Winds of Change

The measure of a man
Is not the color of his skin,
The wealth he possesses,
Or the land that he owns.
You cannot look
Into the ever-changing faces of human existence
And say that one is less
And one is more
Simply because of who they appear to be.
People are not furniture.
A chair is always a chair,
But a child who grew in a broken home
Can heal, and surpass all expectation,
Can become a force that encompasses the world.

The worth of a human soul
Cannot be measured, bought, or changed.
Each life has a value,
Greater than the mind can comprehend
And our differences
Are outweighed by our similarities.
We all have hopes and dreams,
Fears and passions,
Aching regrets, and breathtaking joys.

The potential of the human race is staggering
And it is wasted too often on hurting
Tearing down and destroying
And finding chasms
Where bridges could be.
But there is hope.
For if we can put aside our anger,
If old pains can be released and overcome,
If the lost and the lonely can find solace,
If we can look to tomorrow,
And once again rejoice in living each day,
Then slowly, inevitably, and wonderfully,
The things that make us weakest
Will bring us together
And they will become our greatest strengths.

I write like
Arthur Conan Doyle

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Earthworms

Decomposers are an essential part of our food chain. They are the little guys, the ones who clean up the messes. After we've done all we have to do in this world, they finish off the last bit of us and convert it into new life.

In the deepest recesses of our souls, human beings fear death, and the end. We quell those fears in day to day existence, preferring to live in the here and now. But during the silent hours of darkness, insecurities creep in, and we wonder, what if it's all for nothing?

Still, light can be found everywhere. Everything is connected, and the possibilities of life are infinite. There will never be an ending, because there will always be something else that keeps living. In a universe that stretches on more widely than any mind can comprehend, nothing is truly over.

Good Winchester, is that a Duck?

Some people are normal
I have heard this
And I have seen it on the internet
So I know it to be true.
Thus far, I have not seen any
But they must be out there
Maybe in Iceland, the green country
Or Greenland, the icy country.

But everyone would agree,
Normal, Green, or otherwise,
That I am not among
The saner occupants of this world.
It is indisputable fact
And anyone you ask will tell you.

I am loopy as a bobbin,
Barmy as a Tribble,
Creepy as a red-eyed Ood,
And many other things
None of which are reassuring.

When I was a child, I had friends
Who only I could see
And I would act out what they said.
One of them was One-Eyed Spock.
He was very crotchety
But he meant well
As long as you didn't ask him
About the missing eye.

Still, there are moments
Rare ones, but still moments,
When I manage to be nearly, almost
A healthy member of society.
For instance, I am quite proficient
At cleaning wooden floors
And stacking cereal boxes stably
And passing tests on obscure topics
All of which I consider to be
Indispensable skills.

There is a point to this rambling
I am getting there, quick as a sloth
And it has to do
With my original topic
Or normalcy versus me.
This evening I went upstairs
And no one even blinked.

You know you are gone
Very far gone
When your family accepts without question
The fact that you want to wear
A rubber duck on your head.

A Line

They were two sides of the same coin, from the very beginning. They were different; so different, but undeniably the same.

Days of Me

Some people are morningers,
Some are nighterers, and I’m sure
There are afternoonish ones somewhere,
Just hiding away, but speaking of
Me, myself, and my other self, I am just
An all-arounderer, 24/7, usually,
Not applicable on hotter-than-death days,
But always in the middlest of night,
Camping trips and all overers, everyone sleeps,
Not me, awake and up and book out quietly,
Or loudly, or not at all, and something else,
Sometimes middle of the day, cleaning
Instead of homeworking, mop and brooming
And music loud playing and dancing up and all,
Everything’s sparkly fun and games today,
Red heads callling and running and spinning,
Catting and jumping all over till dark.

Call me up on weekdays or weekends,
Macaroni won’t cheese, kids not kiddering,
Or brown-tailed dog dogging all over,
Chewing corners and edges and tops, no,
Not a problem, running there like a flash,
Maybe slower, but enthusiasming through,
Never stopping, except when I stop, and chair,
And dark warm chocolate cookie, with a
Small crowd of helperizers, little workering,
Maybe dropping and breaking, but just as well,
Dustpans and rags fixer-up, table clean ready,
Tree house up and away, muffin and brownie taker,
If they help they help, bettering with luck,
So call me up, never sun-setter, whatever-doer,
And every-manner, no matter-whatter,
Always-something-optimism, sky-bright, house-high.

Ode to the Bean

Beans are quite the interesting legume
Though I don’t know any legumes besides beans
Except for peanuts, which are gross
But I know that beans are interesting.

There are many varieties
Each more outlandish than the first
And they can be prepared in many ways
That have varying degrees of appeal.

Beans are usually delicious
And sometimes they are not
Much like potatoes, which are not grains,
But toast is always delicious.

I once had a Bean named George
And he was a friendly fellow
But scared of every dang thing
And I kept him in a tin so he would not cry.

After that I felt bad eating beans
And that is the danger of anthropomorphism
What kid wants fish for dinner after Finding Nemo?
Unless, of course, they are heartless.

I propose a toast to the bean
Because while they are sort of weird
They are full of protein and things
Plus they are usually shaped like kidneys.

I could tell you that I love you
I could
but I won’t.

I won’t leap the first step
an inch closer to desperation
and dark five am
water on skin
glass breaking far off
running away.

words are easy,
silver glazed syllables
falling from quirked lips
dripping along and covering wounds
then ripping apart, stinging
pain and pain
and black nothingness
caring too much, not enough
because it was easy.

I could tell you that I love you

it would be a lie.