Recording

Practice.
Convince.
Practice.
Teach.
Practice.
Create.
Practice.
Improvise.
Practice.
Relax.
Practice
Focus.
Practice.
Silence.

Record.

Hallelujah

I've got some more song lyrics for y'all!

Hallelujah is originally written by Leonard Cohen, but in my opinion, Jeff Buckley's version is by far the best. You can read more about it on my "My Inspiration" page. For now, enjoy these haunting lyrics. all credit to Leonard Cohen.

"Hallelujah"

I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe there’s a God above
But all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
It’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who has seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah

(azlyrics.com)

The Show, Part 2

His story is one of a man who's tale is one worth telling.
As his tale nears its conclusion his voice gains strength and power,
until every syllable becomes a blow to the chest of every observer.
Suddenly he unleashes a scream of passion,
of enthusiasm,
of unrivaled intensity.
The stage is drowned in lights
as the man becomes a silhouette against the overwhelming sound
that fills the room.

The show has begun.

Uptown Movies

The theater wears a cloak of shadow
save for the holes where light can enter.
The twin doors open with a queit protest
and I enter the chamber,
hoping to unveil its secrets.
The foyer greets me
at its frayed carpet and cracked tile edge.
Tan walls are scarred by poster marks, faded and forgotten.
The glass boxes entice me
with their lies of salt, illuminated.
Carpet, heavily trod upon, suffocates the cement below.
A wind whistles through the building.
Its spirit whispers of hauntings, of memories, of tragedy.
I peer around the corner into the room
where giant screens once ruled each night.
The blackness counsumes the space,
as if the show is about to begin.
The seats are filled with visions of elegant people,
high classed couples,
wealthy young men in pursuit of love.
One of the women looks intently at me,
expressionless save for her transparent stare.
The wind ruffles my hair.
I don't belong here.
Striding swiftly out of the theater,
I know I will return,
but not today.

Sitting in a gentle chair,
deflated and irritated at my arrogance,
self imposed by choice.
I meditate to the song
that may become my anthem.
The water waits.

My Old Life

The tan brick buildings loom in my hindsight.
Guitar slung across my left shoulder
and my belongings in a thread-weary bag,
suspended from the other.
I try not to gaze back at the campus,
because I know the secrets contained within their walls
are the archives of my life.
But despite my efforts, my past will haunt me,
in ways both empowering and crippling.

The oldest of the records impart their wisdom to me.
The youngers remind me to never forget my humble origins.
And the youngest of all taught me how to live.

Most of them weren't real,
just props fallen through the holes in my stage
at critical moments.
But some of them remain,
their shadows burned into the film
that covers the reel room
of my mind.

Impulsively I pivot to look back at the walls.
I stand much taller than them.
They stand,
almost bowed before me,
as I have outgrown them.

I turn back around.
The new walls tower ninety feet tall.
But already I sense them coming down to welcome me
until I can stand looking over them.
Like the world I left behind,
this one too cannot contain me for long.

The Show, Part 1

Today is the great debut.
The theater is packed with thoughts and visions.
All of them share one conversation,
a hive of bees waiting for spring.
The electricity dives from being to being,
an arcing spiral, eager to envigorate its victims.
The curtain rises, and the infectious chatter diminshes rapidly.
The artist's figure rises ominously out of the floor,
the lone skyscraper in an abandoned metropolis.
He begins to pace in a meandering inconspicuos manner.
He rambles on in an undefined tone.

Green lasers blind and disorient me,
I wonder if Armageddon has arrived.
I look to my right.
Next to me sits a kangaroo.

October 2nd, 2011

2 hours away,
In a shadowed place,
There's a hockey arena
A gathering case.

Inside the dome,
The guitars rev up,
A silhouette screams,
And the crowd erupts.

I can hear the music
here at home, no drive,
but majesty and vengeance
are only felt live.

Will you take me to the show?
Nothing else, just let me go.
It's my final time,
My last chance to see my favorite band.

Other fans may be strange,
some venomous, some vicious,
but with Gates up on stage
we're all of one mind.

There's air, in a sense,
that's consumed by the shouts,
the amps won't stop pumping
the electricity out.

Will you take me to the show?
Nothing else, just let me go.
It's my final time,
My last chance to see my favorite band.

Music is life,
Music is love,
Music is life,
Let's go...

