Works by Ben Balazs

The end is nigh. The well has dried. Students shout, "Adieu! Goodbye!" Essays are drafted, finals approaching. Learners are looking for all kinds of coaching. Some need a therapist, others, prescriptions, While many are questioning their very existence! All this commotion, and no hope in sight, Students that quit and call it a night, But hear ye oh friends, and foes alike. Within all this darkness, I do see a light! It comes ground and fine, brownish in hue. It provides all life meaning when it stirs and brews. Coffee, my friends, that is the key! If you feel like you're crashing, have one shot or three! It boils your blood, and it gives your brain steam. You'll have visions of the future in feverish dreams. Aside from that last line, this legend is true! Coffee is God's little "get well" stew. So, fill up a cup, and drink to delirium. Enjoy the rest of your college experience.

To the individual who maintains, whilst laboring under the burden of numerous menial jobs, that sense is defined as seeing the small victory inherent in taking a dump so clean that wiping is unnecessary, I have only to say so much as that small victories do not win wars. In shy numbers of two or three, a small victory is a concession to the hands of intimidation and irresolution. Only in vast numbers do small victories expound any inkling of conquest, but a thousand small victories are small victories no longer. Even so, ten thousand clean sweeps on the toilet reflect no greater a success than managing to brush one's hair in the early hours of a long work day ahead. More so, what are one hundred thousand conviction-less victories, if not degrees of tolerance explored by a people worked so hard that they think their lot in life is a rite of passage? There exists a significant collection of servants who are absolutely certain that working hard and studying harder will allow each...

You're angry. No, not angry, disappointed . A glass, please. Pour, Pour, Pour. I'll wash this house clean. Beer foams better than soap. The mop goes splash, splash, And I'm wiping away, Up along the corners of the ceiling, On and over murky windows. So clean, so clean, The smell of hops I will permit, But dusty floors are always a no-go. It's faster to scrub in a circular motion, But all-talk is all-circles too, and you don't hear me saying, "Too slow!" Beer tastes better than soap, But it doesn't purge the swears, Though they come out more clear, You'll caw and you'll crow. You're angry. No, not angry, I'm disappointed .

God made the heavens and the earth, Then, God made Man, Then, Man learned to write, Then, Man made God.

America - the land of the free, And the home of the salad bowl Because "melting pot" was too Presumptuous. I would more promiscuously concede The analogy of brick and mortar: A tireless effort of blending and stacking, And blending, And blurring, And molding, And that hideous burgundy. Where dotted lines meet double yellows, And cars are swerving left and right, While respectable citizens are ringing up the cops, Phones quivering in their hot hands. Quick to judge and quicker to slam the breaks, More likely to let you sit down if You have a reservation. Making sure to remind you that "entree's come after  the appetizer," In case you'd forgotten - or never known. Because, as we all know, words are defined by more words. As we all know, what's mine isn't always yours. Because "availability" is a loosely labeled Synonym to "my personal preference".

Am I mistaken to think a day overcast Brings to light the truest of beams, Cutting the vision of those soaring eagles, Who no longer can hunt their prey, As consciousness dawns upon them briefly? A sun whose flaring nostrils exhale color onto the palette earth. Whose unblemished hands, blessed hands that brush and stroke creation, Are halted still by a singular cloud. A cloud whose vaults hold not more than air, But air would I breathe till my lungs burst in passionate utterance. Such clouds that shroud away my worldly canvas, that shun the spirits of humankin, That hush the vast libraries of language incapable of expressing this looming eclipse. And as the globe lay silent and dark, I remain, held aloft by feet not my own, Peering anxiously into the eyes of one who ties and laces me to such hallowed ground. And within those eyes do I bear witness to a world ended, dead and reborn, With no recourse toward mark'ed lands, To seas charted ...

You were there. I was there. Leaned your head against my arm, And I assumed my arm chair. I chose to stare at your hair, Watch it rise and fall with your inhalations. And you slung your hair back To reveal a collarbone While your eyes peered over. And juxtaposed like sun and moon, Like button to shirt, Lip to lip, we kissed. But it dawned - there She goes again, doing that thing with her nose - On me where I had been all along, Baring your back upon my posture, Still. I hold you up, my dear, for fear You should slouch. While your spine aches for limber curvature, I stand my ground, I hold my pose, I hold you up, My dear, For fear, You should learn that I am a chair beneath            you.