We Are Nowhere Please Wake Up

Matthew Trask

WE ARE NOWHERE PLEASE WAKE UP

Contents

The Stars Half of a Life Prelude The Lovers Waltz Evolution To Live Paid in Full Talentless Suicide Night Bred Someone Who Cared In The Way To Have To Hold National Pride Free Time Falling Down The Electric Buzz of Electric Children Erasure Truth The Suburbs Graffiti To Die Firework Childhood Adolescence The End The Spirit of Times

The Stars Each eve I stare above, a wide-eyed stupefaction fills my heart. The moons gleaming light cast a warm palm upon the Earth as it hangs, a Blue marble in the blanket of space. it waits, wrapped up inside the black tarp hidden In the pocket of god. I look with a child like glare, feeling as well as seeing. Knowing, but not yet understanding the universe of grand reality before me. I hark back to the bedtime stories of great exploration and remember the globe placed upon my mantle. A spotted canvas lit a pale white with fountains of color hidden beyond vision. The orchestra of life rings in my ears, as all of time exists in front of me. The youth of a million years holds within that single view. Like a thousand eyes they watch over us on the land below as we watch them change. We evolve, create and grow as we search for true meaning. The stars hold my message. The stars hold my truth.

Half of a Life One man walks a fine line treading the gap between two worlds as fear of losing one grips and vows to never let go. With that thought in mind the man packs a bag and leaves both worlds hoping and skipping beyond the crack betwixt the lives seals. This man had endured all eventualities had suffered all pains, like a time traveler he saw all of life yet somehow his diary is only half full. A true understanding of him cannot be had without the end to his story as the end fundamentally answers the questions we so seek ultimate answers to. This man is us all treading our lives carefully as if to keep a balance between worlds and to not stumble into something more. In death we will understand the final moments of this mans life meant nothing to the years preceding because its not ever after death that matters.

Prelude Across Great Plains he traversed fighting the will of storms and threading the eye of a needle. He lifted his hood to block sand and sun as he pushed on only bread and water in his bag. A woman stood by his side each step they took together attached by a bond greater than love. Their journey was to be long an arduous miles to walk each other's embrace the only comfort. A sea of loneliness stretched forth and a single star guided them through lives, as their past forked and unraveled behind.

The Lovers Waltz Now they dance towards a cloud of uncertainty, their bones aflame with burning embers of passion and desire to craft and create and birth a new world like the world found at Atlantics edge hosting little but the child like skin of new borns unconscious to the ideas of truth yet strangely ignorant to the problems of us. Instead these men and women and children live at peace with little artificial emotion and awake with the world in a way that we find cold, our cynical minds have left us a alone in a state of loss forever like those whom aren't written in the stones of past minds, they are but etchings fading in the minds of us as tomorrow grows father from our reach. A halos light lifts from our self enlightened souls as we wallow in our bitter ignorance and fear the wrath of what we have neglected like a child, unwanted and unloved but needed to fulfill a part within that crafts our core, soft and warm to be molded to cry tears of any sort and to leave behind a wealth of ink and blood though knowledge is a legacy fought best for. They taught us so much in our little time, as lovers we held each other closer that eve as we were more connected to the life of earth and sea and the wind had calmed and the rain had washed fear, our brows furrowed and backs arched, we soared with vast wings towards our future together as man and woman and we will make a stand for our love and we will waltz a dance so placid that the seas will stop void and our bleak facade will crumble showing potential.

Evolution We live in a world of weak and strong. Some seek to strike at the heart. Others wish to do good while others wrong. Is it possible for us to gain new life from this? This building has weak foundations and will thus crumble. Better design may have prevented the destruction but in the end we all die. What is the reason for evolution? The reason for mankind to move from one day to the next. Surely that reason rests at the heart of humanity. But if death is an inevitable caller, waiting with its knell poised age to take our souls from our bodies and to bury us under a mount of earth six feet deep. Why change and improve. The truth is feel is far away. But I rest in one simple idea: Life is more than death.