Will you take me to the show?
Nothing else, just let me go.
It's my final time,
My last chance to see my favorite band.

Waiting

Why did God make us so
we're always needing something new?
why are we always waiting
for something new to do?

Waiting must be a part of life
it's only human nautre;
Nature grants us random gifts
what we want we're never sure.

I can't wait forever,
I won't wait forever,
God must have skipped me
when he made his patience rounds.

Love waits for anything,
seasons any reason,
so why is it I who has to wait,
especially on this?

Summertime

I remember last July,
the heat was full and the sun rode high.
Met a girl who was named for June
and dreamed away the afternoons.

Her eyes were brown like cherry pop
shorts always matched her purple top.
Most stunning girl I ever knew
by autumn she'd make my heart blue.

She said she'd never leave,
never break my heart, never make me grieve.
The end of summer is always strange
but why did her leaves have to change?

We would sit and laugh about
all the people heading south.
Her ice-cream lips were warm and sweet,
around her I'd hear my heart beat.

Summer days to summer nights
walking under bright street lights.
Sayin' how we'd never split
the next day she had called it quits.

She said she'd never leave,
never break my heart, never make me grieve.
The end of summer is always strange
but why did her leaves have to change?

I'll never forget those summer days,
I'll never forget her perfume haze,
Though she may be gone from here
my summer girl's in every tear.

She said she'd never leave,
never break my heart, never make me grieve.
The end of summer is always strange
but why did her leaves have to change?

My 100th Post

My 100th post has arrived! And we shall celebrate with another poem. Untitled, albeit. I didn't feel right assigning a label to this one.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dust is wet with tears.
And still they run.
Your eyes are red with regret.
They look strange against the brown
I am used to seeing there.

Lashing out at those who cared.
Accepting forgiveness only to strike again.
Wondering why they abandoned you.
Destroyed by the betrayal of your friend.

I watch you coil once again.
Laughter and sobbing boil in my throat, locked in eternal warfare.
Lunging, caught unprepared at the shortcoming.
The scabs on your knees and elbows
split open like blooming flowers.

Blood, dirt, and water race by my feet.
They mix and remind me of lava,
the fire carving down the weeping mountain.

Your shackles rattle and slide.
Your wrists are raw with cuts and scars.
The key sits next to you.
You choose to ignore it.

The jury announced their verdict
to allow you return to your thriving life.
But the judge overruled them,
sentencing you to four years of loneliness,
an isolation broken only by my prescense.


Anger at the judge's cruelty fills me,
and I resolve to release you.
But then I remember.
You are the judge.

I really like the color on that painting.
When I look at it, it's like home.
But from this angle,
the peaceful blue turns to an angry, unpleasant red.

Asiento vacío el lunes

Los estudiantes ríen y se ríen.

La muchacha me pide ayuda.

La chica de la silla vacía no dice nada.


La maestra nos enseña a hablar

en una lengua extranjera.

Todos lo posible para comunicarse.

La chica de la silla vacía no dice nada.


La sirena que marcó el final de la clase resuena desagradable.

Todos los paquetes de sus notas y las hojas.

La chica de la silla vacía no hace nada.


La miro.

Ella está vestida de blanco,

y coronada por un halo de pelo rubio.

Sus ojos son de un tono triste de azul.


Hablar en voz baja, le pido su nombre.

Ella sonríe y se desvanece en la niebla.

La sirena completa su ciclo.

Empty Seat on Monday

The students snicker and chuckle.
The girl behind me asks for help.
The girl in the empty seat says nothing.

The teacher teaches us how to speak
in a foreign tongue.
We all try our best to communicate.
The girl in the empty seat says nothing.

The siren signalling the end of class blares obnoxiously.
Everyone packs their notes and leaves.
The girl in the empty seat does nothing.

I look at her.
She is dressed in white,
and crowned with a halo of blonde hair.
Her eyes are a sad shade of blue.

Talking softly, I ask her name.
She smiles, and fades into the haze.
The siren completes its cycle.

Boarding with Mr. Paeters

Arrive at the meeting place.
Mr. Paeters is already practicing.
We are excited for the journey.

I hop on the board.
It begins to roll,
like the panther stalking the prey.

I learn to carve.
The wheels slice the pavement
like knives.

