she told me she could no longer endure my company. i cried within.
i've been away from my own soul for so long, so late-sleeping... that dove's crying woke me and made me cry. she said that my life-style was not for her.
"Drink all your passion and be a disgrace."
Sweetheart, close both eyes to see with the other eye. Open your hands, if you want to be held. can't you see that their actions and words mean nothing, the sex and the war they do. i will not deny that thirst drove me down to the lake of your tears where I drank the moon's reflection. i found you though. that's what's important. hear blessings dropping their blossoms around us? G.d. Please forgive me. your smile was the sky my spirit circled in. maybe i created you in my mind. i try to let these words be a window, be an ear. I layed there, while you were asleep, listening to your silence. i learned so much more about you. you knew my 2 cents on the situation were counterfeit, but you accepted them anyway. both my imprudence and my pretending. whatever i was always looking for was you. it's misleading, i know. a sunset can sometimes look like a sunrise. i'm not sure which we just had. it's midnight, and the son is shining clear. the whole neighborhood is up and out in the street talking. you kiss a beautiful mouth, and a key turns in the lock of your fear. i'm walking away... can you hear my footsteps? i'm barefoot, walking over shard pieces of broken promises... Lord forgive me for my sins, I know it's last minute.
a tongue has one customer, the ear. a pen has one destination - the heart. i hope these words i've written find their way to yours. i don't want learning or dignity, or respectability. I want this music, and this dawn, and the warmth of your cheek against mine. The grief-armies assemble, but I'm not going with them. This is how it always is when I finish writing. don't wash a wound with blood - if it's their concern you're concerned with. i could explain this, but it would break the glass cover on your heart, and there's no fixing that. just remember to think of me when it rains both inside and out. that scratching at your door you hear in the morning - that's me.
"He wears his heart
safety pinned to his backpack
His backpack is all that he knows
Shot down by strangers
whose glances can cripple
the heart and devour the soul
All alone he turns to stone
while holding his breath half to death
Terrified of whats inside
to save his life he crawls
like a worm from a bird..."
Sunday, November 25, 2007
i write to right - that's what makes me writeous.
i remember a writer named Lori, i'm not of her last name, commenting that "as a writer, we can only hope for 1 or 2 people to endure our company, and take something positive from it." she urged me, almost made me promise that if given the chance, that i would keep my writing honest, and spoken from within. writing, poetry, prose, enlightenment, escatic love, soul, or the truth (whatever one calls it) - in the end, names don't matter. my words are written, not in packets and batches of art, or 16 bar verses of banter, but as part of a constant, practical, and mysterious discourse I am having with both myself, and with the universe. it is no easy task trying to turn the everyday into esoteric. the growth is my second journey towards home. this is the anticipation after depression, expanding after contraction. the sun comes out, and that light is what we give. i hope that my words act almost as an inheritance to my spiritual descendants.
some go first, and others come long afterward. G.d blesses both, and all in line, and replaces what has been consumed.
"This poetry, I never know what I'm going to say. I don't plan it. When I am outside of saying it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all."
Mentally, why do we stay in prison when the door is so wide open? Let us all move outside the tangle of fear-thinking and hatred. Live in silence. Let the art speak.
I need a mouth as wide as the sky to say what it is my heart. The tongue has one customer - the ear. But I cannot tell - Are these words or tears?
Sincerely,
Anthony J. Shears
some go first, and others come long afterward. G.d blesses both, and all in line, and replaces what has been consumed.
"This poetry, I never know what I'm going to say. I don't plan it. When I am outside of saying it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all."
Mentally, why do we stay in prison when the door is so wide open? Let us all move outside the tangle of fear-thinking and hatred. Live in silence. Let the art speak.
I need a mouth as wide as the sky to say what it is my heart. The tongue has one customer - the ear. But I cannot tell - Are these words or tears?
Sincerely,
Anthony J. Shears
Monday, November 19, 2007
A Man In His Life...
Dear Self,
A man in his life has only one goal he need accomplish before his time is up - to touch the truth (even if just once). My experience has shown me that liars await for us around every corner. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Peddling deceit, twisting truth, and dodging what truth demands - to be heard. These people cling to ego's shadow, hiding under layer upon layer of lies, self-righteousness, and SELF-PERPETUATED EXPERTISE. Though they appear to be praying for light, the cast their shadows upon us to keep us in the dark. The liar jeopardizes our art's integrity by creating an unrealistic reality. The liar jeopardizes our dignity by befalling our character, attempting to rub out our goodness, and ultimately trying to destroy what we have built. A man doesn't have time in his life to have time for everything. There are not enough hours in the day, days in a week, weeeks in a year to have a season for every purpose. The old philosophers were wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment, to laugh and cry with the same eyes, with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them, to make love in war and war in love. And to hate and forgive and remember and forget, to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest what history takes years and years to do. If possible, I wish I could fit the entire spectrum of truth into one work of art. It seems as though that has been the challenge of the ages artistically. Many have tried, but I cannot think of one who ahs achieved this task.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
My honesty artistically, aside from my ridiculously self-important, self-perpetuated, Ja-Rule pain-is-love shirt doffing, is what I hope sets me apart. A man in his life only has so much time to do what he has been put here to do. My self-destructive, self-sabatoging tendancies are largely what have defined me as a person. I will continue to, as long as my pen permits me, to take these recycled, reduced, and reused ideas, and try to breath fresh life into them. I once read somewhere that "there is nothing new under the sun." Vanity is like drinking salt-water to cure hydration.
