Conflicted...like whoa.

I definitely have no clue what I am doing in the fall. I love Harrisonburg and JMU. Love the CSPA program. Love the whole thing. ((Haven't heard from them yet, but hopefully will sometime next week.))

Then there's USC. I was blown away by how much I 'fell' for the school and the HESA program while I was down there for GARP. They are absolutely amazing. And I found people I know are going in the fall that I became as close to as you can in four stress-filled days.

Ugh.

I know what I'm hoping for. But at the same time, I know what's best for me. But at the same time, I have no freaking clue what I actually desire.

Oh well. Just thought I'd put that out there.

In other news, I have an eye exam in a week or so. I think my vision is getting worse with this job. And I may need glasses. Could be cool.

Oh, and here are some of my recent poems, if you're interested. ((Then again, I don't think anyone actually reads this blog. No matter though.))

Just keep reaching.
What you want
is to feel.

Like when the oceans
feel the love
of lotion coated children.

Or the way a book
feels heart
with the turning of every page.

What you want
is to feel
deep into the soul,
far beyond human comprehension.


Or, perhaps, just love someone other than yourself.
It's entertaining,
to me at least,
to sit here and hear
you talk about
"the hypocrisy of the pharisees"
while, in reality,
you are no better.

You speak of religiosity and pride
killing mercy;
of grace without giving
furthering the kingdom of nothingness.

I sit here,
trying to tune out
two-faced talk,
writing down thoughts
of what real mercy is
and how it should be shown.

Love is the answer.
Compassion is the path.
Reaching out to a society lost
in a failing economy,
a world without hospitality,
and a swarm of turned heads and quick feet
(though, not without passing judgmental glances first).

You're right, sir,
in regards to how things should be done.
Actionless mercy is nothing
but passing thoughts and feel-good dreams.
It's in the giving of self to others
where the real definition comes from.

So, instead of preaching at me
things you don't understand,
look to me and my friends
and follow our example


Even thick skulls have weak points.
Your words speak volumes
to nobody;
carefully constructed sentences
fall on ears unwilling to hear
while deep thoughts remain
in the shallow depths of childish minds.

Keep trying.
I think some's seeping in.


Maybe love is more than just a haiku on a Hallmark card.
Or maybe it's just a figment
in the imaginations
of myself and Melissa Gayle.

Maybe it's something nobody understands,
nor chooses to try.

Or maybe it's something
that hasn't come to me
because I haven't found the person
who knows it,
who feels it,
as much as I do.


I get it from my Mama.
Buried bald, frail,
and much too young,
but from the roots
of fallen strands of hair
to chemo-curled toes
came a love freely given.

Passing on life
while possessing knowledge
of certain death of self
became the weapon
used to impale this soul
with love.

Now,
every pore
and cracked piece of skin
becomes an opening
to infect the world
with this same disease
hoping for an epidemic.

(The pain of loss
only makes it stronger.)


And I'm glad you've shared some with me.
Skeletons of Banksy
make up the
you that I know.

You're no Mozart
and I've yet to see
the stars within your nights,

but you are art.

There is beauty,
depth,
mystery of soul;
hidden pieces of
heart
scattered around
the world you create.


Maybe the deaf have it best.
You ask me why
I sit around
alone and silent.
Why I just stare.

Maybe if you'd look around,
it would all make sense.

There's no point
in talking
when nobody listens.
No reason to speak
proverbs and intelligence
when everyone else
spews self-motivated,
insincere,
bull shit.

There is no need
to offer pleasure to others
when they can get off
to the sound of their own voice.