human being in front of me!
Know this! Know thyself!
Is what they say so they say
the price is right k
now what time is it?
And wind swept like locks
tightly clenched fists
in the heat of the moment
who could have known what would happen next?
Bay windows and salt water breeze
A modicum of dust in a mote of time
Floating in this breeze only for me
A beautiful singularity centered
The sky is frozen and I hold
Everything for you
Who writes faster now
The booze or the insomnia?
Who slept where next and
when do I work tomorrow?
If I may be frank with you
and confess my unabashed ID
I absolutely fucking adore you
and I want to shower you with
every sort of glee that exists.
I can't tell you that yet
Dope bonkers motherfucker
Brycical, hey man. Say hi to lord governor of the
Watch the cars cross Hillcrest and Hoden'. Seeing the world and living life has always had its fortunes. Believing the light to crawl and make your way to foreign shores, we can never catch ourselves sleeping during every waking moment.
You're the moon outside my window,
And the stars in my sky.
You're the wonders down below,
And the birds that fly by.
You're the fish in my sea,
And the foam on my waves.
You're the leaves on the trees,
And the rocks in the caves.
I hear you, and see you,
I smell you, and feel.
I taste you, and embrace you,
I kiss you, and heal.
You're the plots in my dreams,
And the patterns in my bed.
You're the stitches in my seams,
And the thoughts in my head.
You're everything I want,
And you're everything more.
You're the one I want to flaunt,
And you're the one I adore.
Is this how it feels
To know that you're dead?
Or is this the beginning
Of just another end?
I take my steps each morning
Surprised they're not my last.
-This path that I am taking-
So pragmatic, enigmatic, fantastic.
I've never had this before.
"It's good, but maybe you should write shorter," I was told.
Granted this was told to me by a man that believes the word artistic
to be closely related to the word autistic, but I can only assume that riding any
unfamiliar wavelength is terribly confusing, if not immeasurably difficult.
Knowing that you can confide in yourself, whether or not I'm misinterpreting
individual delegation for conscience, I believe altruism to be fundamental to
a person before growth can occur. Unless of course you're writing short poems.
And if you're curious enough to implement apathy, sarcasm is a fine starting point.
They say that if you want to master something you need to perform daily.
Accompany this with the old adage, "Love what you do," and you can imagine the potential.
Mastering an activity with love is transcendent, calm although sometimes piquant.
Passion and pleasure aren't identical, but imagine the potential.
I don't bleed ink.
It has to be an attempt at benevolence, to say that.
Extreme literary pretensions you must have to bleed out.
Writing should have a pulse. It. Should. Make. Each. Word. Count.
Yet, when this man told me that my words are good, but I should keep it shorter,
knowing not if I could or would, I became curious as to why he worried more about
length and not the content and story as a whole. Then I had to rationalize this to myself, and thought: It would be easier to convey words with images, like a film or animation.
But I don't bleed ink,
and I guess I don't bleed popcorn.
Buckled at the knees, face in the dirt,
one can only pray for enlightenment, but
at a time when morality is valued by
silver and gold,
a baton twirled
is mightier than the sword dipped in ink
and sprawled across ancient parchment.
Men march in unison, into foreign lands,
while chanting words of a dead language:
Democratia Sit Virtus
Flag inserted into the land, the
obligatory explanation is written
on paper, covered with black marks, in soot.
Erupt in glory, a city once was.
Redacted sentences are had for
to keep characters in the dark.
Transparency is only a concept that
belongs on the back of a bookmark.
clouds and envelopes the sky,
as dark and as black as superstition.
We speak with symbols, because subliminal
advertising becomes cogitative rather than
entering one ear and leaving the other.
What belongs in the border is bold, as we
marginalize open space, although the occasional
proverbial foot will cross the line. A slash of the
throat will tell you that all eyes are dotted,
just as some lines are crossed.
Like an olive branch exposed as thorns.
A proper medium is exploiting
vulnerability under rule.
Hot air is expelled when converting oxygen,
or exclaiming honesty and integrity;
lest we forget land comes from sea.
It is in their nature; our nature to build
Better to keep intricacies hidden.
Never is an iceberg fully exposed.
Certainly a vault.
What you keep from the people
is for the people.
And common ground is neither
left nor right,
despite what you've been made
It's about the courage
to think before you speak.
It's the courage it takes
to gather strength and
beseech the weak.
Waiting for the call that will never come.
I die inside every hour, every minute.
I reach across the couch to grab my phone.
Before I pick it up, I pull back my hand as if denying myself the disappointment I already know.
She never lied to me, she never hurt me.
I guess she just didn't want to hear "I love you" from me.
Can't eat, unable to cry, barely able to sleep, too depressed to drink.
She doesn't know how much I hurt, and I don't want her to know either.
I'm tired of it. I can't take another crack in my heart. It will break.
So I sink into my couch, phone on the other cushion, staring somewhere at the air between the TV screen and my face.
I just want relief in somebody's arms.
I just have to remember what I told myself~
Relationships are like glass. They break into a million pieces, seemingly unrecoverable. But if you collect them all together, with just the right amount of heat and love, you can watch it all melt back together, into a new piece of glass.
New to the eye, yet the feeling will never fade.
What sweet youth this is
to slowly wilt at eighteen,
Where in twenty years you will be
I wonder what your hands
will feel like.
How many paintings will they
have created by then?
How many countries would your
eyes have seen?
How many men would you have
chosen to lay with?
How many decisions would you
How many things bought and broken.
How many of those will you save.
How many memories will you forget in
twenty years that now seem so
How much of your life will you regret?
How much will be left by then?
To mend what you have broken,
to throw away what should not have been kept,
to take a pottery class and learn
how to finally mold yourself.
To become the person you said you would be
twenty years from then,
Will you find the time then?
When you have none left?