A season for everything.

The days we spoke
grew few and far between.

Summer past,
and Autumn fell.
A discontent grew,
where once all was well.

Pomegranates ripened,
coloured of a lover's blood,
an empty doorstep,
where your soul once stood.

Now seasons dwindle,
I can only bereave,
Such as trees must,
when they lose their leaves.

The Battle of the Stick and the Sword.

The trouble with ink,
is it's delibility,
it's credibility,
it's blatant ability
to make us believe.

In lead or graphite,
we can deny
but blue or black
holds a truth.
It shows mistakes,
we've tried to hide
and words crossed out
we dare not say.

But words in grey,
are insecure
words of fear
and words not sure.
All unclear,
Erased and muddled.
opinions reformed,
and thoughts befuddled.

We hide our truths,
with one fell swoop
and hope it goes untouched.
For smearing would only
spread the lies.

When there's nothing left to believe in.

Thoreau once said, “Things do not change, people change.” Personally, I think that’s bullshit.

In the town where I grew up, a depressing microcosm of what I’d soon discover to be all too similar to the world outside, everything changed. Granted it was a gradual change, a slow shift of all things we knew to be true, into something we could hardly decipher, let alone claim to understand. It was a social, generational, hypothetical landslide that taught us more about ourselves than life itself. But it was a change nonetheless.

Not to say we didn’t change. We were seeds. Some of us grew, some of us withered, and some of us even died. Regardless, we all changed. A few changed for the better, and others turned into cynics, and naysayers. Obviously I can’t speak for everyone. In retrospect, we really had no choice but to adapt. It’s kind of like how some animals change their diets based on what’s readily available in order to survive. Well, this was just our way of surviving. Our minds changed, our habits changed, our morals changed, all to adapt to a changing world. It’s almost funny now that I think of it.

Infidelity.

There comes a time when you realize you can only be hurt so much.
Now, there's no place to go but up.

naivety has left the building.

they were all sitting cross legged on the floor.
and then her soul got up, and just sort of..left.

Pacific.

The rocks were full of secrets. The tiny crevices between them mere frown lines discouraging me from finding out the truth laced throughout their granite existence. But, I already knew. A sad truth but one not unlike my own. A realization that up close, the things we once marveled and guffawed at, are never quite as extraordinary as they seem. At a distance, sure, they glisten with the sheen of an irredescent pearl. But up close we find that the beauty was only a mirage. An illusion. That things can never be as great as we can dream up in our minds. That the stories we believe to have defined us turn out to be nothing more than embellished fabrications. Scenes from movies, or books we never quite finished, pieced together in our memories to create a personal montage of a life that never quite existed. That one day, we'll realize the legacy we've exhausted ourselves in creating was no more tangible than the proverbial skeletons in our closets.

I could disregard the ocean. Constant, yet changing. The crest of each wave drawing from somewhere deep within me a hardened distrust. Whether it be woven in my DNA or built up from years of consequential hardships I associated with the "great" pacific, it was there. Evident in the way I could never bring myself to the shoreline, or even bring myself to let it's salty fingers grasp at my sun-worn feet.

But the rocks, they would never lie to me.

Conclusion.

Some of the people I enjoy hanging out with the most, are the people I've known since I was 5 years old.