Sore Eyes

My eyes grow tired of seeing
and sometimes I miss believing in this,
but I best not deceive myself again.

I am a wave, an oscillation,
a series of semi-circles
strung out in space and time.
I live a year of seasons
in a decade and a day.

Come on,
cut through me.
Take my soul and
turn it into science.
Display who I am
in diagram
and cold calculation.
It's what I do to myself.

I hate it for how good it feels
when I know that it's not real.
My dreams keep changing.
My heart keeps getting rearranged
And it makes me feel strange.
It makes me a stranger to my old friends.
It makes me a stranger to myself.

South Bay Hills (maybe complete)

There are few things I love more than to drive through South Bay hills in the early spring. You'll understand when you see it. As I sit in the back seat, I let my mind go where it wants to.

I think of hands tied and shattered walls
and blood I never saw,
how (time and) common struggle (purpose) form(s)
the tightest bonds.
And I wonder that a man can fall
and not really fail,
though I can't tell from (down) here.
But most of all I think of
a woman I want to love and how
the changes I've let happen to my heart
might keep me from her.

There are few things I dislike more than to drive through South Bay hills in the summer, not because it's so unpleasant, but I have seen them in the spring: I know what they can be, what they so recently were and will be again. Just not soon enough. You'll understand when you see it.