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Car in the Woods

 

Left

Crumpled

Crunched

Torn

Sprung

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Grownup Finger Painting

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Glacial Painting

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Embers

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Turn Left

Our life is nothing but a road.
Every trip may start out on side streets,
But it eventually merges with the main stretch,
The main road,
The highway, the byway, the toll road, the expressway,

Because that’s the fastest way to get to the future.
It’s the quickest way to get where you’re going.
But everything blurs by.
Every detail and memory
Becomes only a fuzzy recollection.

Do you even remember those roads you like to drive,
When you’re not rushing from one place to another?
The ones that drive past cornfields, or through forests,
Or meander through the mountains?

When was the last time you took the scenic route?
It takes longer to get to your destination that way,
But isn’t that the point?
On those roads, we see the beauty all around us,
Not just the grey of commercial tedium,

We feel more alive and less a cog in the machine,
When we turn off the main stretch.
Because that’s what makes life interesting,
The turns.

The main road could take you straight through to the end,
But should you let it?
Because when you reach your final destination,
The trip is over.

Take the scenic route.
Take that turn.
You’ll have seen more when you reach home,
And you’ll have taken your time getting there.

Why not start now?
See that intersection up ahead?
Go on…
Turn left.

Dried Paint on Porcelain

jumper burst veins

A Lesson in Empathy

Hide the guns, hide the bleach,
Keep the razor blades,
Out of reach.

This will prevent suicide.
This is all it takes.
There is nothing left to do.

Lie to yourself if you need to,
But removing the means, the ways,
The methods, the tools,
Does nothing at all.

Without a hammer in hand,
An average human will grab a rock,
And pound in the nail.

When cutting branches from your kid’s favorite tree,
To prevent them from falling and breaking their arm,
They will use a ladder,
To reach their favorite height.

Whether by creativity, ingenuity,
Or necessity,
Repression inspires revolt.

Being forbidden to partake,
Increases the desire more.
The well-behaved turns into a rebel,
When their forward paths are blocked.

Out of sight out of mind will only work,
For the ignorant,
The weak-willed,
Or those foolish enough to believe,
That they can trick themselves.

If the production of guns were banned,
And all existing guns were destroyed,
The number of death by guns would decrease.

Congratulations,
You’ve achieved your result,
You’ve dropped the gun deaths to zero.

But the overall statistic will not have changed.
Why?
Because you’ve been fooling yourself.
People aren’t killed because of the tool,
People don’t die because of the weapon,
People are the cause, guns are the means.

Even if all guns were outright destroyed,
And production halted,
The hunter,
The hobbyist,
The terrorist,
The enthusiast,
Would find a way to reproduce the weapon.

With suicidal thoughts harbored in the mind,
All that matters is the end,
And the ends justify the means,
Even if the options are one fewer.

Bleach, guns, window panes, neckties, and sleeping pills,
Are one and the same,
In the eyes of the desperate.

They are the one thing,
That will make them happy again.

We mustn’t address the means,
We must address the cause.
Suicidal tendencies, psychopathy, sociopathy,
Rage, insanity, trauma, depression,
Are what we need to shine a spotlight on.

Not on hiding guns away from our suicidal children.

I’m sure you mean well,
But you’re doing nothing at all.

Sympathy is useless because there is no connection.
Showing someone you care is not understanding.
All anyone wants in this world is to make a connection,
Even just one connection,
That says, without words,
I’m glad you’re here.
Your life has meaning,
And I would not be the same without you.

Make that connection and they would not want to hurt themselves,
For fear of hurting you.

Start saying,
You matter to me,
Instead of,
I feel your pain.

We all could use a lesson in empathy.

Beautiful Drainage

starfish slurry hurricane

The Pattern

Dust beneath the windowsill,
Falling to the ground.
So it seems it always is,
When no one can be found.

But when time is lost and memories are shot,
A room is still a room.
For everything that happened there,
No remnants remain to loom.

The meaning we assign to things,
Is a silly, trivial thought,
For the things that truly belong to us,
Surely can’t be bought.

Funny, though laugh I don’t,
Is the importance it seems to gain.
We are what we own in life, the masses scream aloud,
It all belongs to each one of us, no matter how mundane!

Love lost, meaning shot, everyone has long forgot,
The obvious incongruity of want versus need.
For it’s been years upon decades upon centuries,
Since reason has given up and fleed.

Expectations, responsibility, money, and deadlines,
All man-made problems only suffered by man.
Though that irony seems to evade everyone,
Naive to the master plan.

So take every bit of that conformity, unity, normalcy, sanity,
And burn it to the ground.
We can only be ready to grow,
When we have truly found,
A way to break the pattern.

Light Painting

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