As time began to sail across the distance
between the legitimacy of sea-faring tales
and their land-woven origins,
our fingertips became acquinted in the same fluid lucidity
that the soles under our feet interpreted into syncopated steps
Our words melliflously met above the undertones of
cityscape circuit-boards,
embellishing the space between the notes
of our independence
and the harmonies
of our togetherness
She is neither the sea nor the wind, for both are masters of their own trade;
indifferent to the collisions of an unmapped expedition
She is,
as is freedom,
the sail under which the destinations of her vessel
rely solely on the unpredictability
of the collision itself
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
My eyes
long to bleed
the pigment nostalgia of
ink-blot images
this over-exposure
of apeture awareness
develops beyond the
thought-corridors of blackrooms
before absorbing your sepia solitude,
remember that filtered lenses
cannot distinguish the difference
between memories and mementos
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
Self-Promotion
Shamefully accents each line
of scattered HelloPoetry
Follow me
Like my words
give me significance
We are all children
ignoring ourselves enough
to hide the smiles we form
from the positive-reinforcement
of another desperately embelished
first-world sob story
kicking and screaming
flourishing melodies of sameness
over commonplace chord progressions
**** me for humming along
**** you for harmonizing
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
When life
becomes a vagrant
and death
an unsung train
there you will find me
oozing notes into night's horn
moon-beams drenched
with midnight's blues
rattle, ripple, shake
distorted city light
dancing barefoot
on crescent waves
I ponder,
wander,
wait.
to reflect
upon reflections
- as the moon,
in her wistful way,
seeps sonatas
of wayward days
and in the distant dissonance
of constant consonance
She, too,
waits.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
We fall as one
as rain into a
sea of subjectivity;
each droplet,
individual in choice,
ripples across the entire surface
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Your mind
is a temple
Sweep its steps,
polish its floors
But
Never
gauk at your neighbor
for the tidy mind
You've wasted
on cleaning theirs
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
She fabricates variance in the same picturesque sky
Mauling two birds with one stone-cold, self-sustaining lie
If happiness blots itself upon perspective,
then I was merely one musing of a momentarily hung canvas
dangling dull under the noose of your
cautiously composed independence
-
"Independence"
she doth protest
While in dependence,
she doth ingest
She flees towards East evermore, infatuated under the intoxication of dissimilar skies, ceasing to remember that all worlds eventually become spherical.
We, abreast, left the nest;
I, digress, detest the West.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
Light danced across the hardwood floor of her irises,
reflecting deep rays of brown, fire-painted oak wood into the
absorbing glass of his sea-foam green, windowframe eyes.
A now forgotten word was mellifluously sung;
curtains leaden with longing were reluctantly drawn.
The luminous sun then ceased to hang canvases of
oak and sea
on their abstractive walls,
diverging instead to displays murals of perspective
into the windowpanes of distant eyes.
Then, like black and white keys
being poignantly pressed by the fluency of fingertips,
the edges of their eloquent lips
began to touch
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
One more
cigarette
One less thought
captured by my notebook
I know
I have two inner-pockets in my peacoat
One with Silver Sherman's
and one with the little notebook of deeper joys that follow
Yet I've spent more time
Lighting Maduro paper
than sparking ideas
onto trees that are utilized for musings
rather than consumption
I inhale carbon monoxide,
(in line following the crowd -- by choice)
Rather than exhaling the same
for the leaf-lungs of trees
I stretch for something
A dichotomy of Pockets
Paper lined for thoughts
or
Tobacco twined for my subduing
One more, One less
One more circus of circumstance,
One less bridge to nowhere
One more apple to pick,
One less bone
I wonder,
"When the sands of time
should be sifted through my hands
and not my mind?"
But my mind continuously filters,
wondering which grains of now-repurposed stone
amounts to more or less
You fool!
Stop staring at the back of the clock
Discontinue your prescription to madness!
Watch instead the gears turning
not in anxious fear,
but in wondrous awe
Everything: a means to its own end;
not an end to its own means
And yet,
blackened by the smoke,
hardened by the repitition,
you take another drag
And all I can say
is that my throat screams for tea
and my mind
for resolution
One more thought,
One less execution.
--
I know
That if I was self-driven enough
I could compose a chart
(or a melody)
that shows the correlation
between the distance of you
from my thoughts
and the intimacy of nicotine
to my mouth
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC