Handmade with the human touch:
something that takes hours,
maybe even days, to create
always means more
and communicates so much –
because we can always tell the difference
between something that a human heart
was responsible for,
compared to something that was
mass-produced by a machine;
but machines do make amazing,
wonderful, and complex things
that can be fascinating…
however, some things – like art –
I believe could be copied
and replicated by a robot,
but when it comes to random,
chaotic, artistic synchronicity
I am not sure that a machine
could be capable of being as phenomenally,
spontaneously, inspired as much
as a human can sometimes be.
Technology is capable of doing things
that humans will never be able to do,
and it is very likely that the first
fragment and symbol of humanity
that an alien race from space will find
and see will be one of the robotic probes
that we have launched into
the great unknowns of the galaxy.
Robots can explore… robots can observe…
robots can extend our reach
and deepen our knowledge of the universe…
robots can already reproduce themselves,
and maybe one day robots will even know what love is –
but I am not sure if, or when, any kind of technology
will be able to describe, put into words,
and use love, pain, feelings, and emotions
like human artists do to build
the worlds that they fill with a life of experiences,
that nothing artificial could ever replicate.
But, maybe it’s possible? Maybe one day there will
come a time when a machine will embody
pure inspiration and pure empathy
greater than even a human artist
or poet could ever express?
When I write, it is almost like having
a direct line to something divine –
like having a religious experience,
like asking a question and getting an answer…
maybe machines, robots, and artificial intelligence
will one day evolve and reach a point
when and where they can out dance the greatest dancers?
Our perform the greatest actors who have ever lived?
And out inspire every great thinker
that humanity has ever had, and create
and make something that will eclipse human understanding
about life, about religion, about the universe,
about art, that the human mind
has always been incapable of knowing?
One day there will be robot cars
driving us to where we want to go to;
and one day there will be
art in art galleries
created by Artificial Intelligence,
by some of the most remarkable
machines ever made –
and when we arrive at such a time
we will find ourselves living
in an era of robot integration,
when robots can be
anything they choose: even artists.
I’m waiting for something…
I’m waiting for something,
and for this thing
I have been waiting all morning…
I used to think that I was good at waiting –
for my birthday, for Christmas, for the weekend…
when I was a kid I knew that within no time at all
my favourite days of the week and the year
would come around again
and within the blink of an eye
they always did…
but, I am all grown up now –
and as I wait now
for what I am waiting for to arrive and be delivered,
I now know the true meaning of the song lyric:
“the waiting is the hardest part”…
did I mention that I am waiting for something?
I have been keeping myself and my attention occupied
while I wait, I have been doing things
that I have not done for years –
but since I cannot leave the house,
and there is no one else
who can sign for my delivery for me,
I knew that I would have to keep
my eyes from constantly
looking at the time while I am waiting…
so I cleaned – I cleaned my bedroom window,
I cleaned the dirty-dishes from the night before –
I listened to music, I sat looking out the window…
thinking… wondering… waiting…
and now here I am, writing, still waiting,
my morning and my day started early,
as it always does –
but now it is 2 o’clock in the afternoon,
and I am still waiting.
Waiting for what?
What is this something that is so special
that I would stay at home all day and wait for it?
Well, it is something special indeed that is coming –
something that you could say I am connected to,
and the reason that this something even exists…
what I am waiting for is something
that I have spent a long time invested in,
and as I wait for what I hope will soon arrive
I am even starting to have flash-backs
to my first encounter with the idea
of what is beimg delivered,
and I think about the journey that I and it
have already taken with each-other –
all those mornings… all those nights…
all those words… all those internal fights.
When you are doing things,
time literally flies away from you…
when you are watching something,
talking about something,
and when you take your mind off of something,
then the waiting for something
can be a little more bearable,
and less mind-numbing –
but waiting can sometimes be a good thing…
waiting can be exciting…
waiting can also be boring,
especially if you have been
counting how much time
you have actually been waiting…
time is a wasting –
but maybe it’s not?
At least I got to do something
to fill my time while I was waiting:
I wrote this poem that you are now reading –
so at least something worthwhile
came about and was born out of
all the time that I have been waiting…
I don’t think I have ever met anyone
in my entire life
who does not have an
obsessive compulsion to something;
I don’t think I have ever met anyone
who does not have a daily-routine;
I don’t think I have ever met anyone
who does not have something
to which they are drawn;
I don’t think I have ever met anyone
who, at one time or another,
who does not over-think…
to me, everybody has O.C.D. –
everybody has a desire to find
happiness through order;
everybody knows when they look around themselves
what the picture should be;
everybody knows that for every call
there must be a caller.
We all sometimes need reassurance about some things
in order to live a life without constant worry –
sometimes, however, our worries follow us
wherever we go…
some people cannot sleep properly
unless they find out things
that they don’t know;
we are all sometimes our own worst-enemy;
however, it is not always out fault –
because there are times when things
play on our mind, subconsciously,
and thoughts become like a bird
trapped in a house
just looking for a way out
so that they can fly-free.
Those with an O.C.D.
read every-thing into everything;
those with an O.C.D.
listen to the same songs over and over;
those with an O.C.D.
repeat the same things;
those with an O.C.D.