To Live A gentle man sits on a stool, His crooked fingers rest on crooked keys. He listens to the wind as it brushes his ear And he focuses on the worn wood in front of him. Then he begins to play. First the cords are melancholic And the man is sad. We see this as he is hunched over the piano hiding face. His is the beard of a desolate man Left alone in a cycle of neglect on the side of the road. Rain splashed and alone, This man is nothing as society sees him. Though this nothing sits at the piano and mourns. He mourns a life lost to love And he lists his failures unashamedly As he has now been forgiven. This man then stands, kicking the stool from beneath him. We see his torrid and scarred body And the tattoos that tell years As he stands by the piano No longer mourning the past, But instead playing a melody of tomorrow And hoping that it can grow from his arid lands As the tree does in fallout. So this man is to die? This man and his weathered piano In the wilderness and green pastures of life. No, this man is to live as he has reason to.

Paid in Full

Money leaks, corrupts and seeds hate. Banks steal, cheat and get away with murder, leaving little men to starve on the little they have.

Talentless Her face awash with a popular mask though sadness is caked beneath the narcissistic facade. Then she crumbles from the tower to the ground, scrambling to retain her Kingdom as it separates and breaks. Here abstract morals crush fear into her mind as those who once loved her fire flames of distrust and disinterest. Now she is nothing but a hollow shell, left alone to work for love and life. Once the Queen bowing to none has now left and grand reality has struck. She is a human without beautiful talent.

Suicide A fingers prick. A light stab to the skin. How it feels to be torn from another. That thought pops into mind as consideration for death fades. Ill never do it.

Night Bred From my door, a thin shaft of light glows. A saber striking the dark, breaking the concentration of a sleepless mother. I am up as the night serves me better. In day the light distracts from what dark allows focus. I grow, change and feel the dark although the music I hear exudes light. Now I am happy and the night is partly responsible. I am alive and breathing. My heart beats to the drum of life and that pain is numbed. For I am bred in the dark of night and as I sit here, the warm LCD shadow cast on my face, I know who I am.

Someone who cared For Her, Know one said Id adjust straight away. Your dainty smile and full lips went unnoticed and my being inept made me fall short. Id furrow my brow and hope that someone would find me. That my loneliness would soon fade like the damp winds of spring. Warm and close, when nobody else was at my side to help me through. To call you perfect would be a disservice to your artistry. That open way in which you talk frank about your thoughts. Your delicate face merely masks the stone, strong woman beneath. Some part of me wishes I was stronger than this. My words of anonymity. My vague string of ideas collating. I wish I were able to tell you this. Although my feelings I assume arent shared I feel good knowing you cared. You have helped me, I am better now.

In the way To you I say, Im sorry, Im sorry that awkwardness prevents the words from escaping the perpetual hold of mind. I fear that she wont know my love as cowardice and lacking confidence hinder speech. Force me into confrontation and Id lie and squirm until I was free from the bounds of situation. As I lay my head to pillow my mind froths with thoughts and they build a delicate picture of her smile. Beneath my fear I know I have it. The spark to tell her she is the piece Im missing. To myself, I say Im sorry. Ill get out of your way some day.

To Have So much you gave me. A small package to tightly dense with beauty and passion that body lusts for you and mind loves you. Your words true and eyes steeped in mystique yet ideas are laid out for all to see. Opinions and feelings arent bottled within but thrown into the world to be battle with by others. I wish my words would allow me to tell you directly. Instead I sit here Night Bred and alone with only my thoughts as a brush, painting a picture of you on the page. Artists yearn for their one muse. A muse, which I have found. Words cant justify you for what you are. The most sublime vixen to ever be seen by man.

To Hold To be with you would be satisfaction enough. Some men want more than they can ever have and live lives so large that the littler man is broken to shards of person and self scattered to the winds and left to burn in the sultry sounds of hell. Though I lust and desire I need only one thing. Tis you, my oxygen. You I need to have and to hold. Men know not how to treat their woman. Only objects with which to abuse and then throw to the wind. Beneath their veneer of sly love exists a false faade needed to cover their one true lust. I feel deeper than face value I may have a false faade but I know what I feel. And what I feel I more than just lust.

National Pride I see them wear their flag upon their sleeve And march forth with their hearts full of pride. I glare on with a lorum ipsum badge pinned to my flesh And I stand still with a heart full of envy. The mountains encroach like prison walls And the perpetual sky thick with endless grey Dulls the blade of inspiration And draws the bow of melancholy. Though, when sun embraces valleys of green And the smell of fresh cut grass fills the air, My heart swells with pride And I look out at the land of my fathers And wholesome humility brushes over me For I am thankful for my place in this world.