Mr. Paeters teaches me some tricks.
They are difficult,
but I achieve them with practice.

We go inside the Paeters home.
Tiny people in a tiny box
teach us more tricks.

We pack for the trek.
Apples, rolls, water.

A note alerts the rest of the Paeters family
to our absence.
We set off.

Exploring undiscovered mountains.
skating over glass floors.
Walking across the Sahara desert.

We reach the central.
A combination of walking and riding
moves us slowly towards our destination.

Giant metal beasts race past us.
They are all hunting,
or perhaps running from danger.

Several tractors nearly decapitate us.
They take up both lanes of the road.
Mr. Paeters and I briefly enjoy the open riding space.

The jam is resolved
and we are forced to walk again.

Suddenly, we find ourselves in the back of a police car.
We cannot open the doors.
Our hands sit in grooves behind our back,
but we are not handcuffed.

The friendly officer helps us to reach our destination.
Mr. Paeters and I bid her farewell,
and continue our adventure.

Skate through the park,
and down the hills.
grass, cement, asphalt.

Take a break
for water and an apple.

We find a smooth road.
Racing down the hill,
we carve like no other.

Finally, we are exhausted
and call for our ride.
Mr. Paeters, Sr., comes to retrieve us.

At the Paeters household,
we greet our friend, Mr. Sandels,
with some lovely messages and voicemails.

Downstairs, there is paint in the bathtub.
We scrub it off
into the drain.

Seated around the dinner table,
we enjoy the delicious meal.
There are three choices.

We discuss the pronunciation of Paeters.
It is French.

Our friend, Mr. Sandels, arrives.
The three of us head downstairs
and send more messages.

Outside we go,
to get some tattoos.
I am severely disappointed.

We travel to the home of Mr. Waffles.
We chat, and sprint away quickly,
without Mr. Waffles.

We ride in the driveway for a short while more.
and then my father arrives,
and I must depart.

I am riding in the back of a cop car. My hands are behind me,
but not cuffed.
I have not been arrested.

Something is missing.
I whirl about frantically,
seeking the absence.
But it remains unknown.

The Choice

Note: This is my response to a prompt on dailywritingpractice.blogspot.com. Great site, if you are interested in writing at all I would say you should give a prompt a go one day.

Surrounded by noise
yet the noise is surrounded
by my skull.

In the antechamber I stand
spinning around in place,
looking at the five green doors.

One to death,
another to life,
the other three unknown.

They all look the same,
except for one,
where the knob is tarnished.
The third from the right.

Or second from the left?
Fourth from the door
with the chip in the paint?
There's a door with chipped paint?

They all look the same.
Two hours and two years
have the same impact on one's mind.
It's just as well I don't know
how long I have been here.

The noise is still there.
Not in the background,
but poorly concealed in front of all.

The antechamber has walls
of a sickly purple.
They remind me of a dying lavender.

Unconciuosly one door is selected.
I stride towards it,
not really knowing why.

I open the door and sprint through.
The people walking outside pause
and give me strange looks.

The king and queen watch solemnly,
suspended high in the window.
Occasionally they glance down at my defeated soul.
They are satisfied.

Writhing against my bonds,
I watch them hang.
The hooded hangman heartily chuckles at each hanging.
His deceptive hands seem to slither up to the lever.

It occured many years ago.
My debt is still unredeemed.
I must save them.
Yet I remain leashed by my bane,
suffocated by the twisted laws of authority.

Misunderstood by the jealous monarchy,
my saviors are commited to the hangman
on false accusations of treason.

The doomed snatched me away from my executioner.

I sit in the cage.
White metal engulfs me, trapped.
Outside, the tree grins.

Old friends rediscovered
while the joyful music proudly sings.
I am content.

Inconsistencies in Pop Culture, Part 2

What is the morning?
A beginning?
A prelude?
An opening night?
That doesn't make sense.
Night and morning are not the same.

What is the afternoon?
A middle ground?
The main attraction?
Limbo?
But the afternoon has a general sense
of time and space.
Limbo does not.

What is the evening?
A warning?
A final call?
A neutral ground?
A time of dying?
The moon is born in the evening.
That doesn't make sense.

What is the night?
A sinister thing?
A time to sleep?
A calling to certain life forms?
Ok, obviously not true.
The sun is much more attractive than the moon.

All of these things prove that Richie Valens never existed.
Neither did your kneecaps.

A Year Ago, Part Two

A bouquet of roses,
a colorful symbol of life's gifts to me.
Bonds blooming,
wonders unfolding,
the petals of hard work blossoming.

But the flowers sit ominously upon the grave.

The epitaph reveals the birth of a vicious prejudice,
and harmless exaggerations darkened fatal.
A single raindrop crawls downward over the carved words
as I read.

The stone is decadently engraved,
comforting to the ones
who come to grieve.
They did not foresee his impending downfall,
but I did, powerless against time.

Next to the date of birth,
the dash seems to carry on into eternity,
a mockery to the life mercilessly severed.
The date of death is not yet written.

I stand over the tomb,
the assassins' eyes burnt into my mind.
The shield has become sword,
and staff become snake.

A gunshot rings out in the distance.

Struck down by the beautiful thing,
the infallible,
the just.
His valiant flee had begun too late,
too long lured in by the treacherous music.

A siren echos from across the fields.

The murderous troupe acts on.
They have done no wrong by the jury,
but the righteous were merely lambs before the wolves.

The raindrop completes its excruciating descent
and scatters in the grass.

A chilled hand comes to a rest upon my shoulder.
My friend greets me silently
as the warmth swells throughout my body.

July 12, 2011.

Its appearance in the rock was not at all unexpected.
Its prescence was prophesized by the earth.

Yet the raindrops continue to fall.

The dash's reign of invincibility is no more.

Infallible.
Invincible.
Individual.
Ideal.

The hyenas observe, taking shifts laughing and weeping.
Some do not ever laugh.
The injured lay at their feet.

Attempts to help turn.
Nightmares and fears realized.
Rainbows do not lie.

Atlanta

   Rather than post a lengthy poem today, I thought I would showcase some great lyrics by a great band. I have been addicted to the song Atlanta by Stone Temple Pilots the past few days. It's not my usual type of song, slow and nostalgic, but something about it just draws me in. Haunting lyrics and a very resonant, almost ethereal backing. Here they are.

She lives in a bungalow
She kills me with rosegarden thorns
She waits for me
My love is unusual
It's painted with roses and thorns
with her I'm complete

She lives by the wall
and waits by the door
She walks in the sun
to me

Visions of Mexico seduce me
It goes to my head so carefully
Memories of candles and incense
And all of these things remember these

She lives by the wall
and waits by the door
She walks in the sun
to me

She comforts me when
the candles blow out
the cake has grown mold
but the memories are sweet
The laughter's all gone
but the memories are mine
The Mexican princess
is out of my life

She lives by the wall
and waits by the door
She walks in the sun
to me

(lyricsfreak.com)

But you wanted to wait.
I said no, then yes.
But you couldn't wait.
Do you stand by your choice?
Was it your choice at all?

I see your future.
Two years to go, until you will be fooled.
Two years to gain the wisdom of three.

Inconsistencies in Pop Culture, Part 1

I have always wondered about the phrase
"head over heels in love."
It is used to describe one who has
such strong feelings that they seemingly
lose control.

But since we are humans,
and walk upright,
isn't our head over our heels
under normal circumstances?

Therefore, the phrase should be "heels over head in love."

However, that may be unusual,
but it doesn't fully describe the emotion
of being helpless against your emotions.
It should be something a bit more shocking,
like "stomach over head in love."

Yes, that's better.

Be a little whimsical.
Level yourself over the sunny pavement.
Be happy and enjoy your life.
You've got the good life.
Long live life.

Reliving the day at night.
The darkness is my medium on which to analyze.
An unusual strain in my neck.
My companions have returned.

Pink Floyd Enters Reality

The white bricks stand ominously
against the sobbing sky.
Lightning licks the air
with its fiery tongue.

I sit on the hill and observe.
I look at the determined performers,
desperate to save the, and.

I look at the weak.
They expended their might
attempting to rescue the, and.

I look at the oblivious.
Foreign to the tragedy,
carrying on with and without the, and.

I look at those seated with me.
My friends, scanning the horizon.
We are clouds.

It is midnight inside the wall.
The sun sets behind us
and casts our shadows upon the wall.

I plead with the star,
begging it not to fall from its heavenly perch
and plunge us into the icy black water.

