it's just that goddamned tap tap tapping
but away it goes
up and down, up and down the rows
of violets and tulips
and she had two lips and violence
violent love and hate
crimes against humanity,
if there was ever any left
up and down, up and down the rows
of streets and cars
the lines and scars etched in his skin
but there's nothing like
a bottle of gin
numb around the edges, the seams
because everything is ever as it seems
and they just let it keep running
up and down, up and down the strands
leaving marks like brands to sell
the weave, the inches, the criss-crossed and sashayed
and she has it because it never looked to be
as long as she would like it as long as they would ask for,
and the years go on
so the tears flow on
growing longer and taller
up and down, up and down the walls
of granite and moss
just one quick toss over the edge
because maybe humpty dumpty had it right
nobody can piece that one together
like it's some big puzzle just twigs and grass,
make up the ass that he wanted to be
getting nothing that he wanted because he never asked
called or scrawled, just pushing, screaming
up and down, up and down the floor
of hardwood and paces
like jacks and aces handed out to those
who had them, no reward or achievement
it's own gift of life, and sometimes it's longer than you wanted
while crawling hands and knees to pick up
your bloody fingertips along the edges of cards,
because it's going to be okay.
because it will always be.
I want to write a poem.
No, like I really really really wanna write a poem.
Problem, stick it to me.
Poems have to be good.
Okay, so a poem doesn't have to be good
However, the point of the art is to have someone read
Those flippy little words that you pulled out
Of some intangible existence and pasted on
So you don't always put it online but,
Other people are "supposed" to read it.
To enjoy it, give you a pat on the back,
Maybe an "I see what you did there".
So poems are supposed to be presentable.
You've got to pay in sweat and ink but,
At least the words themselves are free.
What if I don't wanna have to make a "good" poem?
Okay so I really do want a pat on the back but
Sometimes I really like pasting things from
Fancy words right? Let me pat my own back.
Sometimes I just like putting my emotions on paper
While sounding like I read
more dictionaries than Webster.
Ha, ha, sigh.
There's a problem with having to be inspired to write shit down.
Do you think someone pays Taylor Swift's boyfriends
To break up with her
So she can write the
Next big hit?
I wouldn't doubt it.
My guardian angel should make the people around me
Say weird stuff such that I can write about
Walking on waves of shattered glass
Singing of birds in circled flight.
Maybe I'd be better off being hit by a car.
That'd be some pretty touching poetry.
Some people write happy poetry too,
I don't know how they do it.
Sorry but, my world isn't flowers and butterflies
Enough to warrant discussion of
Staying in the fairy meadow of light.
Sorry, I'm just jealous.
Maybe I just like writing stuff down?
What if I just don't want to be forgotten?
Leaving a legacy in my words more indellible
Than a pat on the back.
I just don't want to forget.
Brain, why don't you get it?
I'm sitting here getting all intimate with an idea and
The next morning Brain's got no clue what their name is.
Like really, even if we invite a friend over and get creative with
Our tongues and mouths,
Brain doesn't remember the moments shared between us.
Paper doesn't think very well but it's got a decent memory bank.
So I save up for a brand new poem.
I thought words were free.
I see through waves of
Shattered glass these days.
Through tunnels I hear you like
Sonic booms and the bang on the
Bathroom door the morning after.
With a gentle knock it splinters in my eyes
And I can't see you anymore.
Left with the shadows in the corners of my mind,
Guessing the silhouettes and finding words unsaid.
Fighting hard to find you,
Hands tracing walls in dark corridors,
Try to find the light switch,
But I always end up just pushing your buttons.
it winds up slowly at first.
still the gears warm up,
things move faster, traveling down the dusty ways.
it makes its path thickly through the forests,
driving onward into the deep.
the gentle clang resounds again,
and it spins faster now as the path slows.
It doesn't stop, yet it arrives.
a theatre, candle lit and open to the night sky.
the blood red curtains remain untouched
by the hand of age that seems to haunt this place.
it appears to be impromptu from the shuffling,
flying here and there, wherever it need be.
the spotlight shines on the curtains,
quickly they withdraw to reveal--
we flood the stage, the show goes on,
makeshift costumes from the trinkets and scraps
gathered in haste.
a cacophony of silence follows for a time,
the candles waste away and the curtains glide
back to where they belong.
no bow, no applause.
a gentle clang resounds in the distance.
Who are they that they get moments with you,
And I get weeks apart.
What prior commitment do you have with them?
And what about our commitment,
Don't respond, I know the answer.
A fortress of silence combats all conflict
I know you don't want to be with me.
Or rather, I know you want to be without me.
Maybe you want to be with me like one wants to be with a chair,
But if you want me gone then leave.
Don't leave me waiting for you.
