This next freelance I found is not even one of my own; it belongs to a friend of mine from high school who writes excellent freelances. I dunno about the laws on this, but this thing keeps striking at me in such a way, I could no longer resist the temptation. I HAD to post this. So, from the good 'ole days...
Out of Sight; Out of Mind
By Michael Benain
When you're near and I close my eyes
I'm in heaven
I feel your depression when you breathe
And when you breathe I'm depressed
When we cuddle you are with your passionate champion who has his own agenda
When we cuddle I can only dream of my intent to be near some dead presidents.
You got your ears on my words.
But I got my eyes on your legacy.
Roses are red?
No. They bleed when you're near.
Misery loves company... Is that why you're with me?
Engaged by your persistence
I struggle to keep my distance
This poem plays witness
to my resistance; but I need assitance
To avoid
one instance of acceptance because
All I want is deliverance of your finance.
Damn my desire for the papers.
Damn your permanent solution for this temporary problem.
Tavie, dear, to entertain is the business of friendship. Your only problem with me is that I live in, breathe, and love Brooklyn. Sure, Queens and RooseI are a heartbeat away; but if you don't mind traveling up Seventh Avenue with me, then Brooklyn's a very cool place. Never worry about being a problem with me. There are too many others with that problem as is!
Shola, cool and righteous one, you rule!
This poem I wrote is dedicated to all my special friends out there (you know who you are); and although it was previously meant for one of them, I will make it out to all of which fall under this category. Simple, heart-felt, and a tad on the cliche-side.
From the other side-
That Special Friend
Perhaps you know that special friend,
who has been with me until the end.
Unique and loyal in every way,
whose wise words help me every day.
Roses and doves with love on their wings...
Only my special friend can top my favorite things.
When the dog barks, when mama yells, or when I feel mad;
I simply think of my special friend, and no longer feel so bad.
Maybe you can help me see
this friend who has been so dear to me.
The one I'll treasure through and through...
Don't look now, that friend is you.
So sorry to all that actually do read this blog that I have not posted anything lately. In being busy alot, I do tend to neglect my "other" obligations. So, I will post several poems, to make it up to all of you.
I cannot just write anything on this blog. I mean, if it's gonna be nothing that I write, let what I write be "nothing."
Okay, maybe it looks like I'm a little crazy. But, as Seal sang years ago;
"We're never gonna survive, unless, we get a little crazy..."
And yes, it is crazy that in a world full of people, only some want to fly.
Someone (no names listed) asked me if I create these freelances everyday. I thought I might take the time now to address where and how these poems make it to this blog...
As I walk through the valley of the shadow of Hunter College, I think rather weird thoughts. Sure, half the time it will have to do with class, and granted I will consider the women that look at me funny as I pass by. But, usually, I will strike up a song, and vibes (in the form of words) come out. Some of those vibes aren't meant for print. And the others will make their way on my trusty free-pad.
Then, I read back those vibes to myself later. If it still lingers on my conscience, I will post it! If it doesn't, then it will sit there until it does strike me, then I will post it!
Sure, it seems that everytime I'm blogging, I'm posting my freelances. But also consider that I'm thinking everyday. And if you don't, then be sure make that part of your daily practice (just kidding... but then again, I'm serious). And should writer's block occur, then I just post old poems I've done in high school. They are really good, and of press time, it's the only way I know of getting them noticed.
This freelance is not your usual freelance. It's about writer's block (yes, one of those things of life you usually avoid), and desparation (one of those things no one can't avoid). If you cannot follow this, just pretend that you are the person in this freelance. You'll eventually catch the gist of it all. From the other side:
Improvisation
"An unwanted child, crying in the lonely street
Bellowing, trying to reach for a..."
No, that's not gonna work.
"A boundary of space; limitless, glowing;
reaching out to..."
Naw, what am I saying??
"A limit, a destiny, at the end of a rainbow
glistening about..."
Gee, this is not gonna work either!
"Falling from the sky
Flake-like leaves on mounatin high
snowflake on my eye..."
Hmmm, that was good.
No, that was crappy!
Who's gonna care about a piece of snow?!
Okay, she's collecting papers. Let me write something down!
What? What can I write down...
Jack Frost. Jack Frost on video and DVD.
I wonder... what do I know on Jack Frost...
I don't know jack on Jack Frost!!
Five minutes to... that's it!!
There lived a boy named Charlie, with baggy jeans and a small butt-crack.
Never ask a question, for he'll always reply "Man, you don't know Jack!"
One day a teacher told the class to write a report on Jack Frost.
So Charlie went home and finished the assignment at no cost.
The next day, the teacher told Charlie to read his report back.
