the smell of coffee and rain,
takes me back
it’s all white and black,
to the times simpler and sane.
i’ll be the last one leavin’,
before you close the door
& can’t scream no more,
i’ll lick your inside,
slowly sippin’,
like my hot black coffee
on a gray rainy evenin’.
arguing about politics
blaming guns, blaming you
drying conversations with past
cleaning up the future
young ones going green
gloating the status quo
aged cackling drinking martinis
complaining about their lives
all men are dickheads.
We spent
so much time
chasing
the blinding lights
trying to live those
shiny dreams
trying to understand
and find love
through the shadows exposed
on the streets
through the strangers dancing
to our beats
in between
unknown bed sheets
that we let each other
slip through the
only moment
that was truly ours
somewhere in between
running from the past
and hoping
for a future together
in a way
that is
Ours.
“I’m broken.”
She said.
“I’m hurt. Afraid.”
He looked into her eyes,
those beautiful eyes
that made the stars jealous
of the way they
shone
and said
“I’ve never met
a strong person
with an easy past.”
Pick a song today.
From any era.
And listen to it.
When you do, you’re looking into a world as seen through the artist’s eyes.
This is essentially what art is.
A reproduction of the world around us.
A reproduction of our vision.
Of this world we live in.
And how WE see it.
All artists do it.
Musicians. Painters. Inventors. Everyone.
And while doing so, they create something that reflects the time they live in.
So pick a song today.
Close your eyes.
And live the art.
I was asked: if I could go back in time what would I say to my younger self?
I sat thinking.
So many things ran across my mind. I saw my younger self getting hurt and breaking his bones (literally). I would put my hands on his shoulder and help him get up and tell him everything will be fine. I would tell him keep doing what you’re doing, you’re going to have lots of stories to tell when you grow up.
I’d explain to him why every decision that went against him and every “unlucky” moment in his life was actually a good thing. How every problem would become a story. How every person he loved and lost would contribute to who he would become.
I’d tell him to keep looking forward.
To not dwell on his past.
To keep doing what he likes to do and not listen to others.
To not wait and ask her out already.
To say yes to more opportunities.
To not give a shit about unnecessary expectations.
To stop wasting time and learn something instead.
But then I pause. I think of how knowing all this ahead of time instead of experiencing it himself would be of less use to him.
If he wasn’t lost, he wouldn’t know what he needed to find.
So now I know.
If I go back, I would tell him nothing.
Because every problem, every fear, every emotion deeply felt by him would lead him to me.
Life in a blog 