It says no, and the pendulum slips further still towards us.
But perhaps it will destroy the wall, before it can crush us.

I feel the urge to weep.
So much lost,
so much left to lose,
so much contempt,
so much potential wasted.
All gone, killed by the beautiful thing.

Riding in the car
with several pigs and phoenix
preparing to play.

The Aftermath

The trees have been destroyed,
and along with them their tale of sorrow.
Dreams and nightmares recorded, now lost,
but for the pain they brought.

The canyons are filled with dust
and desert weeds thrive where once
an oasis burst forth.

Fire consumes the leaves
on which the phoenix was born,
and the ancient bird glides overhead,
casting a shadow over the glowing embers.

The young warriors beat the ground with their callused feet,
ignorant of the battle already lost where they stand with pride,
nervous and adrenalized for the encounter.
They need not fight.
Struck down our leader goes silently in the past.

Music

My life is documented in the lyrics.
The music resonates with my emotions.
The beat is that of my heart.

I cry at the music.
I laugh with the music.
I fight to the music.
I celebrate with the music.

I was born with the music.
I will die with the music.

The music has destroyed me.
The music has rebuilt me.
The music has saved my life.

The song is about my friend.
It is about her,
but I did not write it.

The song is about my friend.
His spirit drives the tune,
the motor.

The song is about me.

I am about the song.

My life is the song.

Anticipation

The thrill of the chase.
The evening which I live for.
The hunt has arrived.

A Short Proverb

Hello all,
   I'd like to share a phrase I found in my novel that I feel is very unique. I don't think it's meaning is a physical one, but a concept, or a look into our minds. Anyway, I just really enjoyed it. This is from the book The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. It's a good read, check it out.

"Whatever happens once will never happen again. But anything that happens twice is sure to happen a third time."

Just some food for thought.

A Year Ago

A day at the studio reminds me
that I have a long and very strange past.
Stranger yet is the year gone by,
started today, a year ago.
I reflect on my accomplishments and mistakes.
The roads not taken loom far behind in the rearview mirror.

A year ago, my only care was tamed aggression and a small brown object.
A year ago, I considered an option that would have left my spirit destroyed.
A year ago, I thought cool was a word that beared merit.
A year ago, ignorance donned the mask of mastery and decieved me.
A year ago, confidence was a gift I did not have.
A year ago, a second chance was granted to me.
A year ago, the peak had been conquered.
A year ago, I was invincible.

A year ago, I didn't know how good I was.
A year ago, I didn't understand my worth.
A year ago, no one had ever paid close attention to me.

A year ago, I had never disappointed anyone.
A year ago, I had never broken a promise.
A year ago, nothing had ever truly hurt me.
A year ago, no one had ever truly hurt me.
A year ago, I had yet to begin my crossing to the other side.
A year ago, I had never lost a friend.
A year ago, I had never felt a friend slip away.
A year ago, my pride had never been shattered.

This year has shaped me.
All my previous life experiences
prepared me for last year.
And this year will do the same for the next.

Maybe things the sun would have shined brighter
had I taken the other roads.
Maybe I would be farther advanced in other things.
Maybe I wouldn't have known pain.

But I know that my choices were all correct.
This is the best life for me.
No regrets forever.

Dreams for Only $1.99

Eat the banana.
I don't want to eat it.
Eat the apple.
It is old and sweet with rotten flesh.

Fall into the empty space.
Run frantically back and forth,
trying to escape while the jaguars
laugh high above.

Hurtle through the clouds.
Paranoia and sympathy at
the green one.
It is your friend.

Crawl through the tubes
hanging from the Empire State Building.
They are made of soft fabric
and are fun to tumble in,
but don't roll out of the ends.

The Inevitable and the Unrivaled

The man is undefeated.
All cower in terror.
Electricity splits the air
as he storms into the hall.

Sneering, he raises his eyebrows
and chuckles,
spreading his wings wide,
pawing the air.

I watch in silence
at the back of the room.
I feel my spirit growing restless
and an aggression rushing forward.
A small smirk on my face.
He is not invincible.

Thoughts of defeat
pound through my head.
Not of my own downfall,
but the one which will befall him
at my hands.

But not today.
While his passado is weak
and his psuedonym weaker yet,
he has not proven himself a real threat
to the righteous.

