They say that Spring is fresh and new
In my heart I disagree
The snow's slow melt now looks like dew
Everywhere there sits debris
In my heart I disagree
society's vision's been obscured
Everywhere there sits debris
What was once clear is blurred
Society's vision's been obscured
The sun's bright light has stunned us
What was once clear is blurred
I grow weary in the time of the Taurus
Everywhere there sits debris
The snow's slow melt now looks like dew
What was once clear is blurred
They say that Spring is fresh and new
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
Your soul is rusted.
Red dust fills the crease by your brow.
Frantic and flaunting.
The Adam's apple bobs uselessly.
Joints collapsed and callused,
Faded from the focus.
You look in her eyes and put on the show.
Your words:
fangs hung deep in scar tissue.
You taunt the temptress.
Like dusty music to a corralled cobra.
This game will not last.
Put down your flute.
Enough with the games.
Haven't you heard?
She's leaving you.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
Inside the betrodden bunkers, the boys lay.
It's a new day. 6 am sharp they awaken with anticipation.
They rise and they march and they bustle throughout camp.
Where their boots break with stressed step. blackened and soiled.
and their singing ceases with a stony look. They stand straight now.
This order they chose,
and this colony they feed.
For its buzz beckons more than a simple salute.
At a weeks end they bring Busch and burgers and sit under a blanket of stars,
and they tell stories of belly dancers and sandy beaches and starlit skies and those big, stifling water bugs in the defact, and they're all grinning because sal's got the hiccups bad. and oh,
how yesterday that man, that boy, with the pacemaker, took his last breath swimming in the brooke.
they laugh it off.
And Busch's bubbles go down smooth,
and they wrestle and they sing, and they call their girlfriends baby.
and their girlfriends call them silly.
and everyone rolls their eyes.
until that buzz fades
and that sun ascends
and their girlfriends say goodbye.
and so, for now,
their clothes lay stacked of the same order and style.
and their body language is a bit broken and bored and still,
and they stand in solemn line
after line
after line
after line
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
When the person you love is filled with sadness, what do you do?
Leave them be or hold them near?
Do you tell them they must say what's inside? The molecules, the words, the truths they've nurtured held together so tightly that they might turn to pearls or diamonds.
Coming out so shiny you question their validity.
Wonder if they're even real at all.
Wonder how the elements
of earth
and reason
and the art of simply being
could be spun into something so loathed.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC