To Be the Man I Wish To Be
To be the man I wish to be
I seek daring adventure yet read poetry
To be the man I wish to be
I never back down from a fight with foes
yet still giggle when my mother tickles my toes
To be the man I wish to be
I set audacious goals that "cannot be reached"
yet never forget those who to me have beseeched
To be the man I wish to be
I set to fill each moment with useful industry
but never forget to laugh wholeheartedly
To be the man I wish to be
I seek the perfection of my body into a work of art
yet read literature that teaches me to feel from the heart
You see to be the man I wish to be
is not a question of what is accepted and what is not
but only a question of what is right for those around me
and what is right for my heart
There is no true man who fails to laugh from within
who fails to love like a child
cry like an infant
dance like a fool
sing like bird
and above all
tell those around him how much to them he owes his love
So to me my manhood is not a measure of the girls I've had
nor the push ups I do, nor the touchdowns I get
but to me my manhood is a measure of
the hearts I've touched
the work I've done
the service I've provided
the values I've held strong to
the love I've spread
and those people I said 'I promise' to
who look back and say
"There goes a boy who delivers on a vow"
To be the man I wish to be
I seek daring adventure yet read poetry
To be the man I wish to be
I never back down from a fight with foes
yet still giggle when my mother tickles my toes
To be the man I wish to be
I set audacious goals that "cannot be reached"
yet never forget those who to me have beseeched
To be the man I wish to be
I set to fill each moment with useful industry
but never forget to laugh wholeheartedly
To be the man I wish to be
I seek the perfection of my body into a work of art
yet read literature that teaches me to feel from the heart
You see to be the man I wish to be
is not a question of what is accepted and what is not
but only a question of what is right for those around me
and what is right for my heart
There is no true man who fails to laugh from within
who fails to love like a child
cry like an infant
dance like a fool
sing like bird
and above all
tell those around him how much to them he owes his love
So to me my manhood is not a measure of the girls I've had
nor the push ups I do, nor the touchdowns I get
but to me my manhood is a measure of
the hearts I've touched
the work I've done
the service I've provided
the values I've held strong to
the love I've spread
and those people I said 'I promise' to
who look back and say
"There goes a boy who delivers on a vow"
I lift.
I stack weight upon weight, plate upon plate,
each plate a retaliation to the challenges of the soul.
No, I will not be crushed, I will not be struck down by the insecurities and doubt,
for this weight is for growth.
These challenges are mine to own
mine to conquer
mine to fight
in the great battlefield of life.
These challenges are mine.
They're the inspiration for every plate I slide on,
every push up I push out
every rep I push through
and every second try.
My sweat slides along me and mixes with cold iron
a cold but worthy companion to a lonely road that only I can walk
for though others may walk with me, no one can walk it for me.
He is a friend who asks nothing
expects nothing.
He needs no validation or help or proof of trust.
He simply listens and laughs.
He laughs in my face for every lift that's "too much"
because with every lift that's "too much" he reminds me that in life,
"Too much" isn't an option. Only a challenge.
Every "too much" is a chance to grow
a challenge unrecognized
a road unpaved
a greatness undiscovered.
My blood is made of iron.
I asked God for these challenges, these chances to grow,
So who am I to complain that it's too hard, too much, too...
So I take them standing, even if each brings me to my knees
for I stack another weight to strengthen my legs.
When I feel I have nothing to give, I lift heavier dumbbells to strengthen my arms.
When my heart sobs because it can't take it, I do another push up to strengthen my chest.
And when my soul feels as though it's empty,
I breathe deeply to remind it I am yet alive.
I am here.
And then it's over. The weights have been lifted,
the challenges surmounted,
the reps and sets conquered.
The heart found.
The love sighted.
And I look in the mirror. In it is a man I've never seen,
a man I do not know.
A different man then who stood here before.
Before me is the man I wish to become.
He is the promise fulfilled, the prayers answered...
My personal messiah.
And yet, he still exists in the mirror,
so close to me, and I so close to becoming him
so close that I can see the sweat trickle down his temple.
But I am not yet him.
And so,
I lift.
I stack weight upon weight, plate upon plate,
each plate a retaliation to the challenges of the soul.
No, I will not be crushed, I will not be struck down by the insecurities and doubt,
for this weight is for growth.
These challenges are mine to own
mine to conquer
mine to fight
in the great battlefield of life.
These challenges are mine.
They're the inspiration for every plate I slide on,
every push up I push out
every rep I push through
and every second try.
My sweat slides along me and mixes with cold iron
a cold but worthy companion to a lonely road that only I can walk
for though others may walk with me, no one can walk it for me.
He is a friend who asks nothing
expects nothing.
He needs no validation or help or proof of trust.
He simply listens and laughs.
He laughs in my face for every lift that's "too much"
because with every lift that's "too much" he reminds me that in life,
"Too much" isn't an option. Only a challenge.
Every "too much" is a chance to grow
a challenge unrecognized
a road unpaved
a greatness undiscovered.
My blood is made of iron.
I asked God for these challenges, these chances to grow,
So who am I to complain that it's too hard, too much, too...
So I take them standing, even if each brings me to my knees
for I stack another weight to strengthen my legs.
When I feel I have nothing to give, I lift heavier dumbbells to strengthen my arms.
When my heart sobs because it can't take it, I do another push up to strengthen my chest.
And when my soul feels as though it's empty,
I breathe deeply to remind it I am yet alive.
I am here.
And then it's over. The weights have been lifted,
the challenges surmounted,
the reps and sets conquered.
The heart found.
The love sighted.
And I look in the mirror. In it is a man I've never seen,
a man I do not know.
A different man then who stood here before.
Before me is the man I wish to become.
He is the promise fulfilled, the prayers answered...
My personal messiah.
And yet, he still exists in the mirror,
so close to me, and I so close to becoming him
so close that I can see the sweat trickle down his temple.
But I am not yet him.
And so,
I lift.
No Train, No Smoke.
He sits there often. Waiting. Watching.
No one is quite sure of what it is he waits for, nor what it is he looks for, but they see him there everyday, throughout the day, as though he does not move from that rickety old, worn crossing gate. It’s dangerously close to the train and many a time people unfamiliar with the small town have feared that they are about to witness a young man end his life in front of them. They rush forward and snatch him back, worried not that the boy will die, but that they will have the burden of his death upon their shoulders.
But he never attempts to end his life. He simply sits. Waiting. Watching.
The train fascinates the boy. The manner in which it passes each day at the same time, without fail, knowing exactly where it intends to go, travelling with such speed that he has never truly understood what it is he looks at—it fascinates him. The manner in which it flashes by, leaving a trail of deep dark smoke lingering behind in the air as though confused of its purpose. The smoke seems so lost, so helpless that it concedes defeat to the vastness of the world around it.
Does the train not realize its obligation to the smoke? Does it not understand that the smoke is its child, conceived deep in the womb of the train, product of the passionate union between the dancing flames and the nurturing coals that power this very train towards its destination? Or is the train so hell bent on finding its destination, on arriving, that it simply leaves the smoke without any guidance, without any values that tell it how to lead life, who it is and why it exists.
So the boy sits there. Waiting. Watching.
He sits waiting to see if the smoke will be able to conjure its own path, find a meaningful journey that will provide it with value and purpose. A path that would make the train that conceived it, the train that was already so far down its own self absorbed path to its destination, proud. Will it be able to write its own values without any book of reference? Will it find its own place, its own destination before being torn apart and dissipated into the vastness of the sky?
The boy roots deeply for the smoke. Perhaps naively, but he roots nonetheless.
He sits watching because he cannot fathom how a train moving at such speed can possibly leave behind its child like that. Sure, he understood that the child was unsightly, with its wispy tendrils that bore a dark stench and a color that wove its way deep down into ones lungs and imbedded itself in their very soul, but it was his child nonetheless. Just as the deep, endless earth beneath him bore rocks. The earth produced these unbreakable pellets that worked great in his slingshot, but it did not simply look away from them. No, it gave them direction as to how they must grow; it gave them a collective purpose that was well understood between the community of rocks that existed throughout the town. It gave them values. As each rock grew, it developed its maturity from these values, learning who it wanted to be in the world and that was why no two rocks were ever alike. But they were all still rocks, and even if they weren’t alike, the values that God gave the earth were passed on to the rocks from mother earth, and that was why even though no two rocks were the same, they were all still rocks and they knew it.
And it was then that the boy started to understand. Perhaps the reason the train couldn’t guide the smoke was because the train itself didn’t know its own values. It was being conducted and guided by men in funny clothes with funny moustaches that made them look very serious, but it was never actually told where it was going and why. Maybe that’s why the train ran away from the smoke after it produced it, not because it didn’t love it, nor because it didn’t see it fit to be given values but because the train itself didn’t know where it was going or who it was. Perhaps the train didn’t know its own number and so it could never do the honorable thing and teach the smoke the knowledge it had gained after years of travelling down paths all over the world. It couldn’t tell the smoke about the vastness of the sky or that wherever the smoke decided to go it would be okay, because the train would always love it and if it listened real close it would hear the roaring of the train no matter where it was.
