I was just a wildflower growing on the side of the road,
Ignored and observing,
Growing
until rain drowned me,
winds picked me up,
I dropped myself into a wandering state,
Splitting into the sky.
I am now pieces of pollen,
just specks in the air,
flying without a single care
Though I am scattered,
I am free.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
I'm writing you a poem,
not to boast of my eloquence
but because your very existence has given me a lifetime of inspiration.
You are not a mere muse,
but you are every word spoken softly,
gently.
In my ear.
But if spoken loud enough everyone would hear.
So I will speak for you.
I will say it in a room that echos
so it can be heard again and again
until the words return to their original form,
a whisper.
You beautiful creature.
You beautiful boy.
I saw the honesty in your eyes.
Like I heard your whispers.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"
I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.
Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.
Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.
Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
I know why Vincent Van Gogh Cut off his own ear
We are a mad bunch, you see
Poets and painters and playwrights
On the prowl for something to
jump start our perpetual yearnings,
our keen senses and cravings,
on the quest for so much more
than the status quo,
of merely checking off just another day
from our calendars
We are those kinds of people
Who wish to reinvent the world
Often cursing at our failings and insecurites
While obsessively working to shape and sculpt
our view of this planet
To fit our own brand of imagination
To satisfy our starving hopes
and desperate dreams
To foster vivid visions
from the views that are vague
And to wipe away
The nightmares of old
that cry out in us
We believe in make-believe
We who are misfits to "normalcy"
We rarely seem to fit into
The "real world"
Yet we know that this world is
Pure insanity
Stark madness
Sheer perplexion
Yet we are the ones
suffering for the sake
of our art
Often misunderstood
Many times branded as "weirdos"
I can understand the pain
Of not getting my art right
Of not seeing its worth
Because someone sniffed at it
Or scoffed at it
Or blindly passed it by
Many times, we want to break through
And join the world of our works of art
But we can't
We're stuck in the middle of its beauty
And nothingness
Yes
I know why Vincent Van Gogh cut off his own ear
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
In the radiant sea
of your delicately
coarse red hair
there are waves and ripples
microscopic masses
of peculiar people
like you and me
I’ve seen the
stroke of genius
in your incessant
and persistent strokes
mired with madness
an inexplicable sadness
you and I know
where your stare leads
what echoes and stirs
of haunting thoughts
lay within your mind
that produced such priceless art
you manipulated pigments and hues
into what you couldn’t
do with words
you formulated ideas
and conjured emotions
in the lives of lovely
strangers who never
had the privilege of loving you back
I can’t own your originality
I barely possess your
authenticity where it matters most
you and I are kindred souls
carefully orchestrated accidents
in the midst of a
compromising world
now your starry nights
are my cloudy days
your variation of blues
are the robust soundtrack
of an inconsolable vagabond
searching for her voice
in a literary chaotic world
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
A cultural giant
Though his life was short
Full of talent
His work never caught
The eye of the public
Anybody who understood
Because he was indeed
Misunderstood
It wasn't just talent
Or love or art
It was emotion and passion
From his beating heart
He was an artist
With a burning desire
Hardly lived just loved
His own works melted in fire
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
As the light and shadows of overthinking roll over,
And the yellow raspberries start to doubt their realities,
I'll be here - owning nameless cats and refusing to buy furniture;
Lusting for the life I thought I had, green-eyed and sadistic.
Let's take a selfie. TRIPLE CHIN!
As you swipe for filters,
And draw a ***** on your friend's face,
I'll be here - fighting the urge to be useless;
Tapping and holding for fake friends.
Selfies. We've been afflicted with this terrible, god-awful disease.
And as you post a shaky video of your boyfriend driving?
And laugh at that joke you know you didn't find funny
I will be here - throwing my circles of seconds away.
Three, two, one.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC