Uber Driver Comforts

This whole thing.
Change.
Do people change?
I like to think I've changed.

But look where I am now.
Back where I was.
How many times have I been here?
too many to count.
This familiar feeling of melancholy.

How do you explain to someone
that you are a just a sad person
who also sometime enjoys being happy?

How do you explain to someone
that you want to be that person who makes a difference?
Not just one who exits in life passively
Because what's the point of passive living anyway?

If you can't better others
or yourself, than who are you to better at all?
Isn't the purpose of life to be a good person?

Honestly.
G-d.
Be. Honest.
Not all people are good people.
Some are good. But some aren't.

Usually the bad don't matter.
Except for tonight.
But once the melancholy hits, it's over.
Your already done with it, but its too late. It follows.

Dont dwell Don't dwell, said the art professor
but what does she know?
About trying to heal a broken heart?
They've hurt you. It's too late.
You've become useless.

Emotions. You can't help them.
But they are prisoners.
They govern how you act.

Dennis prager brings up a good point
That behavior is more important.
But what about those nights?
when the alcohol takes over.

And all you can do
is cry and cry and cry
What do you do
God please, tell me.

What do I DO,
When the cab driver
begs me to stop crying
begs me to stop feeling a way
Because im "beautiful"
when looks are clearly irrelevant here
flattery misplaced
he turns to me
don't cry.
your beautiful.

Tomorrow is a new day
Is it a new day?
With that logic
Tomorrow is just a cover up
A makeup for what's real.

Don't exit, do exist.
Can I tell you something?
nobody gives a crap.
Nobody fuckin' cares who I am
They don't care how I feel
And they don't care why.

But you know what makes me stronger
That my feelings are something too
And that I know that where there are lows.
There are highs too.
And I trust that G-d has those highs
In my future
But still,
Sometimes you just can't help
Being sad

For the sake of being sad

Does anybody get me?

I don't care

I just want to share

In case somebody might.

Life on the Cloud

My feet are on the soft surface.
As each foot makes another step,
the soft surface falls a bit sinking
sinking and making a hole.
It's snow. Wait no, it's a cloud.

I keep taking steps, through the white
the wind is crisp, fresh and clean
Another hole. It's uncertain what areas
Of the cloud are thick enough to hold,
But still, that's all part of the game.

The game? You ask, simply, but of course,
It's just the way things go.
At least on the clouds. One step. Safe
Two step. Fall. Three step. Safe. Four step. Safe.

Suddenly both feet fall, and I start falling,
Sinking faster through the wind,
The wind slapping, ouch! Wait no,
Was that an ace of spades?

Cards! But this is no drinking game,
Cacophonous, the cards are swirling
All around me, the noise,
Of paper at odds with the wind.

I'm taken back to the arena. Snap.
It's your usual fencing duel. Except

This time, I'm holding a set of cards.
It's a pretty good set, I'm proud of them.
I'm ready to enter.

No. Wait. I know him. Is this a joke?
The eyes. His smile. It's definitely him.
It won't phase me. It's fencing. This is my thing. Right?
But he doesn't have cards. What's going on?

That's okay this should be easier
But he just stands there. Arms crossed.
With that stupid smirk. Gently, smoothly,
walks over to me and my cards and pulls.

One of them. Trying to lick back the paper
With his fingers to see the precious numbers.
But he fails. The numbers are mine.
What is with that dumb smile?

But he doesn't stop. Hey Rebecca,
Are you sure I can't just take a peak?
Sorry. No. These are my cards. I'm tired
of your games. It's obvious.

These are my cards. Why does he want them?
If he really wanted them, he wouldn't pull.
And just like that:
as always, a realization:

He only pulls because he still cares.
The pushing, pulling, asking, probing
All with that stupid stupid smirk,
Only mean that behind the scruff and smile
Is just a petty guilty little boy.

Maybe the girl, who scribbled words
In her notebook, through tearing eyes,
Mumble Jumble, Vertigo, Yellow Words.
All the woes, left her all together, empty.

You would think. But now, she's published.
The words that melted the paper with her tears will
warm others within. Exhale. They do say
that the best art comes from pain.

Sometimes I wonder why we all think that
life is supposed to be good. It's just not.
That's the game. The obstacles are just opportunities.
Reminders of strength.

So he smirks.
So he pulls.
It's just chatter now.

This time, I'll hold my cards tight.
His stupid smirk. His glasses.
He still stands there, watching me try. Laughing.
His face melts. I look again. Blink.

But he's no longer there.
I'm on the cloud again.
What's the point of living in reality
when we can live in a dream?


I guess that's just my take on it.

A Snowy Day Dream.

(to be read while listening to "Follow the Sun" by Xavier Rudd)

Letting out a little smirk
As she intently listens to the teacher
she can see the stuff of substance
the glimmer in his eye.

Snow trickles down outside the glass
some pieces unsightly large
others smaller than tibids of fur
the sky pulls every single one

Some littles take their time in falling
other biggies plunge forth and some littles
skitter faster past the biggins.
But they are all headed down.
Gravity is funny.

The wisps swirl together in crystal
speckled sheens, moving all in unison.
They look even prettier when you can hear
the tickling of that sweet jazz strum.

One little gets smacked by the wind.
But rushes right back to it's spot, no care.
She can hear the harmonica whistling
A little tune that follows it's own path.

But let me ask: why do they rush to the ground?
What's coming to the littles and bigs when
they reach the bottom of the white wisps?
she nestles softly to sleep in her chair and hears

a lullaby. Some flakes open their eyes and rise
higher and higher, curl their toes and twirl their heels.
Words lay themselves down on other words and she
breaths in steadying her gaze onto all the wisps together.

