out of your myth and now
she's stumbling too far out of reach.

you've had your chance and escorted your debutant.
her heart is broken and she's better off now,
but you gave it a shot and she was buried to deep.
you couldn't hold your breath long enough
to really reach her.

--MRS '04



The theologian cannot pray until he opens up his hands.
And the writer cannot think without first opening his mind.
The children will not learn to learn unless they open their ears.
And the artist will never truly love, regardless of what they do.

The heart and the being of the beautiful craftsman are all transcribed to paper.
The paintings, the sketches, the poetry, the songs, the artist releases everything into.
One man can only hold so much emotion and must transcribe it, somehow, to paper.
There, in sheets, on canvas, in strings, on sleeves...the heart. The artist's heart.

[You cannot express your feelings until you know them. And you can't know them unless you open up your heart. You have to know your own heart before anybody else can begin to know it. You need to go inside of it first to make sure you understand how it's feeling and you need to put it in order so that nothing escapes when it's open for everyone to see.]

And there, you are beautiful. You are broken and it is breathtaking.
Because now I can see you and now I can see your heart.
And it is perfect. You are perfect.

The artist may write and paint their heart
But words can only go so far.
--MRS 3/9/08

watchman

The stars are scattered in the farthest reaches,
Hidden from the eye of man.
Unable to align and unable to explode,
Stars are the holes in the universe at our fingertips.

Fables and Fairytales revolving around them,
The celestial brilliance rings mythical—
Untouched by hands, but there.
Present—always—and there.

Offering protection for the brave heart to ask of,
Guardians of Heaven’s construction of nature,
Unrelenting in their magnificence,
The fine flicker is always there.

What man can destroy or rebuild is his business.
The earth’s core remains unscathed.
The true beauty of gardens, beneath the ground,
Lies hidden in the roots.

Springs and caverns dwell beneath us,
Hidden from the hands of men.
Majestic even to seek to behold,
Although secluded to the blind.
And yet—they are staring us in the face.

While man may erase the radiant greens
Or mask the reds behind grays,
Above, there is fire—
Alive in the heavens.
Past cloud, beyond planets,
The Wonders are safe.
No effort of man may take precedence over—
The efforts of God—his construction of nature.

And though they remain shrouded in mystery,
They are clear to those who dare to look.
To the watcher’s of the night-time sky,
They are lucid and concrete and at hand.