I'm sorry, as you say
I'm not meeting you halfway
But I'm just doing everything I've ever been taught.
Everything I've ever learned from you.
Just hide it away,
Because maybe tomorrow it'll be gone
And I keep hoping, waiting.
Thinking that next year
You'll be right here,
And I won't be so angry that every moment is wasted
That every moment is precious.
Because moments will be plural,
And so what if it falls apart then
Because maybe we can't stand each other.
But right now I'm investing.
Surviving while all my love is banked,
Locked in a vault a few chairs away,
That won't even look at me
To see what I've learned.
Distance makes the heart grow weak
For what I've never said.
The words left unread
The pages of a story book.
One I never felt I should take a look
Through, all the thick and all the thin
I think that we have been
Fine, and rough, but good.
And all but good.
And I know it's not but gibberish
The days gone by
But I think if we just held on
They'd just keep going on.
Holding on by tooth and nail
But I've never really had to.
Never really had to try or bargain for
As I've gotten all I could ever ask, and sure,
I've never had to try.
But it couldn't hurt to do once more.
What do you mean?
Are you home?
I miss you.
What did you do?
You're not talking to me.
What if I don't want to?
I don't expect that of you.
I guess we're playing the same game aren't we?
I love you too.
I wasn't trying to turn my back on you.
I was irritated.
Let's try to be pleasant with each other.
I don't know the answer.
Who are you?
It was rhetorical.
I know that.
Doesn't help anything.
What are we doing?
Not what am I doing,
For I know very well that I'm
Contracting and relaxing my diaphragm
And doing what I call
Not where am I going,
Because I know that I'm trying
To get through school to do well
In a high paying and enjoyable job,
To live happily with a man by my side.
Not how should I live,
As I'm not quite sure you can call this living
And when people tell me I'm doing it
I say it right back and just keep on
Not why am I here,
Because I've asked a thousand times
But nobody seems all that willing to answer.
Regardless whether there's someone there or not,
There's certainly no answers being spoken so
Either I'm doing it right or it
Just doesn't matter.
So, what else is there?
What else is there to ask,
Because I've come and gone,
And this is all I've seen.
What else isn't there
When this is all I've got?
Sometimes I feel that you
Don't quite understand the
Of the situation
I don't know why you feel that
Would resolve any suffering
As weight increases exponentially
And you accelerate towards a
Moments before I collapse
Without you by my side
I hope you're happy.
I hope that you're always fighting to be happy.
I hope that every time you fall,
you recover, and you quickly discover that it's
I hope you smile then you frown.
that when you're climbing, you forget not to look down
I hope you have plenty of food to eat
And people to greet.
but I hope it cuts you deep,
when you lay down that night, alone, to sleep.
I hope to know one day,
that you walk through rooms of people
and you don't know what to say.
I hope that I am the wrinkles in the bedsheets and
the gentle morning rain.
I hope you remember their pain.
for we will not be forgotten with a shrug,
even when you say it's not but dust,
swept under the rug.
I hope you lead a busy life.
one of hope and constant strife.
I don't want you to bleed,
I just want you to know need.
I hope that you work hard to gather what you've got
but what you're searching for stays
forever in your blind spot.
I want to know that you have wept.
that for weeks you haven't slept.
I want you to see other people full of glee
yet you can't understand why they don't lend a hand.
I know you love, and that you lie.
but I hope that you learn what it is to see a loved one die.
I was going to walk with you,
talk with you.
I was going to go with you to your car
then part ways and catch the bus.
but then you uttered those words,
all the fires of the burning hells
surrounded my heart and I could not
get away fast enough.
so I ran, tripping over limbs,
down that hall.
I needed to scream so I burst through the double doors,
and someone was there.
so I waited.
I walked to the bus stop
and there was a couple other people there
going the same direction I planned to go.
so I waited.
I got on the bus and rode it to work, and there,
after work I walked to the diner
which I had to visit as I hadn't been able to
anything all day.
and I waited.
I then walked back to the bus stop
to catch the next box that could take me home.
so I sat in the cold,
and I waited.
I walked home, alone in the rain,
and I waited.
I walked up the stairs to my room,
and I waited.
I sat on my bed,
and I waited.
the rain dripped slowly from my face to the floor,
it was then that I realized that I was filthy.
so I went to get a bath
but the bath too was in need of scrubbing.
so I scrubbed it,
and I waited.
it was then that you told me
that it was because I didn't trust you.
suddenly, I didn't need to scream all that much anymore.
so I turned on the tap.
and I waited.
What is love and now has died,
Warm sheets where I once lied.
I only asked to touch your face
Not for the rough and cold embrace.
Now dead behind the eyes,
Here in the home of all your lies.
Now I take the blame,
The price of losing fame.
Because this is just your show,
And now you let it snow.
