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As fresh as the cresting sun.
As renewed as a parched root system,
sipping from newly fallen rain.
As strong as the piercing scent
of death.
As inspiring as a color never before seen.
As beautiful as an uninterrupted
view of the coming horizon.

Tracing my tracks against the
dew soaked grass.
The stride seemingly effortless,
but that imposition of thought
betrays the plight.
A vehicle of processes unseen.
A coalescing of doubt, fatigue,
and soul shrieking fear.
The listless sojourner bides his
time, by hearing the winds
flow through the branches of
trees sheltering his tumultuous,
tortured head.

The mirage of freedom begs for him.
The anticipation of impact beckons him.
The theory of altruism entices him.
The actual silence imparts peace on him.

As brave as a child facing life with
no hand to hold.
As defined as the microscopic view
of the macroscopic systems moving
around me.
As invigorating as a bath in a cool
blue spring.

Renewed, reborn, raised.
The tearing pain of exhaustion earns
no acknowledgement.
The screaming agony of muscles
garners only more ambition.
The eyes of a weary sojourner
shows sincere empathy,
real love,
amazing faith.

Surrender yourself,
lay prostrate,
know your place,
and by grace,
they will see it upon your now
smiling face.
Atriptocome
Sharp residual, a residue.
Built up animations yet to come
to life, by the movement of limbs,
words, energy, actions.
If not to empty them, at least to
mock myself in a mirror,
watch my image come to life
upon the ground. The last vestige,
silent perpetrator, a shadow
more direct than aversions
to practice in speech what will
only idle; sleep while
waiting for the now to become
never, to bleach clean the war
torn attrition no one could ever
listen to.

Just another panic attack,
as the surrounds of peripheral
color themselves darker than
the center of attention,
my disheartened hope makes
focal point, reference point
numero uno.
There can be no growth forward,
when emptiness contaminates, like
a spill upon a slate counter top
of a soul. Super absorbent, no fiber
can clean the mess of this, this
story untold.

Still, many versions exist,
have existed.
Written, copied and kept
as sacred script. The letters,
the poetry, the books, the
pleading lost vesicle; words
written by blood, birthed by
deepening scars, covered by a sincere
heart.
Cutting along the edges,
remembering to stay within
the lines, just make sure you're
gone, completely cut out.

Chased in perpetual silence-
watching the steam circle,
then dissipate, a taunting of
my attached heart floating,
rising, disappearing above my
cup of coffee.

I like to think I drink it for
its energy inducing pleasure.
I can now rest assured I drink
it for the memories, the
memoirs, the voices, the
fidgety way I can distract myself
from retracing the incident all
the way back.

Conscious enough to know I
must rise above the toxicity.
I just feel sometimes,
"I can barely breathe!"
Why my God?
Why does it feel like my words,
my sincere want to again
be me falls helplessly,
empty, uselessly upon the
deaf ears, the handle of my steaming
cup of coffee.

Half empty, half full,
when it comes to coffee this
psychological tool doesn't
feel too relevant.
Tepid now, do I warm it up?
Do I throw it back?
Do I get a refill?
There seems so much more
I must trace through the
tunnels of thinking.
Beep, Beep, Beep,
start- murrrrrrr-
I topped it off, then warmed
it up. Looks like another long
night of soul searching, open
desk top windows, and
reminding myself I don't need ****
to get me through this.
Beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeep!

I've concocted a beautiful new
image. One I have not the
artistic capability to reproduce,
or audacity to bring to life.
But my words, my coffee,
will be both the art, and the muse.

A skillfully drawn eye.
An eye in all its symmetry,
eyelashes, eyelids, tear duct,
pupil, coloring;
green if you're asking.
From the edges fingernails have
buried themselves just around
the eye, and have already
begun tearing backward.
(presumably, there may need to be
the structure, or knowledge
of a brow.)
Blood has begun running.
Some of the blood has formed
channels, tracing the well worn
path of natural tears.

The streams culminate at the
base of the eye, where droplets
are forming.
Below this eye, their destination.
A journal, a notebook lay open,
the title at the top reads
"Insidious Vapid Amor"
A pen lay diagonally in
orientation across the page.
To the right, or left depending
on the artistic rendering,
preference, a cup of coffee.
The page, the rim of the cup, the pen
are spattered with the droplets
from above.
But in the coffee rises
the conical effect of a droplet that
has just crashed against the
surface tension of my coffee,
anyone's coffee.
-One last sip-
but not a coming goodnight;
chased in perpetual silence,
while my empty coffee cup reminds
me I'm empty too.
One chance to say it again,
Before it's gone.
One more chance at agony
soaked irony.
One more chance to feel secure,
while whisked away by doubt.
One more chance to sing that
song at the top of your lungs,
to receive in discourse ominous
looks, uncomfortable adjustments.
One more time to cry alone,
truly because no one's watching.
One more time to cradle yourself
in an image you'll never forget.
One more time for the scent to linger
upon bedsheets you know you'll have to
wash later.
One more time to cut a silhouette
against the concrete.
One more time to purse your lips.
One more time to hold them longer than expected.
One more time to touch their soul.
One more time to tell them,
"yeah I know."
One more time to whisper,
"It's now or never."
One more time upon the grass,
in a car, a bathroom, a theatre,
their home.
One more time, because you just don't
want to feel alone.
One more time on the phone,
the ringing in your ears,
it's just got to be them.
One more time to imagine the
what ifs before you can truly say
goodbye.
I wrap myself in you one more time,
close my eyes say goodbye to
you now, one more time
forever.

Goodbye.
A callous self deprecating emotion
springs to life inside me.
The recognition that I can be swept
aside, buried beneath the all
encompassing societal rug
berates me.
A callousness sparks inside me.
A hunger for the flammable,
the all too metaphorical
combustible agents flutter
just outside my incendiary
thoughts, my actions.
So for only a fleeting moment
the intensity of our conglomerate
fire may be perceived, and
paralyze the darkness.

This callousness has caused
imperfections, markings, scrapings,
defacing the beautiful vehicle
I fly upon.
Carried by its wings, its divine
focus there isn't a second to
notice.
Resting only to refuel,
the weight, the burden are too
much for one spirit to
hold.

So where's the love?!
It too is found in this irreplaceable
callousness. A fondled idea writhing,
weeping like an infant, whose
mother can be seen, but not
touched.
Restraint illicits too much
confusion.
Bottled hypothesis' shaken
until the contents are so wound
up they beg for release.
To explode, exposing their teeth.
An earthquake rips through
their vehicle, making new
formations where old ones
have long since eroded.

A callousness festers in me,
for inaction is the norm,
and this weathered vehicle
has been thinking, not doing for
too long.
So with each new word,
a step forward, a destination set,
a redefining of the unrefined.
Beginning again to rise,
so high the light is searing my eyes.
Arduous, looking back the climb
was worth the task, my body needed
my mind would ask.

Burning muscles metaphysical
struggle, torn in memory so I
cannot downplay the glory,
the ascension.

Mimicry the greatest form
of all compliments, so waste
no time staring into eyes that
peer straight through you. Invest
in the image from the river, the
clarity of your earned freedom.

I wander aimlessly no more,
every potential footfall I can
call home. One with myself
all doubt cast aside, all contempt
internalized, and denied occupancy.
Self condemnation I strip you
of your chains I can hear clanging,
looking to ensnare me, hold me
captive, but the mountain forever
calling.

Rising again, each new ray holds
a bastion of thought, possible
destination. My resolution complete,
I may bathe in my earned restitution.
Although I may be hurt again, cursed
again, defiled once more, my garnered
confidence, my unparalleled soul, you
may never touch again.

Here's to us being us.
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.

The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.

A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.

So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.

Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."

While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.

But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?

He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.

Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."

"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Sultry, seductive, and you make it look effortless.
Yes, I take note of what you wear,
the style, the simple placement of your hair.

I make it a point not to stare,
it would feel inefficient,
it would feel wrong,
it would be a sincere disservice.

I want a creative way by which to enter within your reality.
That surreal place of justified perspective, that permeates
every fragrance I smell, every sound I hear.
I feel like you are everywhere.

Makeshift words spring to life the moment I see you there.
But they're absent of truth, for I cannot allow your eyes to catalogue me, force forth any proof, the feelings, the hesitant breath, a stammer, an insignificant gesture.
No I must make you feel I'm in control,
aloof.

I'm compelled to give you earnest,
sincere respect, simply because your persona
proceeds you, your words form before me
without a single muscle moving.

Just WoW!
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