Spirits

I have laid sleepless for a hundred nights,
with open eyes that do not see
and a mind that travels far beyond our understanding.
Dreams don’t exist in this state–
neither do emotions.
Colors fly past my mind faster than the speed of sound
if sound was on speed
and tasted like oranges.
I can’t explain the taste,
much like I can’t explain where I am
as my mind travels.
Or who I am,
really.
There’s no cognition–
just sight and sound.
I can feel myself existing in a thousand different places at once,
except for the place I’m at now.
Instead,
I’m forced to watch myself from Outside.
My physical being is a caged animal,
trapped inside plexiglass walls by a force that it doesn’t see
and will never truly understand.
Consciousness ebbs and flows in waves–
much like time,
but less constricted or restrained.
Sometimes I Remember,
and other times I cannot–
who I am and what I am meant to be.
-ZCS

**Image: “Eternal Salvation” via Deviantart by Kat Da Silva

Art in The Concrete Jungle

I’ve tried for the longest time to understand art,
yet it always seems to evade me.
With camera at the ready,
I’m your average tourist,
looking for something interesting and new–
something exciting and original
that I haven’t seen anywhere else.
More often than nought,
I manage to come across a piece fitting this description.
Finding original works of beauty has never been a problem,
especially with the wealth of creativity that exists today.
The problem is–
unfortunately–
I don’t get it.
I love looking at photographs,
admiring the work of digital artists,
even gazing over beautiful paintings.
I can stand for twenty minutes and intensely analyze a piece,
only to realize that my interpretations were completely
off base with the author’s.
Who knows better than the author,
right?
Wrong.
Today, it hit me.
Not just hit me–
it barreled into me with the strength of a freight train,
knocking my sorry ass to the concrete sidewalk of Chicago
as I was trying to grasp the meaning of a sculpture.
When I stood up and recovered,
I looked down at the boy as he dusted himself off.
“I’m sorry mister!”
Mister?
At eight or nine years old,
this boy was very clearly mistaken.
“We’re on our school trip to Chicago today!
Are you here on one too?!”
His excitement made me laugh,
eyes holding me in place with the intense gaze only a kid could muster.
“Actually I am.
Do you like the sculpture?”
I could barely contain myself as I watched him twist his entire body
and lower his head to get a different view.
“I think it’s a lion.”
Title of the sculpture on the plaque?
David and Goliath of Gath.
As I was about to read the plaque aloud for him and explain,
his friend ran up to him and pointed at the statue.
“Look Kyle!
It’s an elephant!”
It turns out,
if I wanted to truly “get” art,
all it would have taken was a simple conversation
between with a second grader named Kyle.
Because suddenly–
I understood art.
-ZCS

**Photographs taken by Zach C. Smith

Digital Rendering: Sailboats

Hello everyone!

For a Digital Media 1 project at my high school, we had to take words and use them to shape an image or design in a way that was meaningful to us. Attached is a picture of a sailboat, built with the words to my poem “Sailboat.” If you want to read the poem in it’s entirety, it is posted below. It’s one of the first pieces that I’ve ever written so it isn’t my best work, but it’s significant and it makes me smile every time I read it.

Enjoy!

Sailboats

So often I find myself staring out the window,
watching boats sail along the coast.
White sails scrape the bright blue sky,
while the boat’s streamlined hull cuts effortlessly through waves.
They move without fear;
without worry or weariness weighing them down.
Gracefully, they sail slowly past the horizon and into my dreams,
my mind commanded by Sirens as my head sinks to the depths of my desk.

When my eyes reopen, I am no longer in my seat in fourth hour Freshmen English,
but instead find myself awake on the deck of an old fashioned cutter.
Its polished wooden trimmings sparkle in the light,
sails snapping and crackling as if they were alive.
Winds whip across my face as water sprays from a starboard wave,
sending chills down my body and through my entire being.
With a sudden jolt, I’m thrown from the vessel!
Frigid water pours over me, and I awaken.

I open my eyes to waves of laughter.
As I pick my head off my desk, Mr. Collins is talking.
My classmates sit, staring at me with judgement in their eyes.
“I guess someone didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
Mr. Collins notices, shaking his head. He then returns to teaching.
Almost reflexively, I find myself staring out the window again.
Back to the breeze, beauty, and benevolence of the open water.
Back to bliss, to balmy weather and breaking waves.

