I come from a dead end, deadbeat town,
Filled to capacity with dead end, deadbeat souls,
They are the crushers of dreams, the killers of ambition,
because they think,
that no one
of this dead end, deadbeat town.
But not me,
I am running fast,
from this dead end, deadbeat town.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Tulips are yellow
Leaves are green
My body resembles
And expensive flower bouquet
But my lips are sealed
Want it to end
At all costs
I'd have no regrets
Thinking about my death
Makes me feel alive
Not that there's much to live for
When the man you love
Has four months until he dies
A new blossom is added to the
When I do or say something wrong
Too bad these prized blooms
Are always so carefully placed
Almost as if to hide them
Because I know a secret
Grass, tulips, and violets
Are artfully arranged
On my legs, on my chest,
On my back, and on my neck
I'm wrong they're right
No use putting up a fight
I'm petrified that if I do try to fight once more
Real flowers will be laid on my grave instead of my skin
Where I will rest forevermore.
The past is a gaping hole.
You can always try to run from it,
but the more you run,
the more terrible it grows behind you,
The edges nipping at your heels.
Your only chance is to turn around and face it.
You know this.
You believe this.
You say you can do this.
But it's like looking down into the grave of your poor poor soul,
Or a perfectly grooved spiral,
Maybe you know,
or maybe you pretend not to but
At the end the road rests a
hollow point waiting in its dark nest,
ready to take you home,
Home, sweet home.
The magnificent burden, of a gentle touch
could it be I care too much?
could my actions lead to distractions,
and wind up backfiring on me?
I long for you as far as the eye can see,
but does my own vision deceive?
Am I blinded by lust and confused by love
or do my words mean nothing
because my actions mean everything?
The only thing we can hold true to us,
is sight, and sound and taste and touch.
But what happens when I’m just too much?
Am I what you bargained for,
or were you hoping for something more?
I have given bits and pieces of myself,
to everything I’ve ever loved
and taken back the same.
But what happens
when you end up forgetting
why exactly these pieces remain?
Parts of me, aren’t apart of me
and apart of me is missing.
Seems to me, what’s left
is just a puzzle with history.
So will you take me
in all of my glory, and sorrow, and despair
or will you throw away the security blanket
and tell me what I don’t want to hear?
Don’t tap-dance through my tragedy,
and try not to console my wounded soul.
Tell me what you feel and fear
and maybe, potentially,
you could fill this hole.
And we witnessed the brilliance of man's folly,
Every note falling in deciduous perfection;
Even prayers can be lost.
The stars flashed on,
The sun was nowhere to be found, and
And the moon belched like a drunken pirate,
Bending the trees and sending their leaves
Skyward, off to wherever they go.
There was a whisper
Between the blades of grass
We laid on.
There was a worry
Clouding over you
That told me there
Was to be more.
Candy cane fragrance
With a dash of cinnamon salt.
Grinning through the darkness,
We touched palms like children,
Caught in that blue jay dance.
Morning came like mist over a hill.
Our eyes fluttered open and close.
She rose first, then I rose with her.
We met by the window and looked down on the street,
Both of us feeling the fleeting of a feeling.
Secondary rituals over coffee and pastries.
The sun came through that café window like a shotgun blast.
And when she paid and left,
A kiss on the cheek for cordiality,
She dropped a note that read "Until next time."
When you don't see another for some time,
You wonder what they came to be.
A periwinkle whore of 5 cents a pound,
Or a river lady loon that sang without a sound?
The maze has many turns, until you reach the end.
Under your bed,
Their color's shining
Ox blood purple and red.
They told me your name.
They scribbled your address.
They want what you have.
They're wondering why your'e so stressed.
When she came by the place again,
I wasn't home, so she dropped me another note.
This one had only one word:
I can't lie.
I was quite
I thought she
Less to say.
Two days past.
A knock on my door.
Moon light's middle finger
Stretched into my
Living room window.
My couch held her like an egg in a carton.
Toad colored hat latched around her head.
Hair covering her eyes, her mouth, her broken nose.
She wore orange flip flops, wiggling her toes.
A zit planted in the middle of her forehead like white rose.
She asked why I hadn't called her.
I told her that I didn't have a number.
She talked about her soon to be dead father.
I sat down to listen, thinking of my forgotten brother.
We talked with a space between us for a long time.
When she began to cry, she came to me,
Like a bee to a flower or a fly to fresh shit.
I felt her hand on my chest and her breath in my left ear;
There's no guilt like the wicked
And there's no faith like the religious kind.
Hand in a hold.
Love is a recyclable mold.
The tattered priest protects the walls
Of his splintered sanctuary.
Every dream had
Is another man's
Oh my sins, my sins,
Where should I begin?
When you're born to lose,
There's no thought to win.
6 months past
And still, she came.
Our love for one another
Was a knot
I couldn't untie.
A year past
And the stars and the moon
Were a cure that
Blanketed our child, our family.
Living our days out,
Mixing poison and penalty,
Running from a life
That showed any shred of reality.
Buried side by side
Underneath a bent orange tree,
I died one day,
She dying the other.
We use the leaves of Fall
And the blossoming buds of Spring
To reach for.
When I say the maze is long
And that the hours are heavy,
I meant not for your blankets to fall cold
Or for your room to awash with darkness.
She came to me that day,
Just like someone will come for you.
And I had no choice,
But to attune.
