Surprise looked me in the eye, an instant rush,
One moment that was purely innocent.
Surprise swooned me into arms, bore open,
Multiple moments that were so naive.
Surprise betrayed me in the beginning,
In that moment, after years of artful diversions,
Surprise was forgiven.
This first love, puppy love, three years it took.
Three years it took me to realize what one song,
Spit in seconds less than just three minutes.
(non-poetic rant, just bear with me, too many concerned people on other sites)
I know now, despite every other outcome or possibility that my thoughts stirred up, that it never really mattered whether I truly forgave you or not, you knew that you had leverage over me because of how I felt for you. You knew that no matter what I did, however hard I tried to push you away, that if I got a call that you had been hurt or were going to end up being hurt that I would be there no matter what. That power was something that you used against me to keep me around. People may not have "magic" but they sure do have power. I made a mistake by staying involved with someone who would toy with my emotions, and it took me a damn long time to realize that I hadn't been thinking properly. It literally took removing myself entirely and then some time after that to really grasp everything that had happened between us. Although, that being finally said, I do not regret the fact that that had happened, and it wasn't entirely miserable. I learned a lot from you, about myself, the universe, and anything in between. I do not regret having done the unthinkable in forgiving you because I wouldn't have had that experience. I wish the best for you, and I will be a friend, but you have to understand why I cannot ever lose footing on my stance again, not with you at least. So for today, just let sleeping dogs lie and let guard dogs be. For tomorrow, one may not know for certain, but what I do know is that I don't want to worry about tomorrow until tomorrow.
Sincerely, a love that was never meant to be.
The days are nowhere to be found,
when there were fairies all around,
girls and boys had their unique wars,
did you wish to the shooting star?
Like we had our own different world,
living with fancy and eating mud,
nothing was called as such absurd,
skating on floors and down to earth.
Imprisoned in a classroom for a decade,
felt like sleeping to the judgement day,
then the recess was so highly praised,
and homecoming was the best part of the day.
We all had that unconscious mind,
doing things now we can't find.
I look at the photos from the past,
and realize that time never really lasts.
Sitting on park benches and donning berets,
Wearing sunglasses indoors and out.
Staying up for nights and nights and sleeping in for days and days,
Waking only for a kettle's shout.
Complaining about how I cannot love
And musing about a man I might like.
Insisting there is no below or above,
And painting white crosses all over my bike.
Smelling the color of a rose
And tasting the sound of an old 45.
Developing a hatred for any sort of prose
And allowing my poems to eat me alive.
I could move to and rot in New Mexico,
Or spend my time writing about heartbreak and coffee,
But I'll never be a celebrity poet, no,
I'm afraid that I am much too happy.
Why are you so tired you just had two extra days off of school
The thing is though,
The tiredness I feel can't be relieved.
There are not enough minutes, hours, days, months, or years of sleeping that could cure the tiredness I feel.
No amount of sleep will get rid of the weariness I feel.
You see, although I do not sleep much because of the never ending nightmares.
I am more worn from having to drag myself out of bed every morning.
Paint on the smile.
Pile the coverup on my wrists.
My heart feels so heavy.
My mind is overwhelmed.
You see, no amount of sleep could cure the tiredness inside me.
I could say
that I'd be up late studying
I could say
that I couldn't sleep tonight
(just tonight, random sleeplessness)
I could say
that I got distracted
(by Wikipedia, the CDC, Edmodo)
I could say
that I fell asleep with the light on
(at my desk, with my book, and my laptop)
I could tell the truth
(that I don't sleep, that I hate sleeping, that if I sleep more than four hours it's as bad as pulling an all-nighter)
I could stay up by cellphone light
(so no one can see that I'm up)
Day, night, waking, sleeping
All I think about is
You, you, you
And in between seeing you and talking to you next, I keep thinking of new things that I want to ask you, say to you, and do with you next
So there you have it
You're all I think about
My world completely and totally revolves around
You, you, you
But you know, that's pretty okay with me
Because the only thing better than having you on my mind, is having you in my arms.
I love you. <3
We ran around the new moon.
We knew that life was beautiful.
and energies divide
exceeding all that we came for.
Shifting, climbing through
under the sun.
For our moonlight still shines!
then we waved it goodbye!
of time now past.