Free For those lost to war and violence In memorium today for yesterday. Whom once walked are now firmly within as earth has become a grave for those lost. A young girl tossed aside like rubble burnt and branded an outcast to be killed in a fire of hate. A man lives to hurt and maim And for those who stood against We say thank you. Today we live free, as the tyranny of yesterday lives in the hearts of the fallen.

Time The face of the clock stares back. An eye peering forth into the future. The small hand strikes away seconds of life and the large hand, hours. We wait until the day when our clock stops. The day when those hands no longer tick. The instance when time is frozen. A perpetual hold on the second and the hour. Time is ticking along. So much is wasted. We strive to understand our symbiotic relationship as it clocks on, leaving us in its wake.

Falling Down

Down I fall. Out of control. A leaf in fall. Loosing to gravity.

The Electric Buzz of Electric Children The night alight with sound from broken hearts adrift in loss each other and love we found. Yesterday has broken me yet tomorrow seems to grow brighter as you found me at the bottom of the ditch and set me free. The rumble in our stomach churns and the smell of rich sonic heaven lusts inside and with each road walked and each corner turned, We know who we are together. A pair of dancing children still flaming with a virgin light who spread illustrious wings readying to take sweet flight.

Erasure If I had a line through which another line struck Id have nothing. This was how I expressed thoughts and feelings. An erasure that leaves me alone with but scribbles on a page.

The Suburbs Desperate housewives make light of their inequities as husbands scrupulously mask their infidelity. A keen eye may notice those who once were lovers are now mere shells cutting at their wrists for a chance to feel again. Companionship for loves sake is an overrated pleasure as it is sex that drives society. Primal urges focus the intent of our neighbors as malicious misery echoes through the plastic streets. We all feel pain and younger than most often hurt more, but as our end draws near I ask one thing; Do you really know what happens in suburbia?

Graffiti For lovers Sam and Lilly forever,: etched upon the wall. A string of words that love a lifetime like a thousand pictures. The flick of the R The hook of the L The cave of the S They exist to capture a story In a string of five words. Graffiti on the walls of their hearts.

To Die The gentle man sits upon his box. He sips his brew and grins tenderly As poesys and sunflowers are tossed six feet within. He almost laughs at the concept. Men hold the hands of their women And they gather around the gentle man Celebrating the joy of his passion And never mourning passing loss. His night is the dawn of a memorys day. Gone in body but not in spirit As hearts and minds hold his paternal image. His music echos his life in the ears of us all. He sits on his box resting his crooked fingers on the crooked keys, as his sons and daughters gather round his burning fire and sing songs of life and love. This green pasture has flourished And the tree has grown in fall And the blanket of brown has faded to reveal His grave. The flowers rest on the unmarked mound And his song is stabbed into the grass. Though he is gone we hear his voice. The final crack on the piano. The gentle man hasnt died. To die is to live. This man who, in life, wandered and taught, Left a mark that scratched deep into the skin of the earth.

Firework The match struck like conversation. The defining stop at the sentences cliff Becomes a patient ball of light. It hangs upon the edge of the world. On the tip of a tongue. It waits for the perfect moment, Before the fire hits its fuse And the sky is born a beautiful bright. The fireworks end is but a beginning.

Childhood Hilltops in the distance sit wearing hats of snow Glancing like wise men upon the people below. I stare from the window of class at their faces The mills poking like flowers from their caps. These hilltops look on with disappointed brow As I engage them in a staring contest. Farmhouses glare back at me as pupils And a beard of trees provides a veneer of respectability. With an attitude of angst and beat Id turn from the hilltops, blissful in my arrogance As they silently judged me at the gates of hell Waiting for my passing to be mourned. Questions burned on the tip of my tongue And my identity unraveled before me like a tapestry of lies Hiding the truth from me beneath age. Id grow lost and weary as their eyes burned into the back of my head. A thousand years past and I remained fixed to that position Still under the stone of the hilltops. Slowly theyd pile around my feet until I drown. Seeds of doubt flourish and my judgment had come. I leave and return home a new man, Sweating and breathing following exertion. Id place bare feet on the cold floor Looking out with tired but open eyes, As the world grew in front of me And the once dark future became bright. The hilltops smiled, holding their caps to their chests As I marched proudly on their backs. Towards my new dawn I broke Until I saw them all, lined like gems in a ring. The bounds of family faded and I fell into line, Grieving no more as I had gained back what Id lost.