Night of the Living Dead Tribute
In the darkest of night they rise
without humanity in their eyes
rotting flesh and beastly bones
rising like blood thirsty clones
When they rise, the end is near
the world becomes full of fear
by that time, it's way too late
torture and death is your fate
The time to suffer is coming fast
then none of us are going to last
so much blood sure to be shed
on this night of the living dead.
I shouldn't miss you but I do
It’s too late
I miss all the ways you used to pull me in
Windows down, music blaring
The best of us
I was your best friend
Those where the best days
I shouldn't miss you but I do
And it’s too late
As I sit here looking out
At the cold winters rain
I can’t get your voice and your laugh out of my head
My mind can’t think straight
Your green eyes seared into my brain
You skin and hands, I loved them
Because I loved you
You said id always be your best friend
Shows how naive I was to believe you
I shouldn't miss you but I am
I was a disaster abandoned
I wasn't sure I would live
It’s been three years now
I’m pretty sure I got over you
But why is it so hard to not remember
All of the things we did
Places we’d been
I wish I could wipe you out of my memory
Because that’s what you did with me
Any one could see
Only if they knew the difference
Of how you used to be
When I was with you.
I miss the way we’d laugh
Cry and carry on about how are parents are so bad
Drive around because we had nothing better to do
But that was fine because
We had fun no matter what we would do
So I hope you miss the smile on my face
They way id play with your hair when you where tired
On a rainy day
I hope you miss the things I would say
“I love you!”
And how we thought
Forever and Always
No one would have thought it would end at all
Because of how we used play
Like children, I was in love
But never knew it
Till it was too late
I want to wake up in the morning,
Knowing that my friends are okay.
I don't want to have to read a farewell text or email,
Or pick up the phone and hear your parents sobbing on the other end...
You say that nobody cares about you.
That nobody would miss you.
That nobody would even notice if you were gone.
But that's not true...
Heck, that's not true at all.
There are people who want you to wake up in the morning.
There are people who like to see you smile and laugh every day.
There are people who look forward to you saying hi to them when you see them.
Don't even consider hanging yourself,
Or cutting your wrists,
Or popping every pink or purple pill possible...
What good will it do?
What are you going to accomplish?
All over the world,
There are thousands of people who choose not to wake up in the morning.
Even though there are thousands of people who would love to wake up,
I want YOU to wake up in the morning...
I just want all of us to wake up...
I feel like I am on the tail end of a masterpiece
Built from my own and other's catastrophes
Billions of blasphemies plated in gold
Locked up, not to be opened until we're old
Until the cold winds have done as their told
Leaving our frozen hearts to crack as we fold
All is still and the gentle breeze has ceased
Our puzzles, together, have been pieced
At least it feels that the solution has materialized
Right before our eyes and I have finally realized
That the mysteries, the clouds of confusion
Have departed, taking with them their dark illusion
The end has completed its hasty advance
I surrender and take its hand in this final dance
This will be the smallest, most insignificant, most trivial,
And most forgettable poetic parable anyone has ever written
Because for once I’ve been wrung of all my deep evocations
I’ve been whittled of my angular description of the commonplace
Of verbose, grandiose trajectories mapped out
By minds I will never exist alongside but I will sure emulate
I have sat down and asked myself, innumerable times,
“Okay, so how will I describe the sunrise now?”
And more importantly, perhaps more existentially:
“What about the sunset?”
What colors haven’t I used, what other comparable thing
Haven’t I eluded those colors to,
And what kind of uncharted, beautiful, spiritually-boggling human emotion
Hasn’t been tapped by this setting star until right now,
Right as I string together letters like they’ve
Never been strung before?
There’s the endless wellspring of my poetic—
Oh, look, there I go, visualizing thoughts and feelings
As a mystical, water-associated apparatus
(It’s my go-to)
For a time more innumerable than the sunrise.
I’m getting tired of it,
And I can’t imagine how mind-blowingly dull it must be for you
So I’m going to try it like this:
I see the sunset again, and tonight it’s very pretty.
But, poet, this kind of routine, boring description
Doesn’t do much for me.
I know what a sunset is, I’ve seen it
My three year old can probably
Get a pretty accurate crayon drawing penned out in a few seconds
And that will hardly distinguish itself from
What you’ve made the sunset out to be
But, poet, from all across the world, from their unique angles
All the aspiring poets gaze toward the same sun,
Whether in setting, whether rising, or hung there in the sky
And describe it as a tantalizing metaphor
And then relate that sun
To a deep, embedding, defining emotion or craving for human connection
As if to say,
I see the sun that way too
I feel that way too
And then those poets submit their poems to publishing
And watch the sunset as any normal person would
Once they’re out of the mode.
In fact, what’s on television? / Shut the blinds, Dylan,
There’s a glare on the screen.
This poem hasn’t brought itself out there, out to you
As a grand accomplishment of absolute detachment
As a way to try to break the barrier of poetry once again,
To define itself as a new genre, or an edgy statement the author
Very desperately intends his audience ‘gets’
Or even to prove an angle nobody has ever seen or attempted before
Because how I am supposed to know how you think?
Or what you see, and how you see it?
This poem is a message of the ordinary,
That it’s okay, it’s absolutely fine, to remove the mysticism from the mundane
And understand the world as a beauty in itself,
One that doesn’t need the aloof, grand, mystical verbosity of poetry
To be felt as something poetic
In fact, I won’t even leave you to ponder the greater meaning of it,
Of this line, or that line. I will say it here,
At the end, at the climactic and awesome point of emotional delivery
That all poetry intends:
I see the sunset again, and tonight it’s very pretty.