How I desire heat.
That'd be quite the feat,
To warm my lonely sorrow
And know something of tomorrow.
For burning sparks
And walks in parks
Warm far better the winter's frost
Than the salt of these tears.
But all I feel is burning fire
In this house upon a wire.
The pressure of their heartbeat,
Sheets indifferent to the heat.
If you had let me know your face,
I'd need but only one embrace.
I had asked to see your face
But not to feel a cold embrace.
The home of all your lies,
Yet I sit behind disguise.
Claiming, that to know nothing of tomorrow,
Would bring but bitter sorrow.
A pillow won't suffice
To close the space between my arms,
The void in my chest.
The length of my outstretched arms
Won't span the gap between you and I.
Won't reach the distance.
Fill the space.
The distance, so far from you and I
At any moment, any given moment.
When I am holding pillows and not hearts.
My arms can't reach the distance,
Pillows can't fill the void in my chest,
Warm the winter's frost,
But you do.
Always you, you in my heart,
In my eyes and in my veins.
My arms can't span the gap
But, I've never felt so close.
So near to touch, to be. So far.
My arms can't reach through the space
But to be in yours, to be in mine.
To be with me, around you. For us.
It's as if something fell from the sky.
Crash landed in front of me.
The label reads, "Mars".
What the hell is it?
Round but, bent and broken.
Was it round before?
I think that's metal, I can't tell.
I suppose I'll just have to
Call the authorities.
Can't very well
Just leave it there,
In the middle of the street.
It's lifted away,
Presumably to a properly sized
Bin. Garbage bin that is.
How big would the bin have to be?
How big was it?
Like a dump truck.
Like a toy car.
It's a wonder it didn't do any damage.
It's almost surreal,
How everything is just so...
The flower opens softly.
Welcomes the sun into its depths.
The seeds slowly take flight,
Wandering between shafts of sunlight.
A baker walks home after work.
He, or she. They nod to a passerby.
Must be friends.
A ribbon falls gently from the hair
Of a little girl.
Tied there loosely, as it was.
The wind had no trouble starting the dance,
That would lead it fluttering down the busy street.
I smell you, see you,
Hear the call of the ocean.
The roll and rumble.
The fall, and tumble.
Maybe I've just had too
Much salt water today.
The muscles contract.
Air flows through the tube, to bring about
The vibrations of song, and moonlit afternoons.
Laughter floats unimpeded into the wind.
I must be insane to think
That my feet actually touch the ground.
I'm sure they just fall through it.
I really shouldn't walk in graveyards anymore.
We'll buy a nice house in the south of France
And dance on the graves of those who doubt imagination.
But not today for we endure urban slums
And cold concrete villages.
I'll be rich and you'll be sated.
Together we'll grow old and discuss memories
Of when we first dated.
But just how weighted is the thought?
For today, everyone's the one and I can't see some days,
That one day we'll be together.
I can't breathe when the bonds of rules and fools
Push down upon the clouds of my dreams,
And I freeze.
No logs for the fire,
My motivation makes a proper icy prison.
One day, some other day.
In a life that doesn't exist today.
I'll be at peace.
Not today, for I brave no days,
And dream of that one day,
When I walk towards another day.
Another time and place. Where I,
Lay in peace.
Write me a poem he said,
My eyes all bleary and red.
Shock of an unwanted pop quiz,
I never meant to enter show biz.
But write him a poem I did,
In my heart, it stayed there, hid.
It rocked the boat of thought and feeling.
Here on deck, I stood there reeling.
I wrote him a poem and here it is.
In my heart, t'will stay there, his.
Endlessly, forever kneeling.
Knowing, wanting. Words revealing.
Stakes her claim.
She doesn't mean it's hers.
She means it's not mine.
Mountains sway and tumble.
A quaking bumps against innocence.
The moon passes over the sun,
Birth of a night, granting vision of the shadows.
Monsters come out to play.
They crash stone and boulder,
And the dead cry in worldless sound.
I relax, deep into the smoke,
Into the mirrors of this place.
Sinking backward into my arms,
Into the wood, into the air.
Falling. Into my broken bones.
Melting into your arms, my arms.
Falling into the mess of broken limbs,
Fainting into you, into me.
Failing to feel flustered, composed, together, me.
Feeling me, you, I sing songs of birds in circled flight.
Flying into wood, and air.
Into the mirror of the sky.
Sink, and swim.
Drowning in tides of mist,
Hands grasping, reaching from the hull,
We are ever pulled but, we are flowing.
Just ringing and sauntering.
Woven into the strands of hair,
That dance with us in this tattered rag.
Here, we falter.
Preserving what sings beneath
Boats, and tides of mist.
Falls into our broken arms,
Reflection of a shattered mirror.
The painting, of a world in flames.