He said, "He was a snowman. Man, you don't know Jack!"
To his dismay, he turned around, and suddenly became meeker;
the teacher had angrily replied, "Apparently, you don't know Jack, either."
Alright, for my freelance. It came to me while watching a "Home Improvement" rerun. Though it has very little to do with the TV series, the idea still remained.
From the other side, comes:
Staying On Your End
There's some force of nature that won't allow fences to stand still
As though we neighbors come together under the force's will.
Season after season, we approach it as though it were a game
Rules are silence, stay on your side; "Gee, I don't even know his name."
Setting boundary between us, as we walk towards the line
His only reply, "You stay on your end, and I'll stay on mine."
God forbid I need a weed whacker, all hope would be lost
I would only see him after the wall had been bitten by frost.
Why is this boundary here? Why can't its importance wait?
All it will do is fall apart... But my neighbor will learn too late.
I could say "breasts" and never hear a response
becuase of a stubborn man, who'll make sure it doesn't get across.
Here we go, it's the same thing; on a spring day so fine
He'll have it no other way; "You stay on your end, and I'll stay on mine."
Very interesting, yet disturbing, piece of information.
I was told that Saturday morning, we had an earthquake. Nothing really big, but it DID occur. Nothing appeared to be wrong when I woke up; no shattered glass or something in that nature. Oh well, I was sleeping!! So, if the quake was that serious, and God called me to go with him, at least I would have passed away in my sleep!
I have had great deliberations about posting this particularly personal poem. I have been quite attached to it since I wrote it in high school 5 years ago. But I woke up to reality, and realized nobody might really see it. Hey, nobody who looks at this site may know who I am! So, it is on this basis that I post this poem. Hope you like it.
The Gentleman
Most women want a gentleman;
A man who won't treat her wrong;
who professes his love in a song.
That man might lurk in me;
hard to believe as it may be.
There are men that exist,
with women from side to side, looking lovely and alive.
He says he loves them all...
Do they believe him... I don't know.
What do I get? I get the women that complain:
"My man tried to play me... All men are dogs..."
Meanwhile, these needles pierce my emotions...
What about me, what about the gentleman?
There are men with no futures,
with no lives; vibrantly showing their negative vibes.
But damn those women who love them so.
Are they idiots... I don't know.
What do I get? I get a future.
A job; not the best one, but one nonetheless.
My body working to the bone, and for what?
What about me, what about the gentleman?
There are men that exist,
that take the good souls of women and treat them like crap.
Without a care in the world; but women love them anyway.
How they do it... I don't know.
What do I get?
I get the women that cry on my shoulder like I'm stronger than a boulder;
To tell me how hurt they are; feeling that they can't go on
then tell me I'm their friend, and can't be nothing more.
Like a gunshot straight to the heart;
What about me, what about the gentle...
I know what you're thinking. You probably think I'm crazy.
A depressed lowly man just trying to get attention.
Well I'm not; so excuse me for having emotions;
sorry for giving a damn - I'm just really tired of this crap.
So go ahead; go ahead and mock me.
Laugh at my imperfection that you couldn't find in your man.
Those tears you cried before mean nothing to me now.
The pain you felt could've been avoided and I know you know how.
Why me... why the gentleman?
I'm only the mild-mannered gentleman;
one of the few that exist;
caring, passionate, understanding men
who only want to prove to be true.
Why can't they see me... I don't know.
What do I get? I get the rejection
the pain women can never bear...
I get the pain, the cries, the tears,
the frustrations and complications;
no one could understand, even if they tried.
Who would care anyway?
About me, about the gentleman
The two that are one despite what you think
The man who never got a chance to sing that song,
who never got a chance to prove you wrong,
the chance to acheive to make you believe
that we do exist... and most women want a gentleman.
For reasons beyond my imagination, I just sat through an hour and a half of Roger & Me. Very riveting indy film.
The great war between the big buisness mogul, accompanied by his legions of stockholders, and the blue collar worker with the Union in his corner.
But after the film, it also struck me that with people like Michael Moore, you just can't classify them as either liberal or conservative. While he is for the union and apparently against the traditional white-collar money grabbers, a very liberal trait, he not only supports the American-made product, but encourages others to do so as well, a very un-liberal trait. And he's not careful, might end up closer to Pat Buchanan than necessary!
But all that aside, power to Michael Moore! Power to US factory worker!
If you'll excuse me though, my Nike ad just came in the mail.
I saw something I thought I'd never see:
someone with my name!
Imagine, a good friend, coming up to you, saying:
"Yo Terrence, did you know that someone in Trinidad has your name? Yeah, he heads The Petroleum Co. of Trinidad & Tobago! Isn't that cool?!?!"