Still, I sit and wait.
The sinister panther, perched in the tree,
just, but dark.
Perched in the tree,
above the alpha lion.

America Day

I look out my chamber room door
and watch the tiny flames
dancing in the air above the street.
I am hopeful.
Not for the lights.
But for the strength of the people in this country.
Although justice has regained its sight,
and the river is in flames,
we will remain one.
Though gold is becoming lead,
and the violins have reached their fortissimo,
nothing can defeat the spirit of the patriotic people.
The U.S. of America.
The us of America.

Far Away

On a hill.
See the dark.
Observe the glow.
Hear the silence.
Comprehend the noise.
Fear for friends.
Communicate for reassurance.
Pray for intervention.
Relax when fulfilled.
Hope for relief.
Wonder at status.
Thank for salvation.
Be at ease.
On a hill.

Disregarded

Listen to the music
and sit by the window.
Write down what you hear.
Try to decide the best way to interpret
the assimilation of tones.

Read what you have written.
It is a tangle of wires,
all of which combine to accomplish
an unknown purpose.

Recite your words aloud.
They blend harmoniously
and capture the music.
Feel the tumblers aligning
and the lock sliding open with a click.

Things look simpler.
Problems reveal their solutions
and dreams enter reality.

I do the same.
The music is constant and universal.

Impact

When something encounters and comes in contact with something else,
we say they are touching.

When something comes in contact with something else while in motion,
we call this a collision.

When there is a collision, the force that the objects exert on each other
is called the impact.

The word impact can be used in many ways.
It can be used in the literal sense of the word,
where a physical object hits another physical object.

It can be used to describe an effect that an action or reality has on a person's emotions.
When something dear to us is gone, our emotions are greatly influenced.

It can be used to describe the effect a metaphysical concept has on people.
Love is a conceptual sledgehammer that blind sides its victims.

It can be used to describe the relationships between metaphysical concepts.
Joy and sorrow together often create turmoil.

It can be used to describe the effect a mass action of a large group of people has on their surroundings.
When a group of people all decide to carry out a singular action simultaneously, the impact on the physical, metaphysical, and human objects nearby is hurled into a state of chaos.

What if a metaphysical concept collides with a physical object, which then has an effect on your emotions, which causes you to have an impact on a massive group of people, whos' emotions create a collective force on a metaphysical concept, which strikes another metaphysical concept, which makes you extremely happy?

Or a physical object has an impact on your physical being, causing your emotions to be impacted, which creates metaphysical concepts within you that conflict with other previously existing metaohysical concepts? When their fists stop swinging, your favorite soup probably won't taste very good to you any more.

Our world is based off of the effect impacts between things have on each other.
If there were no impacts, the world would be a very boring place.

While some impacts may not seem beneficial to you at times, they will always lead to more impacts that will benefit you in the future.

That future will have an impact on the more distant future.
But if that future didn't exist, wouldn't that reality of a nonexistent future have an impact on your present?
Therefore, doesn't the future's existence also have an impact on your present?
And since the past used to be the present, and the present used to be the future, doesn't that mean that the future also had an impact on your past?
Something that has not happened yet has impacted something that happened many years ago.

Therefore, time does not exist.

The Great Noodle City

I ride out of the desert
and into the forest,
where my history is written.

The gatekeeper welcomes me to my city.
I am fearful to enter.

First I must walk through the house
where the beast that defeated the city
was born of the counsel.

A meeting is in session at the table.
I enter and am greeted
with honest grimaces of contempt.

With as much respect,
I continue walking while offering them my greetings.
I have yet to revisit the ruins.

In solemnity I remember the way to the ruins.
Navigating the routes, I am silent
and I finally arrive.

Skyscrapers tumbled and the debris removed.
The ruins are gone.
Burnt by the beast in pride and mockery.

The shock of their absence
seizes ownership of my consciousness
and collapses me upon my knees in tears.

The ruins were all that remained
of the blooming city.
The final sign of the city's once great power
perished along with them.

Future generations will never know
that the city ever was.
They may even construct their own cities
on the foundations of the old.

They too will see their cities crumble before long.

I weep at warnings overlooked.
Regret and shame are not present within me,
but a genuine sadness for those heights
never achieved.

I do not know
what the present would be
had I heeded the omens.
But I did not.

Visions of failure not acted upon will always become reality.