“Mr. Smith, may I speak to you?”
Class has ended, and my stomach sinks as reality returns.
I approach his desk, tentative and wary, awaiting my punishment.
“I see you’ve noticed my Haseltine.”
“Yes sir.”
He slowly walks to the painting, stroking the frame fondly.
“It speaks to you too, doesn’t it? It’s beauty? It’s elegance?”
I nod, quickly realizing I’m not in trouble as I initially suspected.

It has been nearly four years since that day, and I stand on stage.
Having already grabbed my diploma, I gave everyone a quick wave.
I felt a hand on my shoulder upon returning to my seat.
“Mr. Smith, may I speak to you afterwards?”
I smiled ear to ear, remembering with fondness Mr. Collins’ class.
After the ceremony, I walked slowly towards the worn brick building,
remembering epic yarns and tales I’d spun over the last four years.
It was like an epic: filled with challenge and triumph, victory and defeat.

As I slowly walked into the old classroom,
sun shined through an open window.
But like always, my eyes were drawn towards the painting
of the boats and the lake.
I walked to it slowly, it’s sleepy and sultry Siren song once again reaching.
Still today, it was a window, a portal to another reality
where I captained an old-fashioned chopper.
Even now, I could almost feel the wind at my back.

“Mr. Smith.”
The older gentleman’s voice was soft, touched by today’s celebrations.
“She’s all yours.”
He slowly approached the painting, it’s soft song also ringing in his ears.
“Sir–I can’t possibly… it… it belongs here.”
The words he spoke next, I will never forget.
Whenever I look at the painting I remember, to this very day,
the way he smiled kindly and said:

“We become so consumed by our work,
our stresses, our desires, our need for more,
that we often forget to stop and look around.
We stop looking out the window and no longer find beauty in the world around us.”
He sighed to himself, transfixed by his thoughts and reminiscing in his own hypocrisy.
“We forget our dreams and desires to explore, to adventure.
We forget the rush of the wind, the sounds of the sea, the rocking of the boat.
Take it, and never forget. Never stop searching.”

-ZCS

I Don’t Want You to Say It (I Want You to Mean It)

I read poems and stories
so I can feel emotion.
Words with actual meaning,
full of conviction that
sends a shiver down my spine
and makes me understand
who the author is–
who the characters are.
It should wash over me,
like a massive tidal wave
or a glass spilled
on an empty kitchen table.
I want to get knocked from my feet
by every word,
to be left clinging
onto each syllable
like a jockey
on his way to the Triple Crown.
Every day is spent drowning
in advertisements and products,
so your words better sell me
something I haven’t been sold before.
Don’t preach from the classics–
I’ve already read them.
Don’t regurgitate their messages
to an audience who can predict
exactly what your next words will be.
If I wanted Shakespeare
I’d Google it.
So please–
move me.
I don’t want you to say it,
I want you to mean it.
-ZCS

**“pollphail graffiti 11” by Kev Lock via Deviantart

Deepest, Darkest Writer Fears

When I write,
I always turn on music.
Sometimes I go places to write,
places full of people, life,
and the hustle and bustle
that reminds me so much of home.
There’s something intimidating about the silence,
about the quiet.

When I write,
I always write on something that’s already been used.
Sometimes I tear off the corners of school papers,
receipts, old Post-It’s, even used notebook paper.
Google documents that I’ve written in previously,
that always seem to remind me of what I wrote last.
There’s something intimidating about a fresh page,
about the unfamiliar.

When I write,
I always think about you.
Memories of us can cause me to smile fondly,
while other times they cause my heart to break a little bit more.
Once in awhile, I will simply go quiet.
When I think about you, words flow on the page and it all just makes sense.
There’s something intimidating about starting over,
about my life without my muse.

-ZCS

**Image: “Old Whisper” by Alexey Demidov

Kisses.

Her lips are hot against my skin,
pressing against my neck in all the right places.
Each touch threatens to steal the very essence from my body,
begging my soul to leave me for a much more attractive alternative.
She whispers something, but I can no longer hear over the buzzing in my head.
I can feel her heartbeat surging in my body, it’s rhythm my own.
We are the same now, working as one with a passion unmatched
by even the sun and the stars.
When she pulls away, I finally remember to breathe.
I look back into her eyes and I’m once again transfixed,
held hostage on this bumpy ride until the roller coaster returns to the station.
She leans back down and surrounds me in a veil of her light blonde locks.
She feels like a warm summer day, smells like a strawberry patch,
and loves like a firework on the Fourth.
I slowly become aware that I can’t feel my feet,
that my fingers tingle as they brush her hair from her neck
and pull her head closer to mine.
The sofa underneath us shifts as she presses herself even closer.
A switch flicks on on my head and suddenly my mind shuts off,
like an old fashioned television.
And that, dear readers,
is exactly where this poem will end.

-ZCS

** “R3al Kiss” by Sway via Devinatart

Here is the Cover Art for my most recent piece, which is posted below. Please enjoy and recommend my site to others!

Thanks!

-ZCS

Sailboats.

So often I find myself staring out the window,

watching boats sail along the coast.

White sails scrape the bright blue sky,

while the boat’s streamlined hull cuts effortlessly through waves.

They move without fear;

without worry or weariness weighing them down.

Gracefully, they sail slowly past the horizon and into my dreams,

my mind commanded by Sirens as my head sinks to the depths of my desk.

 

When my eyes reopen, I am no longer in my seat in fourth hour Freshmen English,

but instead find myself awake on the deck of an old fashioned cutter.

Its polished wooden trimmings sparkle in the light,

sails snapping and crackling as if they were alive.

Winds whip across my face as water sprays from a starboard wave,

sending chills down my body and through my entire being.

With a sudden jolt, I’m thrown from the vessel!

Frigid water pours over me, and I awaken.

 

I open my eyes to waves of laughter.

As I pick my head off my desk, Mr. Collins is talking.

My classmates sit, staring at me with judgement in their eyes.

“I guess someone didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

Mr. Collins notices, shaking his head. He then returns to teaching.

Almost reflexively, I find myself staring out the window again.

Back to the breeze, beauty, and benevolence of the open water.

Back to bliss, to balmy weather and breaking waves.

 

“Mr. Smith, may I speak to you?”

Class has ended, and my stomach sinks as reality returns.

I approach his desk, tentative and wary, awaiting my punishment.

“I see you’ve noticed my Haseltine.”

“Yes sir.”

He slowly walks to the painting, stroking the frame fondly.

“It speaks to you too, doesn’t it? It’s beauty? It’s elegance?”

I nod, quickly realizing I’m not in trouble as I initially suspected.

 

It has been nearly four years since that day, and I stand on stage.

Having already grabbed my diploma, I gave everyone a quick wave.

I felt a hand on my shoulder upon returning to my seat.

“Mr. Smith, may I speak to you afterwards?”

I smiled ear to ear, remembering with fondness Mr. Collins’ class.

After the ceremony, I walked slowly towards the worn brick building,

remembering epic yarns and tales I’d spun over the last four years.

It was like an epic: filled with challenge and triumph, victory and defeat.

 

As I slowly walked into the old classroom,

sun shined through an open window.

But like always, my eyes were drawn towards the painting

of the boats and the lake.

I walked to it slowly, it’s sleepy and sultry Siren song once again reaching.

Still today, it was a window, a portal to another reality

where I captained an old-fashioned chopper.

Even now, I could almost feel the wind at my back.

 

“Mr. Smith.”

The older gentleman’s voice was soft, touched by today’s celebrations.

“She’s all yours.”

He slowly approached the painting, it’s soft song also ringing in his ears.

“Sir–I can’t possibly… it… it belongs here.”

The words he spoke next, I will never forget.

Whenever I look at the painting I remember, to this very day,

the way he smiled kindly and said:

 

“We become so consumed by our work,

our stresses, our desires, our need for more,

that we often forget to stop and look around.

We stop looking out the window and no longer find beauty in the world around us.”

He sighed to himself, transfixed by his thoughts and reminiscing in his own hypocrisy.

“We forget our dreams and desires to explore, to adventure.

We forget the rush of the wind, the sounds of the sea, the rocking of the boat.

Take it, and never forget. Never stop searching.”

-ZCS