As a writer, I am not afraid to admit
that when it comes to my writing
I have an obsessive-compulsion
to try and not make mistakes
in whatever I write –
I, however, am a human writer,
and not a machine who functions
and who is run by programs and mathematics;
whenever I see a mistake that I have made
it does play upon my mind –
however, after a while,
I eventually resign myself
to accepting that which I cannot control –
and I take a breath and do not panic… too much.
For some people, their O.C.D.
controls their entire life;
for some people, their O.C.D.
is what keeps them awake
when it is the dead of the night;
for some people, if they do not do something
then it could never be seen by them as done right;
for some people, their O.C.D. just takes over,
and something in their brain just takes control,
of their actions and they simply can’t help it.
I am Mark.
I love writing.
I love making art.
I love thinking.
I love imagining.
I love believing deeply.
I love going far –
over oceans of water,
and to the ends of my knowledge
and my imagination that always takes me
further away than the night-sky’s
I am in love.
I live to love my angel of heaven on Earth.
I have explored.
I have marveled at the beauty of above.
I have seen many sights
that I will always remember seeing all my life –
however, there is no perfection
that could ever compare to my muse,
to my Melissa.
I am a dreamer.
I always have and I always will
see the guiding-light of hope,
even on the darkest of days.
I am a true-believer.
I know things, and slowly-but-surely
I have come to realize
that no matter who you are
or where you are from
the world can be important to you
in a myriad of different ways.
I am unique.
I return to the same places week-after-week.
I value people.
I love hearing and I love learning
about the new stories
that come into being.
I love how the happiness of those who I love
and care about makes me feel.
I remember so much,
but I am in no way smart.
I know that anyone can make something
even the size of the entire world
fit on to the head of a pin,
or make it as large and as incredible
as the universe is both beautiful and dark.
I have felt an intense understanding
of how all life works
and what everything means, many times –
while sitting on the porch of a house in Tennessee,
or while walking through New York City’s Central Park.
I would not ever advise everybody
to live like me, or to do all that I have done –
but what I would always tell everyone
is that things happen as they are meant to happen –
and if you truly want to live your dreams, and be happy,
then, even if it is for just one day in your life,
choose to be just like me, and be like Mark.
If you only knew
how much I think about you,
what I feel for you,
how much I would do for you,
and what and whom I see
when I look at you –
then you would know beyond any doubt
that my love for you
was and is beyond any miracle
or dream that could ever come true.
Instant love; infinite hope;
infatuation with an angel from above;
intoxication that no one else
could ever feel or ever know.
If you only knew how happy you make me;
if you only knew how much I can feel you
constantly inside of me;
if you only knew the dreams
that I have of you and me;
if you only knew how much
without you there would be no me.
When I see your face,
I feel like I am weightless in outer-space;
when I hear your voice,
every part of me rises high
in a state of rejoice;
when it is just us,
the blood in my body begins to rush;
when I awake at sunrise,
I see you and only you with my
ever-changing green-to-blue poetic eyes.
If you only knew that to me you are a star;
if you only knew that I would do anything
to keep you from harm;
if you only knew just how beautiful
and amazing you are…
I just wish that I could show you
how much I love you –
however, until I can,
this poem is my way of telling you
and showing you that you are more special
and precious to me than any words could ever describe…
if you only knew.
I am often observed
“lost in thought”,
and staring into space;
if you were to follow my eye-line
and believe that I were looking at nothing,
I am afraid that you would be wrong –
because, secretly, quietly, tantalizingly,
I am looking at the world,
and seeing everything:
the nature of life,
the order in the chaos;
and, as always,
what I see is constantly changing,
and the universe is always inspiring.
I sometimes forget where I am;
I sometimes lose all track of time;
I sometimes can be so enraptured
in the writing of a new poem,
that my heart-heat slows –
however I feel completely fine,
because I am in a maelstrom of fascination,
and I know that I could not stop writing
even if I wanted to,
because I am surfing like a pro
on a wave of inspiration.
Human consciousness, Human thought,
Human focus, Human art,
is our greatest gift
and our most wonderful achievement,
as a race and as a species:
we are thinkers, and believers of things;
in our own unique way, in my opinion,
no two people could ever think exactly the same –
even if they shared a link
that was telepathic, or empathic –
because we all live in different existences of degrees;
I do, however, believe that,
no matter how different we are from each other,
we are all bound together in infinite ways –
every action, every thought, every emotion,
creates it’s own interactive and universal tidal-wave.
Thinking as deeply and intensely as I do
is a wonderful gift to be able to unfurl
and wrap myself up in;
and, in turn, I do see some things
as questions that needs answers –
however, I would rather be who I am,
than someone who does not realize
the power that they have between their ears –
and that is why I am glad,
and that is why I am content,
to continue to be thought of as a writer,
and most importantly as a thinker.
I hear nothing.
Life is as it always is,
but something just doesn’t feel right;
all I can focus on,
and the only sound that breaks the silence
is my breathing;
all that I am certain of
is that I am still alive,
because I can still feel my heart beating.
