I'm trying not to,
lately it feels like there's not much else.
I'm fighting the idea of it,
just in the hopes that something good comes later.
Reminding myself that,
you have to work for good things.
But also how tired I am,
something I feel in the core of me.
I don't want things to get worse,
but I can't seem to make them better.
I don't want this my whole life,
but I can't seem to escape the feeling.
I don't want to fight,
I just want to be closer.
Maybe I'm bad at everything,
and maybe believing that makes it true.
I'm trying not to,
Lately it just feels like there's not much else.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 8:04 AM UTC
There is quite a view out my window.
Not the best the place I live in has to offer, but one that carries itself for miles. Crashing into a pleasant horizon of industry and nature. At the right time of day you can see the clouds casting shadows, melting into each other to craft illusions from sustained light.
The shadows make me imagine the wind.
A clan of colossal bodies, imprisoned on this planet and forced to carry the clouds on their shoulders, dragging them across the sky with no purpose. A gang of Gargantuans run ragged and mad, given no time for rest or thought.
Their minds have become fixated on their task, they feel no pain or presence. The ancient bodies they inhabit have coalesced with the Earths patterns, a deep instinct formed. Mammoth entities evolving from cloud to storm. Contorting their essence they mold themselves into the planets fervor.
They expand with it's storms. Feet trampling through the unfathomable obscurity of the oceans floor. Tremendous torsos bearing hurricanes, hulking hands moving maelstroms. And on land they lash the wind about, collapsing the foundations around us. Flicking tempestuous obliteration at the places we call home.
Though they are bound to carry the righteous vehemence of natures will, they are also bound to it's serenity. Gently gracing our fragile skin, tracing over our pores and follicles with delicate intricacy. The very essence of their being encompassing every inch of ourselves. Engrossing us in a sweet breeze as our souls ingest sunlight.
Occasionally gifting the barren fields with rain, to slake the arid harvest. Or to simply become brume and float beside us on long days. Id like to imagine that fog is as peaceful as it is because it denotes the death of a behemoth. Clouds severed from the sky, caught in the grip of a dying leviathan. Marooned in the concrete until another titan can return it to it's home in the heavens.
The view outside my window isn't the best, but sometimes I get dragged into a daydream and can't help but forget myself. Suddenly I'm watching a Goliath from my apartment, and as I blink to see them closer they are gone. But the view is still there.
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 8:44 PM UTC
Drift lovingly into the
edge of the universe,
engulfed by the beings there.
With Sequoia fingertips
ripping the fabric of reality
just to watch the
universe bloom.
Under their open eyes,
caressing your fear
with sincerity and sadness,
you are swallowed by their very presence.
Drift lovingly into the
void.
You are no longer
a blip.
Yet you have unraveled
and within you is
peace and pain
growing something
new.
Somewhere down the
line, the stars
fade
away.
And your becoming
something that makes sense,
something that finally feels good,
somebody.
The hollowness echoing
in this empty patch
of space
residing beyond the edge
of the universe.
It's a sound
you will carry
within you.
Not as a definition,
but a reminder.
Drift lovingly into yourself.
Let the darkness
bleed from you and
diffuse into the nothing.
Feel the darkness change
to light and
burn in it.
Plummet into yourself.
You are reborn
from the debris that erupts
around you.
A phoenix from a
comets crater.
Become a being that
drinks stars on earth,
that speaks the sun
and feels it in them.
Become someone that
finally fits into
this life,
someone
you can finally
love.
Become you.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 9:17 PM UTC
Clouds like light brush strokes
sun cutting through a masterpiece
warm wind through window
Haven't been out here
For at least a week or so
The sun did miss me
New flower tastes fire
In again but just for now
Storm grows through window
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 12:52 AM UTC
Poetry needs me, like I bleed it, like I gasp for it when its fist hits my gut and reminds me as I curl over.
Like I spit it into the floor, like I flatten, like my coffin is buried in it.
Poetry needs me like the dirt needs the corpse.
I remember now
how I asked for death and
years fell away from me and
now I taste poetry as I grit the dirt in my palms.
I taste the poetry trickling down from tightly clenched teeth,
I taste my reluctance.
