Rooted

This tree, this life,
roots growing from the sky to the sea
dancing across the picture plane of my mind
tell me this story of how it grew?
The branches extend in every direction
There is nothing they don't connect to
Vines for us to swing from
Will you play with me here?
It's as safe as anything is
We can paint a flower over there
Or we can just lay on this sweet grass and watch
As the tree grows

To all the artists in the world...

We are producing in a world of over production
We are taught to create like robotic monsters
It is the product, we call it the "work",
in reality it is the commodity that the art world
can make into a collector's fetish,
to sell you then to enslave you by
so that you keep to the same style
So you can be recognized and valued higher
but the people who end up with the money
are never the artist
it's the capitalist art market traders who cash in
but we keep up a self-preserving rhetoric
to convince ourselves that what we are making
is somehow important, somehow deserving
of attention, recognition, even fame and fortune
and the question I keep churning over
Is why?

Perseveration...

My thoughts are like a broken record
needle jumping over the same sentence
over and over and over and over
the image that accompanies is still and never moves
its an image of you
and my head is hurting from the replayed narration
some story in my head that can't be real
that will never be true
and I can't seem to stop the damn player
it's making me feel quite crazy,
but I know
that its an obsessive behavior tic
like an eye twitch
or when I check the same sites on the internet
or when I open the refrigerator door
twenty times or more

Your performance is unwelcome..

You write helpless on your forehead in black ink
You throw clammy hands to the sky asking
why me, god, why am I a victim to the demons in my mind?
You receive no reply and you can't conceive the reason
You write "forgive me" on my wall to fish me in
then make me watch while you vomit the death you ingest
and you wonder why I run in horror
You have invisible strings that no one is holding
but you blame your misgivings on dark angels and jesus
on addiction and depression on anything but you and your choices
You make up stories then expect that everyone else should abide
You make fate your puppeteer and faith your only vision
and you enjoy your cave of destruction and pain
so for once just own it

Random haiku...

Orange clouds rain from
purple sky valley below
You balance raindrops