If i wrote a story, it would be a tragedy. But it would not be about the blood that flows from my legs at night when my mother thinks im sleeping. It would not be about the days wasted crying because no one could hear me when i broke. It would not include the story of two 3 year olds who lost a loving father they barely had enough time to know, or a loving wife who had the light of her life taken by the forces of death. It would not be about the darkness that engulfed my friend, who then became the darkness, and bled away into the shadows to join the ghosts that called so softly to him, he could not resist. It would not be a story of the girl who took over 100 tablets in 3 days because of a boy she loved who told her to do it, and the pressures weighing on her shoulders were pushing her into an early grave. It would not be the tragedy of her survival and the continuous pain and shame that she endures to this day. No. my story would be about the futility of life's arrangement and how the world around us is crumbling to dust and we are doing nothing. It would be about the thousands who are starving and crying who no one seems to give a damn about because they're the 'minorities'. It would be about life's cycle with death, and how so many are ripped from loving families before their time because the universe works in cruel ways, and -if there is a god- he or she is moving chess pieces across their board and watching them crumble. My story would be about the skilled children and poets that no one has heard of because, as everyone knows "its not cool to write poetry" . My tragedy would be about the injustice of law and how those in love are denied being bound to one another because they are of the same sex. It would be about the millions lost to wars that history repeats again and again and again over new, yet just as trivial things. This is not my tragedy. This is everyone's.
it was a dry mojave afternoon,
with crows cursing shrilly
the streetlamps bearing broken bulbs
and the striped cat sleeping in the sun.
the wind drew frantic breaths,
exhaling dead leaves over the hill
and sending the blackbirds
spiraling into the sky.
a lizard stirred, somniferous almond eyes
gazing lethargically over his rock
and at the old man on the porch
leaning back- impossibly uncomfortable in his rickety wooden chair.
his name was Jackson.
gnarled gray hair mixed with gnarled gray beard
appropriately framing a pinched, ornery visage
and tattered clothes adorned his whisper of a body.
it was his sixty-fourth year here in the desert-
on the fifty-second he'd lost his wife
on the fifty-eighth he'd gained a kitten
named him Waldrop and let him kill the mice and lizards.
'sixty four years is a long time,'
a thought murmured in the back of his head
eyelids peeling back to give a cursory glance to Waldrop
who was stalking the reptile watching him.
he remembered his twentieth birthday
when Edna had first said she loved him
and he remembered that glorious July morning
where she said she was his forever.
he remembered the pain of labor
down in the factory,
and the camaderie with his fellows
chewing tobacco and cursing the bosses.
he remembered the time spent weeping,
but remembered more the time spent laughing
in places miles and miles away
that now seemed imaginary.
exhaustion echoed through tired bones
and he wondered who would feed the cat,
drooping eyes closing one last time
to await the warmth of sunset.
I lost myself once upon a time
in a place that was only whispered to me in dreams.
Where the fog is thick and threads through the seams
of street lights and street cars with bum fights and brillo bars.
I tell you I lost myself on the tongue of insanity
who swallowed my soul to feed its humanity.
I lost myself
in a city that found me;
San Francisco, 2013
Let me extend two points like two bridges
that begin in separate places but lead to the same thing.
I’m talking the people in both hands with countless art in between.
The people, the people, the people.
What can’t be said about the near million faces
sleeping on warm pillows or cold stones,
wearing top hats or traffic cones
because not every night are people thriving.
But they’re still surviving, getting busy living or getting busy dying.
In their eyes are stories being told
once you wipe those windows into their souls, deep.
You see it all,
Just like every star in the fall when the sun goes to sleep.
I gave a homeless man a dollar who gave it to another homeless man who then gave it back to me
Like we were passing a love note that said, “You need this more than me.”
So which of us was the one without the home?
Home I soon found in the art of every step taken,
one foot in front of the next.
I can’t walk through that city discounting the side effects.
I was drunk,
but not from bottles or cans
I was drunk from the hands
that told tales with graffiti art to camera pans.
and countless other melodies
massaging bricks into the landmarks that spanned.
Culture sprinkling up and down the hills and between the cracks
Painting colors in the sky as the rainbows stacked,
Finding pots of gold by merely lifting my eye lids back.
There is so much to say about this city in the bay,
that is held in place by the people of race
and the vessels of art that encompass in its space
like stories and attitude,
survival and gratitude,
muse and expression
in delight or depression.
I tell you I lost myself in that city.
But I know now that being lost is sometimes the only way to be truly found.