il Paradiso

He Floats

He’s stuck drifting. Only the smooth tides to the side of his face keep him mentally at bay as the sailboat slowly glides to the sunset, depleting this son’s set of hopes and dreams.
He wonders, now, why? With scenarios in mind and the reaper”s eye in sight.
He had been sailing for quite some time now and it was getting cold.
So now he must go young, not old, into the skyline.
Floating to surpass this jaded glory, where the sun only shines,
Or so he hopes to find. 

“Shades of grey in mind so the colors come out more clear”
Home Bittersweet Home

While tranquility lingers in the depth of the air, it’s easy to settle in
This rejuvenating and enlightening scene from the past.
With comfort in tact, wretchedness seems incapable with
The fireside wonders and the moonlit woods 
In this small townie town with big city talk.

In the heat of any moment, the course of passion
Takes a chance and demands some toll in return. 
The beauty of the countryside becomes jaded once
It’s blown away with the wind of freedom calling
From someplace new and a destiny awaiting.

A change is needed yet the challenge is too demanding
While the visage of this old life hoaxed the
Hometown boy into believing that there was vitality
In something that has been dead to him for years.
Bittersweet, it is, how some things change, and others never do.

Alexander Thunder Tramp

Black clouds, flashing streaks, and a bang from up high
The sights and sound of the crackling conundrum in the sky.
With each proceeding bang, my stomach repeats
The mysterious cacophony of natural beats

As the rumble grows, so do I
I feel this, this emergence, this embrace, this high
While embracing the beautiful clash up above
Below,I’m seeking my romantic conquest for tainted love

In a sudden fear, I latch on to comfort and stability
For the day to clear up to an apparent clarity.
Then, I become as unstable as the storm.
I let myself go from her grasp, and walk into a new warm.

So, Impatient and unwilling to stay,
I leave to seek a new array
Of temporary satisfactions
To mimic the storms indulgence and retractions

Little do I know,
As the problems grow,
The storm begins to consume me
While I remain excluded from my reality and
Live subtly unconscious.

Deception Deducted

Speaking analogically to put a pure picture in your mind

Until the sun goes down and the dreaded truth, you find,

Exists only in it’s absence. 

Speaking for your interpreation since, 

What should be said, cannot be

For the entitlement of my secrecy.

My advice is to assume,

Though, always spare some room

For all that may not be there

Aside from all that is fair


A Desire to Time Travel

Take me back to the good times,
When protests against war and injustice were not a weakly fad.
I want a “Revolution, I want to change the world”

Take me back to the good times,
When communication wasn’t so easy;
When meeting someone was more of a mystery.
I want a genuine social network; friends solely offline.

Take me back to the good times,
When the oldies were new.
When a needle and wax were necessary.
I want to have to buy music.

Take me back to the periods I missed
When gallantry, respect, and romance
Were respectable attributes of courtship
I want to know what love used to be like.

Maybe I was just born in a different time than I was meant to;
A contemporary man lost in the contemporary.
Or, maybe, I just wish I knew what it was like;
To live in the shoes of those before me.  



My eyes open in the morning
I rise with a dead head, to remember nothing.
Insecurities arise, confusion takes me far from home.

I don’t recall, besides everything, the conversation we had in the hall.
I can’t stand your enraged stare.
Won’t you please forgive me, for not being me, and know I care?

With the intake of depressants with inhaling of highs,
A monster created me, for the night, into some other guy.
Though, in a low, I am desperate for a second chance.

Cause, in my mind, I wasn’t there
If only you would see me now, and meet me fair.
So we can forget about last night’s lack of who I am.

Ode to an All-Nighter

I’ve been up all night

Doing work in the light.

Procrastination got the best

Of my ability to rest and,

While my eyes remain weary

And my thoughts start to get dreary,

I still find a reason to finished up strong.

For this is the ode to an all-nighter, and

There is no peace until I salvage from wrong.

The Night Shift

The food industry can truly leave an everlasting impression on a person.
If you work in any restaurant, you are witness to a broad range of people.
There is that up tight manager whom everybody hates. 
There is that 50 year old mother making tips for her shithead son.
There are probably at least a few illegal immigrants or criminals working in the back.
There are a number of college students working to pay off school who, in the spirit of their youth, enjoy extending there college lives of sexual prowess and drunken stories to work.
Then, of course, there is the most versatile of them all…
The one guy who deals weed while working a waiting job.
Accordingly, he provides herbal delight for the whole establishment.

Though, out of all of the peculiarities and stereotypes pertaining to this scene, there is only one that, I feel, people never enjoy. Complaints.
By guests, about guests, from managers, to managers, to the chefs, to each other, to ourselves, etc.

I hear the complaints on a daily basis. There is always a problem, but why?
It seems as if there is a competition of those claiming to be more fatigued, overworked, or in the hole than everyone else. This job isn’t easy, but why is discontentment such a popular topic of discourse at work? This goes for any job, really.

When we view our lives in retrospect to others’, it really puts a damper on our arguments of personal dissatisfaction.

As I sit here, cranky staying up late to cram for a test, I am thinking about how exhausted I was after that closing shift and how bad I want to sleep. Though, somewhere in this world, there is an insomniac who hasn’t slept for days and there is also someone who has never even been to school.

Last week I happened to be annoyed about my lack of income and having to pay for food. At the time, I did not bother to ponder about how, somewhere in this world, there a child starving to death. Someone who’s main concern is finding food rather than a way to cut costs on groceries.

Until I matured, which I have yet to fully do, I was annoyed by my parents and was distant from my family who loved me almost too much. It took me a while to understand that one can never love too much. There are numerous people, somewhere in this world, who will never have the loving family that I was born into.

What it all comes down to is GRATITUDE; a demanding virtue to uphold but one that can, without question, inhibit happiness. If we can retain this optimism, even while working that wretched double shift from hell, the sky is the limit.

Hope Less for Her

He walked into that familiar space
When he saw, he saw her face.
After giving him such a sudden sting
The man figured, disfigured,
He must be seeing things.

He was trying to find reason
Since she left home long ago and
The questions of insanity develop
From which he fears;
He must be maniacal.

Now, they all say he is crazy,
So he accepts his role since,
Maybe, he is just that.
Though, only was he mad for her;
The girl who left and never came back.

The illusions eventually cease,
Though the memory never dies, 
Making this poor man,
Like many before him,
Justified in being daft.