No!! It's not!!
Another day, another chance. This time, it will be another freelance I'll share today. From the other side of my head,
Painting Pictures
When I paint pictures, I dream of vast things;
which is why so many won't understand these pictures.
But many would enjoy them with someone they love.
Despite it's romantic origin, it's intimate roots,
these pictures I paint are meant to be for one person.
Some can be drawn for two, if one would wish to.
But my pictures are meant for my solidarity.
Don't be frightened by the pictures I paint.
They are mere scenes of my vision of ecstasy.
Blue and dark foreign skies over clear water.
The trees swaying; grass playing at your feet.
And overhead, the full moon gazing at the stars.
But be careful, these visions are vast yet fragile things.
So how do these differ from pictures of sensuality?
I don't paint as an observer gazing at beauty;
I am the picture, the paint engulfs itself around me.
As I hope that someone will unlock its true beauty
the beauty of my inner self, of the picture as it were.
I dare you to touch it (go ahead, touch the picture!)
Wrap yourself around its warm embrace.
Be one with the picture I paint for myself,
and you too will be engulfed by my picture,
and feel the wind & vibrations of the Sea Wind Horns...
Who knows?
One day, we might wake up & adore the beautiful picture;
the picture we drew for ourselves, within ourselves;
That Helen Of Troy & the mightiest of warriors could view in envy.
Okay, okay. I am haunted, and do not wish to go to sleep in the heat.
So I will share another poem with you.
This one was written in high school 4 years ago, something very interesting happened, and I was driven to put these particular words on paper. So here goes.
Love And Logic
Logic can make a man.
Logic can make him damned,
to predict a love that was meant to be,
can break his heart into three.
Love can be a burning flame.
Love can drive a man insane.
Unlike logic, love isn't right or wrong,
which is why they cannot get along.
Both can make you whither and rot,
One can solve what the other cannot.
Love and logic never conciliate;
yet both can lead to a doomed and twisted fate.
The pain of love & logic, frustrating as can be,
I wish this pain would have mercy on me.
My broken heart, neither cannot fix;
Love and Logic surely don't mix.
It is pretty amazing to me how much is changing in three years.
People I have known and heard of since high school are either married or pregnant. Though it's not weird to for such things to happen, I guess it just means I'm still living life in a very slow motion. Everything may very well look the same, which is altogether too weird, but these people take such transformations after high school, they are a totally different product.
At least some things, and people, never change.
Robert Ulrich, the original Spencer For Hire, I'm gonna miss you.
Dudley Moore, your films brought such great humor, and more important, such great music. I for one choose Arthur's Theme by Christopher Cross. You too will be missed by me.
Another thing I've noticed today; people ask about life in college. Is it the same, is it different, do I like it; things that nature. I guess where I am, life in college on the Upper East Side is pretty much no different to life in general on the Upper East Side...
Boring.
I sat on the walkway bridge in my college for a 1/2 hour, just to see what caught my eye. And though it's Thursday, some sort of action should happen. But nothing occurs. I sat there and was watching nothing. Not the absolutely nothing kind of nothing, but the Seinfeld nothing kind of nothing; where it all in the long run really doesn't matter. Man, it can get very depressing without my music in hand.
I promise to not write stuff so depressing in the future. Meanwhile, I leave you with the chorus of Arthur's Theme:
"If you get caught between the moon and New York City;
I know it's crazy, but it's true...
If you get caught between the moon and New York City,
the best that you can do...
the best that you can do, is fall in love."
Here's something of a freelance I wrote today. I'd like to call it,
Something's In My Head
Numbers. Two numbers. An array of only two numbers.
1. 0. 0. 1. 1. 0. 1. 1. 0. 1.
A maze of synaptic lightning bolts shooting at me as I blink.
The visual of a Tiburon, passing by the night-shaded streets.
The postlights of those night shaded streets.
Vibrant colors, mixing together like a wavelength.
Eyes looking back at me.
My eyes.
Heads; sculpted heads of people I've seen.
A dove, falling from the sky as I lower my eyelid.
My body falling through the clouds, into the ocean.
I sleep on water. I drift on air.
Waterlilies; beautiful, innocent waterlilies.
A clear blue sky. Turning into the shades of a pillow.
My pillow.
I awake again. And sleep in my visions.
Okay. I will try using this blog. Not that I need it, but just what to say what the craze is all about. Hey, it's the easiest way of putting up my freelances without worrying about paper!
Interesting, I feel like Wil Wheaton.
Right now, I'm thinkin' of a Simply Red track:
"Holding back the years, thinking of the fear I've had so long..."
|
