There was a crack.
Not a mighty one. no, it wasn't even loud.
And if inside foundations moved?
without, appeared stout.
held up with the iron bars. too proud.
I see the roads before me,
which suddenly fill, my brocken will,
and rubble brushed lightly on pavement,
and hazey land, burnt still.
The sun is burning my hands, burning I say.
To the north there is fire,
sepulchures to the west, I kneel to pray,
East is dust. South has rusted red. I am on a wire,
painted gold. Crouched, I drink sand,
burning like fire, fire to taste nothing.
Too many dreams of wine and sugary honey,
I'm spent, choke on demure beauty.
My hands' flesh melt off in ripples,
dripping down my arms, and please,
with ease, I run into a coma, untruthfully,
bold and blue, choking on truth,
slipping down my lungs, cold bile fed
from a crocker, chipped resign,
take me home, I cry.
But I was never home. My home had died.
Trip. And swollen feet? Sprung loose,
the fidllers harp plays naught,
A truce, fate, please, allow me loose fate.
I pray escape, but I could never choose late.
With no hands I can not lament,
my feet rooted in soil unfit to grow,
and I am. not. I will go,
where rain falls constantly.
I will go to drown and burn in equil measure,
dreaming, with slitted eyes,
the earthquake shattering the sun inside,
shoulders square, jaw set, I hide,
while stepping forward,
/my home has died.
He said "hello" and brushed his hand against mine
but I pulled away because his hands were not as
smooth as yours
He wore a suit to dinner but didn't wear it quite like you
and my meal appeared more appetizing than
the man himself
He looked into my eyes
but they were empty because of my many tears I had spilled on nights alone
He kissed me but I felt nothing
my lips numb and drenched from the
bitter liquor that
I drank to forget you
He held me in his arms but
I didn't fit in the space between
his neck and shoulder
the way I did perfectly
he gave up
and said goodbye
but it didn't break my heart
because you had already taken it and left
on that cold February day
So long ago
Every night comes panic
My Death finds me
Early in sleep
Rest is not the word
My thoughts are fire
My soul is dry
I see my oppressors
A face in my mind
A different world lives
I can't save them
Victims of fear
The specters hang cold
I'm slow and cold
Daytime is weary
I can feel the sadness
Each me dies alone
How can that be
I hope they aren't real
The murder they find
I daily dose and overdose
Freedom from sleep
Close to peaceful
I want to be able to sleep again.
I'm tired of fighting to fall asleep,
being afraid of every little creak in the house.
I'm tired of being scared of what might take me in the night.
I'm tired of waking up with cold sweats.
I'm tired of waking up screaming.
I'm tired of the terrors,
being deathly afraid of all too vivid dreams,
feeling as if I am being held down;
no where to run...I can't even move.
I'm tired of being tired.
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn pricks through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
We didn't talk again
I’ve been cured of my passion, my drive, my power.
Where has my sickness gone?
The push behind my brain, the pressure upon my artistic uvula has been relieved.
I threw up words, stanzas, poems.
I barfed- poetic-vomit.
I was content, fulfilled- or rather- emptied.
The bug has flown from its host; my well has run dry
I don't wish to be cured
I want to vomit, puke, barf- more lyrics than ever before.
The world is in need of sick poets, deathly ill individuals.
What sick vaccine is eradicating our precious uncommon cold?
A cleansed world is one without expression, without freedom, and without the most beautiful and necessary illness we fondly christen as: Poetry.
A wise person once said
"You can do whatever you put your mind too!"
In my mind eyes envision
how I write these rhymes
in little time constructing lines
that pierce through your eyes
into your soul some would say
I'm in my prime
cause My words are very bold
The U.S. committing war crimes
The world is so cold you can
buy a man with dollar signs
Where women are sold
and often told they are dimes
But are more valuable to a man
than gold and diamonds.
Realize we're due
for realignment, Reassignment
by our masters in hiding
while I'm typing in the silence
I hear the riots of the people
protesting and fighting
shaking the earth like
thunder and lightning.
This Television programming
has numbed us to violence.
Yet won't broadcast the riots
or give us the real science.
Anyone acting defiant
blowing a whistle is swiftly silenced.
We must all stand firm like a hydrant
and face our current tyrants
take no action at all
and be fed to starving Lions.
To the end of the Earth I fly.
To the end of the Earth I seek.
No end until I bend to breathe.
A mirage of another reality.
I shroud in misery.
My light was taken from me.
Magic lies cold.
Nature spoils before me.
Forever trapped in a foolish glance.
Where can I go to feel my strength?
Is there no place for me to hide?
To the end of the Earth I seek.
The sands of time.....
Quite a show!
She thought she was REALITY!
She wanders cold night streets with ragged shawl
About her head
She is reality
In full bloom
She knows that I love her
And that I know she knows
The sands of Time
Her and I
That which IS
Ah, such an unreality, writing poems,
" tell that strange boy to go home."
Ah, such a non profit, being the poet,
only enterprising cursive, blades of grass
before I mow it.
and back in a classroom, with stone walls,
I stared out a window, tho no windows at'all.
so they hauled me to the cellar with four mates,
cold block wall that defied the teacher's tape,
she missed the breeze-- not stone--knocking posters down.
so I created windows for our lost and found,
she was so elated, and one grade I was propelled,
and a gold plaque on that stone held.
and if I cite her, " Oh, you can be a doctor or lawyer,..."
with no mention of 'writer.'
ah, no profit to be a poet under those halls,
but revivifying that teacher, and re-animating those walls.