So he imagined that the train was moving towards its destination so furiously because it believed that it would find its answers there. The train believed that if it could just get there, wherever “there” was, then maybe it could understand its own purpose. Suddenly, it would arrive and understand who it was, what the purpose of its existence was. Though it had to travel far, far away without ever getting the chance to tell the smoke anything, the boy imagined how happy the train would be when it finally did understand. He imagined the train rushing back, not being led by some funny man with a funny moustache, no, this time it would travel all by itself and it would rush back just as furiously as it left, prepared to do the honorable thing now that it knew who it was. It would rush back to teach the smoke of who it was, who it could be. It would rush back to find the smoke to tell it of the vastness of the sky, and how if it listened close enough it could hear the trains roar anywhere it went, because the train loved the smoke.
But as it would rush back, it would find that the smoke was long gone. It had suffered long enough, struggled long enough against the vastness of the sky that asked it question it had no answers to. Taunting it, asking it, “Where’s your mom now? Where is she? Did she run off with the weird man with the moustache?”
And so when the train arrived, it would fine that the smoke had finally decided on its own path, deciding on its won values though no was there to teach it. It had struggled but it had decided that it no longer wanted to be known as the train’s son, so it had instead become part of the clouds. It had decided for himself who it wanted to be, and it did not want to be a product of the flames and coals who it had never met. No, just as it had been surrounded with clouds its whole life, it would proudly become one of them.
And helpless, the train would look to the boy who sat on the rickety old crossing ate everyday to ask him what happened. But it would no find him. Because he too had left.
There would be no odd boy sitting. Waiting. Watching.
He sits there often. Waiting. Watching.
No one is quite sure of what it is he waits for, nor what it is he looks for, but they see him there everyday, throughout the day, as though he does not move from that rickety old, worn crossing gate. It’s dangerously close to the train and many a time people unfamiliar with the small town have feared that they are about to witness a young man end his life in front of them. They rush forward and snatch him back, worried not that the boy will die, but that they will have the burden of his death upon their shoulders.
But he never attempts to end his life. He simply sits. Waiting. Watching.
The train fascinates the boy. The manner in which it passes each day at the same time, without fail, knowing exactly where it intends to go, travelling with such speed that he has never truly understood what it is he looks at—it fascinates him. The manner in which it flashes by, leaving a trail of deep dark smoke lingering behind in the air as though confused of its purpose. The smoke seems so lost, so helpless that it concedes defeat to the vastness of the world around it.
Does the train not realize its obligation to the smoke? Does it not understand that the smoke is its child, conceived deep in the womb of the train, product of the passionate union between the dancing flames and the nurturing coals that power this very train towards its destination? Or is the train so hell bent on finding its destination, on arriving, that it simply leaves the smoke without any guidance, without any values that tell it how to lead life, who it is and why it exists.
So the boy sits there. Waiting. Watching.
He sits waiting to see if the smoke will be able to conjure its own path, find a meaningful journey that will provide it with value and purpose. A path that would make the train that conceived it, the train that was already so far down its own self absorbed path to its destination, proud. Will it be able to write its own values without any book of reference? Will it find its own place, its own destination before being torn apart and dissipated into the vastness of the sky?
The boy roots deeply for the smoke. Perhaps naively, but he roots nonetheless.
He sits watching because he cannot fathom how a train moving at such speed can possibly leave behind its child like that. Sure, he understood that the child was unsightly, with its wispy tendrils that bore a dark stench and a color that wove its way deep down into ones lungs and imbedded itself in their very soul, but it was his child nonetheless. Just as the deep, endless earth beneath him bore rocks. The earth produced these unbreakable pellets that worked great in his slingshot, but it did not simply look away from them. No, it gave them direction as to how they must grow; it gave them a collective purpose that was well understood between the community of rocks that existed throughout the town. It gave them values. As each rock grew, it developed its maturity from these values, learning who it wanted to be in the world and that was why no two rocks were ever alike. But they were all still rocks, and even if they weren’t alike, the values that God gave the earth were passed on to the rocks from mother earth, and that was why even though no two rocks were the same, they were all still rocks and they knew it.
And it was then that the boy started to understand. Perhaps the reason the train couldn’t guide the smoke was because the train itself didn’t know its own values. It was being conducted and guided by men in funny clothes with funny moustaches that made them look very serious, but it was never actually told where it was going and why. Maybe that’s why the train ran away from the smoke after it produced it, not because it didn’t love it, nor because it didn’t see it fit to be given values but because the train itself didn’t know where it was going or who it was. Perhaps the train didn’t know its own number and so it could never do the honorable thing and teach the smoke the knowledge it had gained after years of travelling down paths all over the world. It couldn’t tell the smoke about the vastness of the sky or that wherever the smoke decided to go it would be okay, because the train would always love it and if it listened real close it would hear the roaring of the train no matter where it was.
