Purgatory

The coward stands idly, surveying

what could have been.

Knowing full well now that the aim

of his soul is lost.

Not crying or screaming because he sees

the hand of fate.

Words spoken so loud he is deafened,

devoid of the touch of sound.

He reaches and grasps to find nothing but

the weight of the world on his chest.

The light consumes his eyes to blackness,

his senses now draining from his mind.

The hand points sternly to cast him aside,

leaving him to wither in this

perpetual state.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Misery

I can see the panic in their eyes

as they struggle to find something,

anything.

They will work on through the night

in hopes that they will not belong

to misery.

Their steps now reduced to a shuffle,

they trudge and wallow, mocked by me.

As their limbs now slowly pound the pavement

Searching for the dreams that have

wasted to the sea.

Hungry and frail, they gaze upon the sky

hoping for a miracle to end this mindless

ridicule.

But it is all their own, the only thing they know.

So another day dawns with the hope that

it will be their last.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Streets

There was something about them. The way they felt, their smell. They turned the soles of shoes black. They were filled, even if they were completely empty. They gained their soul from love, hate, passion, opportunity, blood, spit, sadness, anger and joy. It all bled together to forge a layer of grime that kept anyone from truly being able to know their soul.

Their touch was not forgiving. It was always rough and scolding. And even though they rejected all those who fell to them, countless minds flocked to adore them, be welcomed and to walk along them in glory.

Only those who lived on the streets came close enough to know them. They became blackened and stained like the streets, they smelled like the streets. Their skin became rough and pocked like the asphalt. They had so much in common. And still the streets would never reciprocate, they remained an indifferent host even to those who had nothing left but a place on the streets.

And every day they died there. The streets claiming their souls, offering their bodies little more than a cold, hard slab to the once warm flesh which itself was slowly morphing and becoming cold and hard. Only in lifelessness did they finally become one.

©2012. All rights reserved.

New Life

It's been over a year since I have done any updates with Blogger. While life itself has not changed much, my ideas and desires have - to an extent. The process of hand writing short stories and poetry has been an outlet as of late, one which has brought me great frustration and pride.

As I continue to write, I plan to type up some of my work to Blogger. I am hopeful for consturctive feedback. Please enjoy and bear with me as I do some updating.

A Brief Note On Used Books

Over the past eight years or so I've discovered the power of literature. Sure, there were a few books I enjoyed as a kid, even a few required reading selections that I actually read cover to cover in high school. It's been rather recent, however, that I've come to appreciate the effectiveness of the written word.

This morning, I was perusing the shelves of one of my favorite book stores, Barner Books in New Paltz. What I enjoy about Barner Books is that they carry just about everything, including rare publishings and an awesome selection of used books at great prices. Whereas stores like Borders or Barnes & Noble have all of their books itemized and categorized as uniformly as possible, the uniqueness of Barner is that sometimes you have to really dig for the good stuff. 

There are a few special characteristics of used books: First, they're already broken in. While many people enjoy breaking in a brand new book and watching it age, why let a perfectly good, easy to handle used book go to waste? Also, older books may be earlier editions, meaning they may be more rare, or could have some unique quirks in the printing that required additional editions. Secondly, used books belonged to someone else at some point. While this is obvious, most people tend to leave traces of themselves in or on their belongings. With enough searching, you may find a book that contains a love note, an old laundry list, a bookmark, or some other hint of humanity.

I say this because as I was in Barner Books today, I purchased a used copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha. I've always meant to read the book, but have only recently remembered to pick it up when I had the chance. To my surprise, the book was only $4, which in my eyes is a price that you cannot pass up. What made the book special was an inscription on the title page. As I mentioned above, the hints and markings of humanity are often what make objects more valuable - they have history. The inscription reads,

"Michele, 

I hope that you will read this with a seeking eye, because I feel it has much to offer, and is a root in a common search for the more meaningful aspects of life. 

I hope it will mean as much to you as it has to me.

Love, 

Bernard

2/4/71"

Not only did this book mean something to Bernard, and quite possibly Michele, but now this allows a connection between these two people and myself, whether they are alive or not. We will experience the same words, the same pages, the same paper. 

We often times overlook the simple connections that we humans have with each other. While this idea may not mean anything to you, it is a wondrous thing to allow yourself to imagine the lives of others. While the words in this book may have had different effects on Bernard and Michele, and that I may also have my own experience, we are participating in the ongoing cycle of how one is affected by literature.