stereotypes

Don't be a freak show
for anyone to see
watch the world as they go by
with solemn casualty
Lest you be labeled, categorized, and
lost amid the mass
For there is only you-
you is not a genre.

New People

Armed with power, armed with sight,
Do we stand against the fright
Of many peoples in the night
Who walk 'round blind
in endless time
to the pull of an ancient moon?

Pathways

I will find new pathways
for my feet they must surely go
out of this weeden graveyard
tangled with tripping row.
Dated and carvéd names
dead in abundance set
I must run now away
before I also am met.
The sun it flees before me
taking its hopeful light
I am left here with darkness
a soul in the blacken night.
Now I am crawling blindly
searching for a safe warm spot
the wind it howls all around me
and kindles my mem'ry wrought.
I was once in a garden
full of delightful smells
there was life in abundance
none of these piercing wails.
Why did I go from my garden?
why is it that I left my home?
Who are you to ask questions?
I think it is you who should know.

Parts of Pieces

worlds within worlds
who can see them all?
i look around and see
but what is there-
can i see the truth,
am i big enough
  complex enough
    awake enough
to know outside my mind
the world presses around
         like a coffin-
  more is less
     less is more
in the world of knowledge:
everything is ethereal
i thought it was the other way around
  that the more you knew about something
the more real it was
perhaps it is...
we each see a part of the picture
in varying scales
with every level containing the whole
with equal complexity
it is infinite that way
who can say whose world is more true?

Something

Are we all lost?
Do any know anything that matters?
We have sought truth forever-
    or so we would like to believe.
What is it that makes us want to know what is real?
I suppose we are insecure
                 it helps us to survive to ask
    it is our job to ask....and observe....to cause to be and
lessen boredom,
by manifesting our wonder and our ignorance and to make purpose.
     Is there inherit purpose-or is it something we make for
 ourselves.
Is the world, the universe, just a mass of quirky stuff that
 sometimes follows a pattern?
     Does it mock us?
           Us following the carrot in front of our nose;
incapable of seeing anything else,
because we're a machine.
Are we blind to our own unawareness?
   Perhaps it is our blindness that makes us aware.
Perhaps it is something else