The stars are in the sky;
the moon is full;
everything looks as it has appeared before –
however, I just have this feeling that I can’t shake:
that there is something lingering in the air,
something building in the darkness of the night,
that makes tonight feel like it is not just any night.
It’s probably my mind playing tricks on me;
it’s probably me thinking too much;
it’s probably something completely logical
and easily explainable, as to why I am feeling “funny”;
it’s probably my emotions running away with themselves –
however, usually when I do so,
my emotions tell me exactly what is happening,
or going to happen –
but my emotions are the thing
that I have learned to trust the most.
I have had feelings like this before –
as if I am watching a huge wave,
while standing in the ocean,
and in-awe of it and unable to move,
because I feel like I can’t look away,
and because I need the wave
to come crashing down on me somehow.
My thoughts race,
my instincts go into overdrive;
I swear in my mouth there is this odd taste;
I try to see past the darkness, and the wave,
but I cannot see beyond what hasn’t happened yet –
these days, the future feels as if
it is an ever-changing cloud.
I feel like I am looking up at the night sky
through a telescope, seeing something bright and blinding
approaching in the lens,
that looks like a meteorite
that is coming straight for me,
that is going to fall right where I am,
and the thought that I might not be touched by the impact
is one that holds no hope;
and, as I watch, as I wait, as I feel, as I listen,
I know that something is coming,
there in the silence.
I am like an open book;
people can usually tell
what I am feeling with a single look;
I express myself a lot;
when I am not speaking I am thinking;
I always have an idea on my mind,
and an expression on my face to be read
that tells its own story –
like the time of a clock;
even when I am dreaming, sleeping, my mind is racing,
and like someone with all the right moves,
in one way or another, I am always dancing.
My thoughts are a constant universe of stars being born;
my dreams are my memories and hopes
being imagined and projected for only me to see;
the eternal hope in my heart and soul
is like an endless, beautiful, and breathtaking new dawn;
my poetry is my gift, my broadcast, my performance,
my love, fears, and desires, printed on a page,
that is the most honest expression of what lies within me,
and what I like to think is the best of me.
Every gift of connection and sharing touches me deeply;
what I say I always intend to be meaningful,
special, heartfelt, and not overly serious, deep, or cheesy;
everyone who knows me, or has met me,
I hope continues to still have the same feeling about me
that they had when they first met me,
and they still remember their first impression of me;
my lasting hope is that everybody remembers me
for the good things I have done,
and share something of me, or about me,
that might serve to inspire others infinitely.
It is not important to say everything you are thinking,
however if you are like me you can’t ever keep
what is on your mind locked away behind lock and key;
it is not everybody who is lucky enough
to be able to paint their own portrait
and display it for all the world to see.
When fate calls you, when destiny sends you a sign,
if you can see what is right in front of you,
and if you can read between the lines,
you can read my mind,
you can feel the meaning of something
before you even know what it is all for.
So, if you ever meet me, if you ever see me,
if you read something that I have written,
if you happen to pick up one of my books,
then I can guarantee you that without too much effort at all,
you will easily be able to read my thoughts.
The great detective knows the streets of his city
like he knows the indelible lines on the palms of his hands;
the great detective sees the world and its people
as if they are an intricately-interwoven and infinite puzzle;
the great detective walks with knowledge and conviction,
with a mystery to be solved in his pocket,
and he knows of nothing that he has not already considered,
thought about, and played out in his mind in a hundred ways,
and because he sees and knows only
solutions and answers to every question,
the great detective walks with phenomenal confidence;
the great detective is not oblivious to breaking a sweat
and fighting for what he believes is right,
should the time and need arise –
however, he strives to find a way to win the day
without having to encounter, or get involved,
in any sort of tussle of trouble.
The great detective is always thinking,
and his imagination and his thought process
is boundless and second to none;
the great detective has a vast palace of memory
in which he keeps the things he holds the most precious;
the great detective has a mind as fast,
and a tongue as quick, as a bullet from a gun;
the great detective has seen wonders,
and has met people who exhibit traits of humanity
from all ends of the spectrum,
but he is still proud to call himself
a member of the human race –
however, he believes that when people do start listening
to what he has to say he will be the saviour of all of us.
The great detective believes above all else
that through logic and reasoning
even the improbable can have a reason for being
that can be simplified to a simple sentence;
the great detective is not afraid to act
and think simultaneously, and adapt on the fly;
the great detective thrives on the rush of a new experience;
the great detective knows he is good, perhaps great, at what he does –
so when asked if he is modest about his gifts he does not have to lie.
The great detective can conjure up a deduction in the blink of an eye;
the great detective has seen things that are so beyond words
and description, the only other way to classify them
would be to think of them as magic;
the great detective himself cannot not pigeon-holed,
nor his ego or self-belief subdued –
although some have failed when they have tried;
the great detective is like a force of nature,
and even to himself, when he looks in the mirror at his reflection,
or when he considers the most perfect of callings for himself,
he always returns to the most elementary conclusion
at the end of his deductions:
and that is that, beyond anything or anybody that he could be,
he is, and was always meant to be, who he is,
and who he will always be – the great detective.