Adolescence A half written story on a tablet melting in the sea. They race upon the highway of children, And the tapestry unravels further in front Showing tomorrow solidifying. The pen hangs over the page with bated breath And future knocks on the door. Life had been dormant under a wealth of control. Now an eruption has set it free to bite at my heels, Challenging my path and editing my world. Still they hang in my mind Like baubles on a Christmas tree, Glinting beautifully in the silver light, But pulling on the branches on which they sit. The songs prepare you for loneliness But its true brutality cuts when the tapestry leaves dark What you need to be light. My body aches and pulls for something To hold and acknowledge its reality. Skin tingles and hands tremble As sexuality beckons with its mirror of imperfection. Sands move on, corroding the one who never arrived As she wonders through and beyond, Unknowing of my arrow struck like erasure Through the poetry of love. Avoidance is my fear of red faced scorn Though lust drives a sense of passion Lost on a forbidden fruit to be left on the tree. A ripe red apple, smiling in the light. Blood courses through me as her fall hair Lands gracefully on her shoulders. Her lips like red pillows underlining a blinding smile And growing out to her fair and soft cheeks. My chest pulled forward like a compass pointing to its true north Yearning to hold her and to love her. A glass barrier of situation grew

And like the slow drip of water, drove one moonstruck.

Childhood was but a memory Passing by in the wing mirror as we drove into the sunset, A romantic notion filled with fiction As the sun was as dark as charcoal And the open eyes began to grow heavy Closing under duress. Seasons past and frailty set in. My mind crumbled like a castle made of sand. My pillow became stained with blotted loss And reality struck like lightening Electrifying my soul to the brink. Putrefying all romanticism within my ideology. Tomorrow maybe growing clearer, But its ship is to be captained and crewed by one man. One man alone, holding a torn map And a compass that points only towards what you need most.

The End The final full stop On the final page Of the final chapter Of the final novel, Of humanity Is placed with a sigh By a lonely man Who sings a hymn. Goodbye echoes, As pen and paper Are still. The man looks up At grey heavens And sees his back Firm and disillusioned. The failures are struck Like names on a list Off the face of the earth. The garden has rotted From its wholesome core And has left a heap Steaming and brewing As it sits stoic In its labored filth. The man leaves the book And walks off the cliff. The wind glides by And his hair is softened And his arms outstretched And his eyes closed. His naked body falls And falls Until the horns of hell Take hold. His baby soft flesh, Blemish free, Is cut and torn from his bones And he is bled arid By the razors blow. Teased by a glimpse of life, He is beaten without death. He is broken with out healing And he is chained to the rod

That runs the length of his spine. He awaits the sodomites The murderers, the rapists The child molesters, The politicians, the lawyers, The actors, bankers, The fraudsters, The Muslims, the Hindus, The Buddhists, The violent, the weak, The strong, the tepid And he awaits the mirror. The mirror of sin That balances his mind And baths him in truth. Then the cycle begins again And mercy shall not come. The embers slither up his legs, Biting at the flesh and cooking the bone. Then an arm reaches from darkness Into thick, murky light. The arm of freedom offers salvation. The way is clear and hell grows distant. Suddenly the garden grows fresh roots And his skin is baby smooth And the sky pale blue. He sees his body healed in the pool And then his lover stands. The hand then grows a body And then a face. You deserve freedom speaks the face. The face then fades And the garden solidifies. The mirage of his lovers naked being Grows tangible and he runs. The man whose full stop ended life Had now found peace in the garden. Where flames had bitten his thighs, He found his lovers hands. Where blades had cut his chest, He found his lovers lips. Where pain had once flayed He found his lovers pleasure. This sin that so hung around his neck Had been revealed, And it had beauty beyond all dreamt of.

Then the man placed the rope by the side of the book And he placed the pen between the two. The blotch that punctuated his ending Became a comma, breathing new life into his tomorrow.

The Spirit of Times Be the best of us As you sit there on your stool Listening intently Though fidgeting indefinitely. The zeitgeist evades you, Always Reeling in eternal optimism And always forgetting the past As the future calls. The spark sets alight a burning flame That we watch with mouths a gape And eyes wide and glazed with awe. Making hate not love, you live.

If youve read this collection of beginners poetry let me take this chance to thank you. If you liked it please share it with anyone and everyone. Print it off and give it to your family. Give a copy to your dog or cat or anything. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it!

Copyright Matthew Trask 2013