I am Found, A poem

 I am Found
By: Ryan Beodeker

The adventure ends and begins with a conversation with the most unlikely of friends. Let the thought ring for a while; please proceed. I've been planning my day like the chess games they always are. I move here and here, do this and this. The outcome predicted only slightly different from the outcome achieved; prediction makes perfection.

I think on my chances. How one text, and two little phone calls, can change the view of something so pure and honest in it's nature. Misconstrued are the efforts of my deep longing. I mean you no harm; come, go and may peace be with you.



Goals are becoming more and more sporadic. Three tabs, two conversations, a poem, a status, a twitter feed, a blog comment, remembering names as to leave no stone unturned. The humming not from the A/C unit, cranked high, but an inner twisted thought process that baffles most minds.

Time is of the essence as I angrily tap the keys. Each letter forming that new sentence with a pitter patter slam of the space bar every few seconds or so. Should I stay or should I go? Take the leap and possibly fix the problems within the small world. The motivation there if not the spirit to run.

The adventure begins and ends with a small group of close friends. The mismatched group of some TV producer's design is huddled around a small glass table in the dark recesses of a campus-owned off-campus apartment. I warn in jest not to let me stumble onward; knowing all too well where the end of the speaking path does lie. Though warmly and fondly, the friends sit and listen to the words of a slightly deranged madman.

Old street philosophers, such as I. Sappho, Plato, Aristotle, the greats! To stand on the street corner and speak. The monologuists of the era before common knowledge of a distinctly different kind. How to yearn, for the people who sit and listen.

I shall speak my words in spite of  no one listening. I shall plow into the earthy ground of language and plant a sentiment. Then water the thought; till it grows into a beautiful stanza. Trimming the excess then, like the unneeded branches of a tree, that serve only to make my meaning less clear. The final product, after tireless work becomes a multitude of stanzas and verses, letters and lines. The brilliant succinctness of the penned down phrase.

I seek to share, to enlighten. I cling to that, however cliche in actuality it may be. I would love to use a religious metaphor, but, comparing one's self, to that of Jesus at the last supper, is so far beyond the presumption of importance that I hold for myself, I dare not even jot down anything more than this.

A baked good that has since passed the day that it should be consumed. Note, that is nothing too grotesque, but rather a sweet memory of a dear friend elsewhere.

Summation? Or rather yet, an attempt to close the circular door of mind patterns the pitter pattering slam that my typing has unleashed. Most evident that the take over shall be established; that from that attempt, might come the final chords of my current speech. Five-one. Five-one. Five-one. Five-one. Five 65-two 7. One 64-Five-One.

Chuckle in knowledge of the many who will never know, of the subtle beauty in fresh fallen snow. Of the fall's that have come and most certainly too fast did go. But to regret, is something I don't know. On to the finish-line, made from the line of people you've yet to come to know. Listen well to words penned down. Each letter is chosen to share, with you, a sound, thought. The lyrics unsung to be shared all abound. These words are my soul. This is me. I am found.

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Take a list to the narration http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iT2pZ568dg4&feature=g-upl