The air is cold and dangerous in her nostrils,
but still feels pleasant as she lets it out.
In her mind, all the wisps are falling to a big black
sea of water, that moves rippling one way.

Just a regular body of water by a park
It's hard to find it's exact mark on the map
The wisps are crystal water but still have a part
dark sea inside each one in the collection of white sheen.

The snow falls into it, and disappears and melts
letting the rush go but continuing the rush within.
It doesn't really matter where the wisps are going
as long as they are going somewhere.

Because that somewhere is gravity.
The movement is obvious. She observes and
finds her friends in the wisps.
That one strolls steadily like Lily.

The group of whisps on the right seem
to stay together in a pack. Probably those
arrogant men she hears about. That last one in the corner
moves up and down like her friend, Carrie.

She scans the big group, spotting everyone person.
Neighbors, sisters, and exes. And just as
she's certain she's found herself among the wisps
a circular facial blur covers her view.

Blue eyes, taupe-y side swept hair.
His face and beard scruff comes into focus.
Across the room, he seems to be grinning
his eyes directly looking at her.

She smirks and feels her cheeks burn
quickly turns away, maybe he didn't see her smile.
But she's already caught. How could he?
Intrude her pleasant daydream. Ugh!

But her smirk is still there :)

Just visible Enough for Those Who Wish to See it

Pictures coming soon :)

A poem about ambiguity.

Tingle. Curated this mess.
Opening for nothing.
Muted mist.

Why did it happen? Was it ever true?
How do they see us? How do we see us?
Could I just, for a moment...
turn it off?

Gray knows the truth.
We fall down with gravity.
Breath in the foggy mist.
It's in the how.

Singing Words

Phases exist in bubbles of shininess
seemingly irredescent and invincible
as each one gets it mark through people
and their reflection in our memories and thought.

What's funny though, is that these phases,
are just figments, penetrable in a single moment.
fantasies of transparency, a way to wist
after, luscious truthful clarity.

Just visible enough for those who wish to see them.

Gray: Friend or Foe?

If I was to dip my toe in
a pool of sucking sand would it take my foot?
or could I pull away? Is it the same pull
from and away the men of our pasts?

These questions grab my head- though not always
But when they do grab, it's easy to sink more
What if what now what how? Grappling apple-ing
leaving sour aftertastes of unripened fruits

It cooks, mulls over, and ripens within
The blurs of anger and sadness sparkle away.
It's ambiguous! What a joke! Another contradiction?
Black and white wrestle each other while
gray rests, simply, tritely, arms folded like the Mona Lisa.

Gray knows the truth- the marriage of black and white
that govern us like muppets. Isn't it easier?
To come to an answer of both? It's a tie! No--
People hate ties, there should always be a winner.

The only way- all questions are soothed is
with a confined answer, in a box, unchangeable.
But love, tears, sweat, and strife can not be
closed and squeezed to one school of thought.

we are the creators. Sound cliche, eh?
But cliche is just a synonym for truth.
Laugh,  you sarcastics, all you want but
those who follow me, can see the wisps of truth
that float in the air, just visible enough,
to reveal your mischievous knowing smile.

Poppers pop! Streamers stream! A moment of celebration!
This gray, our old enemy is a new blessing.
A granter of complex emotions.
Changing over time.

We fall down with gravity, hitting the peddles
like-- in a pinball machine, and each toss and turn
shapes and forms us, with scars and cuts,
a shame, but without them, we wouldn't be.

As we grapple that people talk and think about us
How do they see us? How do we see us?
Now we know though, it's not one the other. Both!
A lovely blissful, true blue, ambiguity. Gray.

Stream of Thought: Mumble Jumble

Tingle. Curated this mess.
Hot temples. The lump at the back
of my mouth, beats monotone.
Being a feeler of feelings comes but
with a cost. Rock bottom is deeper.

For the barter: a moment of respite
to ease those heavy breaths. I'd
give up this knowledge. The sunny
ambiguities have turned into cold uncertainties.
Could I, just for a moment, turn it off?

If I could float between puffs,
the clouds, just existing within
the sweet air, hidden by the folds
that cover eyes, numbing, complete silence.

Maybe my fingertips would loosen
I'd be distant, removed but observing
Sitting with those monks, who simplified essense
to the core. But, simply, mortally, painfully,

In this moment, there was no seat for peace.

Thoughts used to sit side by side,
obediantely and organized, just waiting
for their turn on the soap box. To be
the center of enlightenment for her.

Spinning in gray matter, holding out
a hand to try to capture, but then
opening it for nothing. Just muted
mist, resting on her pulse.

Unrestrained, jumping on a bed all at once
her thoughts fight for a turn, but
none of them get a chance. They're all subject
to the imprisoment of curiosity.

The curiosity and buzzing fills a hmm
like a backdrop, for the confusing dizziness.
On the brink of losing it. Grabbing shoulders,
shaking so hard, but nothing seems to work.

In this case, manipulation is most effective.
Pretending until the unreal is real. Nothing is real.
That's how I used to feel. But now everything just
got too real. Too real?! Does this even make sense??

Not really. But still, there are things.
It makes no sense, but still, those things.
Cause flutter, chipper, hope, and stability.
It's in the spirit, mystification of how.

It can't be explained. It's seeking to find it.
Learning, seeking, searching always.
Thoughts are thoughts. Despite the clarity they lack.
Despite the clarity they lack.