Time is too short to forget what has passed,
Times is too wide to cross and come back,
Speaking words that remain un- spoken,
Dreaming the dreams that you have woven,
All I need is time,
All we need is time.
Always reading backwards to learn something new,
It seems like the words always circle back to you,
Reading words that remain un-spoken,
Dreaming the dreams that you have woven,
All we need is time,
All we need is time.
The shoes I have chosen are void of a path,
For I have traveled that highway and I almost made it back,
The roads less traveled and some that I made,
Are a part of that person that you once embraced,
All I need is time,
All I need is time.
Writing words that remain un-spoken,
Dreaming the dreams that you have woven,
I’ve enjoyed this time,
Always love your time.

The Sketch

Within two dimensions there hides a third,
ones true reflections are observed,
no lies exist when a visions heard,
for there is no death in a canvas world.

Hearts tormented lie in a pool,
eventually sinking with the other fools,
still grasping for what caused their demise,
love and passion without cold and wise.

Scratching emotions onto a page,
unrestricted by conformity’s rage,
colors bloom in black and gray,
attempting to express what you cannot say.

Within these visions lies a void,
for interpretations often destroy,
desires to express instead of hide,
the true relevance of what’s been confided.

Within two dimensions there dwells a third,
only acknowledged by the few absurd,
dwelling in expression not illusive needs,
never to capture the eyes of what seems.

I arrived beneath a gray Ohio sky
embraced by bitter February arms
I was the only to pass through that door
and last to carry on the name
but I paled in her sun of expectation
and I had to create my own.

I’d shown my own sun like she taught me
away from the snow and the glowing autumn trees
into a blue wonder of sand and seas
into a tidal mass of humanity
where nothing is stone
where nowhere is home.

I became fed by a space where my place doesn’t matter
an electrical grid being the ambilical to the gathering
where I drowned in hours of diversion
where I gained monetarily from the conversions
but when I looked to show her, she was gone
under a May rain from the gray Ohio sky.

Bye Mom

James G Conzett 06/01/2011

Shell Of Me

I watch as they burn their bridges from childhood to the pain of reality.
Though not up to me to mediate anymore, I do stand on the opposite cliff.
My job is complete as I was the one to incite the striking of the match.
Not too soon as I have nothing left offer, nothing left to steal, nothing left to violate, no advice to be heard, no lessons in the agenda and far be it, another match.
While my losses are seemingly always anothers gain, I have no time left to recover what I have lost. Not monetary losses but, heart, soul and whatever lurks beneath the calluses that have done well to suppress what I have found destructive or emotionally distressing. Built over time I do find it unfortunate that I am now actually incapable of empathy or strong emotions, except rage, for only then am I heard.
Existing where recognition of my achievements have gone even more un-noticed than my presence, I realize I probably should have passed just after completing them.
The question of continuance is always the thought that remains after the rest are truncated as that query is always first out.
A splatter of liquid does remain one dimensional except to the ones who assign meaning to the patterns. To them, colors bloom in black and gray and dimension is just a matter of perspective. That was once me, eyes wide open and a heart of the thinnest glass open to be shattered by a single glance.
What has become of that person is a text that will remain unwritten. Although what I have experienced is severe to most, the mold that formed the shell of me would pale in comparison to millions out there who have suffered far worse. The wretched and debouched or the salt on the food of the obese? There is far more salt and I will refrain from comparing notes with those who have nothing to sprinkle it upon.
So, I am held up in this shack until the bigger guns come take me out. However I believe they will fail and I will become my own demise.

James G. Conzett