Attempting to convince the world that somehow these thoughts I write down are totally organic and original would not only be vain, but also an utter and complete lie. These thoughts I write down voice not only my personal frustration, pain, joy, love, ect., but also the pain and suffering of a group of people who because of how they look, dress, talk, where they live, go to school, work, and how they relate to the world, are too often forgotten about or disregarded.
Like alot of us, Anthony Shears is a cat with the odds stacked against him. But unlike a lot us, Anthony Shears has the balls to not only talk about it, but to do something about it. The voice of the Have-nots. When asked about a fellow politician he did not care too much for, Abraham Lincoln responded, "I do not like that man. I must get to know him better."
A man in his life only has so much time to do what he has been put here to do. A man in his life has only one goal he need accomplish before his time is up - to touch the truth (even if just once). I write to right - that is what makes me Writeous.
A man in his life has only one goal he need accomplish before his time is up - to touch the truth (even if just once). My experience has shown me that liars await for us around every corner. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Peddling deceit, twisting truth, and dodging what truth demands - to be heard. These people cling to ego's shadow, hiding under layer upon layer of lies, self-righteousness, and SELF-PERPETUATED EXPERTISE. Though they appear to be praying for light, the cast their shadows upon us to keep us in the dark. The liar jeopardizes our art's integrity by creating an unrealistic reality. The liar jeopardizes our dignity by befalling our character, attempting to rub out our goodness, and ultimately trying to destroy what we have built. A man doesn't have time in his life to have time for everything. There are not enough hours in the day, days in a week, weeeks in a year to have a season for every purpose. The old philosophers were wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment, to laugh and cry with the same eyes, with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them, to make love in war and war in love. And to hate and forgive and remember and forget, to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest what history takes years and years to do. If possible, I wish I could fit the entire spectrum of truth into one work of art. It seems as though that has been the challenge of the ages artistically. Many have tried, but I cannot think of one who ahs achieved this task.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
My honesty artistically, aside from my ridiculously self-important, self-perpetuated, Ja-Rule pain-is-love shirt doffing, is what I hope sets me apart. A man in his life only has so much time to do what he has been put here to do. My self-destructive, self-sabatoging tendancies are largely what have defined me as a person. I will continue to, as long as my pen permits me, to take these recycled, reduced, and reused ideas, and try to breath fresh life into them. I once read somewhere that "there is nothing new under the sun." Vanity is like drinking salt-water to cure hydration.
Attempting to convince the world that somehow these thoughts I write down are totally organic and original would not only be vain, but also an utter and complete lie. These thoughts I write down voice not only my personal frustration, pain, joy, love, ect., but also the pain and suffering of a group of people who because of how they look, dress, talk, where they live, go to school, work, and how they relate to the world, are too often forgotten about or disregarded.
Like alot of us, Anthony Shears is a cat with the odds stacked against him. But unlike a lot us, Anthony Shears has the balls to not only talk about it, but to do something about it. The voice of the Have-nots. When asked about a fellow politician he did not care too much for, Abraham Lincoln responded, "I do not like that man. I must get to know him better."
A man in his life only has so much time to do what he has been put here to do. A man in his life has only one goal he need accomplish before his time is up - to touch the truth (even if just once). I write to right - that is what makes me Writeous.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
NEVER ASSUME
This blog might not get you laid, but it will help you understand why you never feel quite comfortable with the opposite sex. Living biblically didn’t enhance my creativity (or so I thought), so I went the exact opposite direction. I drank alcohol, isolated myself, and was really mean to everyone. I have to admit, I felt very creative during this time (though I do not know if these things were related). Honesty can be a very destructive force. If people knew how hard we as artist really worked to affect them, they would call it poetic and praise us. I stood next to this woman in an elevator today, and I could smell her insecurity (and I loved it). I wanted to tap her on the shoulder and tell her that I was just as insecure as her, and suggest that we get do something arbitrary to superficially get to know her better. I hate being identified as a “rapper” and I tell myself I don’t need acceptance, but the truth is, without some title to justify my petty theatrical need to appear in control, I would be reduced to a teary-eyed poet begging for recognition/approval. While this may not get you laid, it should help shed some light on the pressure we place on women. Sweetheart, I only lie to you when I have to. It’s not you, it’s me. Right?
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