So he imagined that the train was moving towards its destination so furiously because it believed that it would find its answers there. The train believed that if it could just get there, wherever “there” was, then maybe it could understand its own purpose. Suddenly, it would arrive and understand who it was, what the purpose of its existence was. Though it had to travel far, far away without ever getting the chance to tell the smoke anything, the boy imagined how happy the train would be when it finally did understand. He imagined the train rushing back, not being led by some funny man with a funny moustache, no, this time it would travel all by itself and it would rush back just as furiously as it left, prepared to do the honorable thing now that it knew who it was. It would rush back to teach the smoke of who it was, who it could be. It would rush back to find the smoke to tell it of the vastness of the sky, and how if it listened close enough it could hear the trains roar anywhere it went, because the train loved the smoke.
But as it would rush back, it would find that the smoke was long gone. It had suffered long enough, struggled long enough against the vastness of the sky that asked it question it had no answers to. Taunting it, asking it, “Where’s your mom now? Where is she? Did she run off with the weird man with the moustache?”
And so when the train arrived, it would fine that the smoke had finally decided on its own path, deciding on its won values though no was there to teach it. It had struggled but it had decided that it no longer wanted to be known as the train’s son, so it had instead become part of the clouds. It had decided for himself who it wanted to be, and it did not want to be a product of the flames and coals who it had never met. No, just as it had been surrounded with clouds its whole life, it would proudly become one of them.
And helpless, the train would look to the boy who sat on the rickety old crossing ate everyday to ask him what happened. But it would no find him. Because he too had left.
There would be no odd boy sitting. Waiting. Watching.
Hamlet Persona Piece
Ah, the winds of these sail bring forth the promise of soon recovered liberty that I enjoy so well in that country of Frenchman. And yet,
though the damsel's are fine and company merry and liberty unyielding, I cannot find peace in my mind as of yet. Oh, dear Ophelia! I love you so that even at the brink of return to my second home, thoughts of your possible folly haunt me. Yet I have done my best to describe to you the dangers of unmaster'd importunity and the impulses of heated blood. Even so I cannot help but fear that in your own greeness and innocent virtue, my words will not be sufficient to mark your actions. The truest danger is the spoiling of thou chaste treasure at the hands of a young blood, though his blood may be purple, for such insidious impregnation is neither purple nor white but a shade of black that will hang over your name unyieldingly. And tis not your name the female name of our family? Thus, is your folly not my consequence? Ah love, what a cunning lover art thou, who, by means of implication and blood, relates one to another in body, mind and spirit!
Though Hamlet may be the youth of a most virtuous and bravely king, I am yet to see within him the same manliness and measure of wisdom that so defined his father. Look only to the very sea I travel upon to understand my plight! As I travel now upon green lengths of undisturb'd glass, gliding smoothly upon this nurturing and gentle sea, somewhere else perhaps an offspring of this very expanse is crashing about the sails of a nobleman proceeding on his way to stately business, upon which hinges the life of hundreds. Is that sea not the blood of my own? Does it not ebb and flow upon equal shores in an equivalent manner? And yet, they differ in nature as does the sun from the it's nightly counterpart. Therefore, my own fear is neither unmanly nor baseless.
And upon the word of manhood I have been well informed. Father left no questions to haunt me as to the proper conduct of a gentleman, words that prove within them the great virtues embodied by he. My own knowledge of my family's repute is enough to bound me tightly to the path of character and honour, just as the seedling, which when informed that the state of its survival is bound heavily to the quality of earth it occupies, quickly drops it's anchor into soil of the same quality as his father. Just so, his precepts are bound tightly to my heart and govern each thought of mine, even this! A wise man through and through, his wisdom does oft inspire me to capture his very essence and embody it within my own mortal shell, though I do not possess the years that accompany such virtues. Yet to see the honour and respect that he commands within the courts of the great Dane obliges me to carry on this legacy with equivalent fervor and ability. Was it not the newly seated King himself who looked upon me and said "The head is not more native to the heart, The hand is not more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father." Hark! The very king of the great state is in debt to the man that I call father! If this great proclamation does not inspire one to play shadow to a man, I know not what does.
Perhaps then...perhaps then my fears surrounding the potential failures of Ophelia are truly unfounded. Whilst she is under the guardianship of a true man, what harm can truly assail her? Father himself warned me against allowing unproportion'd thoughts crowd my mental faculties and make my fingers itch. Is this fear for Ophelia then not simply an unporoprtion'd thought that muffles the cries of rationality with its fog of "perhaps"? Does it not play agent to the devil and sit upon my shoulder, whispering sweetly to me of the Hamlet's voyage upon Ophelia's waves? It is! Anyway, what action can I now take that will defend her honour? Here bound by the vast sea in each direction of sight, my fretting serves no rational benefit to those I love. I must keep my head about me and not allow fear to run rampant internally. This is the truest war upon masculinity! Fall away doubt, and forge yourself of impenetrable steel, dear heart! Breathe deeply the air of France as it carries over the sea, tasting its scents upon thou tongue and it's music across your ears and leave thoughts of her youth's penetration to drown within these endless waters, as no harm can Hamlet cause to my beloved sister so long as the great Polonius stands tall.
Ah, the winds of these sail bring forth the promise of soon recovered liberty that I enjoy so well in that country of Frenchman. And yet,
though the damsel's are fine and company merry and liberty unyielding, I cannot find peace in my mind as of yet. Oh, dear Ophelia! I love you so that even at the brink of return to my second home, thoughts of your possible folly haunt me. Yet I have done my best to describe to you the dangers of unmaster'd importunity and the impulses of heated blood. Even so I cannot help but fear that in your own greeness and innocent virtue, my words will not be sufficient to mark your actions. The truest danger is the spoiling of thou chaste treasure at the hands of a young blood, though his blood may be purple, for such insidious impregnation is neither purple nor white but a shade of black that will hang over your name unyieldingly. And tis not your name the female name of our family? Thus, is your folly not my consequence? Ah love, what a cunning lover art thou, who, by means of implication and blood, relates one to another in body, mind and spirit!
Though Hamlet may be the youth of a most virtuous and bravely king, I am yet to see within him the same manliness and measure of wisdom that so defined his father. Look only to the very sea I travel upon to understand my plight! As I travel now upon green lengths of undisturb'd glass, gliding smoothly upon this nurturing and gentle sea, somewhere else perhaps an offspring of this very expanse is crashing about the sails of a nobleman proceeding on his way to stately business, upon which hinges the life of hundreds. Is that sea not the blood of my own? Does it not ebb and flow upon equal shores in an equivalent manner? And yet, they differ in nature as does the sun from the it's nightly counterpart. Therefore, my own fear is neither unmanly nor baseless.
And upon the word of manhood I have been well informed. Father left no questions to haunt me as to the proper conduct of a gentleman, words that prove within them the great virtues embodied by he. My own knowledge of my family's repute is enough to bound me tightly to the path of character and honour, just as the seedling, which when informed that the state of its survival is bound heavily to the quality of earth it occupies, quickly drops it's anchor into soil of the same quality as his father. Just so, his precepts are bound tightly to my heart and govern each thought of mine, even this! A wise man through and through, his wisdom does oft inspire me to capture his very essence and embody it within my own mortal shell, though I do not possess the years that accompany such virtues. Yet to see the honour and respect that he commands within the courts of the great Dane obliges me to carry on this legacy with equivalent fervor and ability. Was it not the newly seated King himself who looked upon me and said "The head is not more native to the heart, The hand is not more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father." Hark! The very king of the great state is in debt to the man that I call father! If this great proclamation does not inspire one to play shadow to a man, I know not what does.
Perhaps then...perhaps then my fears surrounding the potential failures of Ophelia are truly unfounded. Whilst she is under the guardianship of a true man, what harm can truly assail her? Father himself warned me against allowing unproportion'd thoughts crowd my mental faculties and make my fingers itch. Is this fear for Ophelia then not simply an unporoprtion'd thought that muffles the cries of rationality with its fog of "perhaps"? Does it not play agent to the devil and sit upon my shoulder, whispering sweetly to me of the Hamlet's voyage upon Ophelia's waves? It is! Anyway, what action can I now take that will defend her honour? Here bound by the vast sea in each direction of sight, my fretting serves no rational benefit to those I love. I must keep my head about me and not allow fear to run rampant internally. This is the truest war upon masculinity! Fall away doubt, and forge yourself of impenetrable steel, dear heart! Breathe deeply the air of France as it carries over the sea, tasting its scents upon thou tongue and it's music across your ears and leave thoughts of her youth's penetration to drown within these endless waters, as no harm can Hamlet cause to my beloved sister so long as the great Polonius stands tall.