Slam Poetry
Sun, 6 Aug 2006 at 08:01pm
Plato's Cave
The color and lines of one world
will always be different colors and lines than those of another.
It's cliche, but cliches tend to be true.
The labels we place on ourselves
lines like iron bars in the window of a prison cell
in Times New Roman, 12-point, double-spaced
will always be the restraint
that creates our cliches
our paradoxes, and our hatred.
Knowledge is not defined
by the piece of paper
covered in lines, void of color
that represents it,
and a concept is not defined
by the word we use to invoke it.
The representation of our ideas
leads to representation of ourselves
rules are lines
and color stays between them.
The shadows in our prison cell,
our cave,
are just that -- shadows -- and they convey
nothing of the world we seek.
In one world, the lines are those of buildings
universities, churches, suburban homes
those lines, those cells, were carefully sketched
by one who creates, who is one step away
from the lines invented
in which others will attempt to color their minds.
Beyond them, those who create
with pure color, but understand lines
only in a metaphorical sense
for fear of experiencing them firsthand
portray the landscape the architect used
for inspiration
they are in turn moved by the creations of those
who depend on music to speak for them
ink on paper, the neverending theme
of lines void of color
whose minds were shaped and created
by those who used the written word
Times New Roman, twelve point, double-spaced.
Lines with no color
prison cells, pixellated depictions
of abstraction
conveyed literally
because humans are simply incapable.
We are incapable of the understanding
the only important thing to understand,
therefore we are capable of nothing.
Those who can't will teach,
and those who won't will learn
rigid in the lines
created by creations
a pale shadow in a cave
we kill those who dare to disagree
we're a reflection of a shadow of a reflection
yet somehow, we believe
that the entire ridiculous cycle
will be where we find or create love!
In another world, the moment is unique
the moment is all that exists
because the moment is all that is needed
and everything that is needed
to survive.
In this world, the lines are always moving
and no one is ever shut within them
because they trust the shifting labyrinth
and the omnipotence behind it
to guide them.
Everything is intangible,
every dawn a miracle,
and joy is voluntary at any moment.
In this world,
love is not created by a cycle
defined by lines
desperately seeking color or a lack of it
love simply IS.
Love and happiness and education and virtue
and brilliance and enlightenment and wisdom and knowledge
and strength and understanding and religion and beauty
ARE.
Love is a metaphorical divine paradox,
but there is no literal interpretation
of something that is metaphorical
and there is no tangible manifestation
of that which is Divine,
and there cannot be a cliche
of that which is a paradox.
This in itself is a new paradox
which will become a cliche
which is still incessantly true!
It's a neverending story of color and lines
that are unique,
in a paradoxical,
yet somehow cliche
kind of way.
Times New Roman, twelve point, double-spaced
the only method we have
of conveying what cannot be conveyed.
We live in Plato's cave of shadows,
where we attempt to create new lines that we can control
and desperately try to create love
but if we turn around,
we will see that "Why?" is never the wrong question,
and "Why not?" is always the right answer.
We will see that the lock was only
a reflection of a shadow of a reflection.
We will see that
and we will know
that the door is open
awaiting our departure to freedom.
One other likes this.
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Sometimes I shake at my inability to convey the exact feeling of a moment. You shook at you times new roman medium, but used it brilliantly none the less.