I taste the texture of my old ways,
arms crossed to what it could teach me.
They are open now and as the remembered echo of a sweet friend comes rumbling through my ears, I know it is me. I know that I am the choir of sirens in the swamp. I know that poetry is become me and I am nothing without it, it is something without me.
There are pages of the old heralds of poetry basted to the firmament, glowing as celestial bodies tormented and bleeding down on us. These gods and devils that came before us, that sit in some perpetual agony, agony swathed in peace. Peace found in the eternal rapture of poetry. It seethes, its saliva boiling over as it reacts to the way I place myself above it...so we must be one. We must be all at once nothing and poetry.
We must trace the eternal light so we may recite the old words to the new world. Let the light embers of poetry trace gently like fingers on skin, let the skin grow charred. We must die in its embrace so that it may grow, and know that though we can no longer be one,
we will always be one in poetry.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 12:43 AM UTC
I am trying to write a love letter to
the good memories,
the ones I have to beat the walls for,
Hiding in corners of my house for safekeeping
Under floorboards, buried in the yard.
Making maps in my mind of
the streets I used to
run through.
Maybe my brown skin makes me want
to ignore that this place could be
a little bit of home.
Even if I don’t feel so welcome,
it’s got so many of
my good memories
carved into the picnic tables,
into the bark of old splintered trees.
The branches and limbs all
broken from climbing,
falling,
building tree houses and
popping fireworks.
The limbs of old oaks
burned down
because two
cousins wanted to see who
had the best aim.
Flinging black cats and bottle rockets
into knotholes
into that chorus of
"oh *****
I’ve bellowed from gut to throat,
that sing out from a past
of bad decisions that
make for great stories.
That make for scenes
out of movies I’ve never
seen, from
films that would never do
my eyes justice.
Every stupid acid trip
that left us
under a cloudy sky
with a knock
echoing out from just below
Heaven.
Every fist fight,
every single **** or
cigarette burn or
broken heart
that hit me.
I want to write
a love letter
for every different
song that played
every single time
We jumped the car
over the hill,
that hill where the
road lines the cemetery
and we rolled the windows down.
A different classic rock song
every time we
jumped,
waiting at the stop sign
for the
perfect moment to
Floor it.
Tombstones bouncing
guitar riffs into the
old summer moon.
A love letter to
every car I crashed,
every friend I lost,
and every time I thought
I might die.
I’m trying to write that letter,
I just need to forget
a few things first.
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 7:23 PM UTC
My fingertips slip over petals and thorns like silk over gold
Soft tides of myself raging beneath skin thin walls
Beneath the part of us that lives in fury and frustration
The part washing over me erases my being again and again
Every morning I am footprints
And the shoreline
Never the horizon
Yet my pen realizes endlessness in the page.
Ballpoint bloodlines filling empty space.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 12:48 PM UTC
The voice in my head isn't mine alone.
It belongs to the demons that possessed me and never left,
they tell me the fire here is hotter than back home so they sit in my sweat and
eat my misery.
I can be alone with my thoughts but never truly
because their cackles as I try to feel normal are the soundtrack to each day.
I've been trying to love myself more,
my demons like to laugh when I say it.
They can mimic my voice but choose
to be the voices of people I know.
Telling myself that I'm
a good person feels like lying.
My father's voice screams out through Beelzebubs maw and I am a boy again.
Trapped in a buzzsaw of insults and comparisons.
Never good enough to be your
Son.
Unable to find a voice inside of me that
disagrees.
Abaddon tastes the years of misery
caked upon the sides of my bottomless pit,
he takes the voices of my family in his,
forces them to be who they used to,
reminds me that I can't escape what was
by pretending that I am someone new.
The rest of the devil's that breathe within me
play the same games.
All I want to do is tell myself that I'm okay.
To remind myself that the past is not forever.
Those voices screaming out against mine
just don't seem to get any quieter.
Self care is a battle against the past.
Self love is harder than trying to **** myself.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 11:27 AM UTC
I can't hold dead things for too long. They slip into the waste of my gravitational pull and become space debris floating around my fat body.
They decompose around me, the odor becomes a new wall. I am becoming the past.
During the day, my barrier of broken bones collides with my meaningless nature. I am only human after all. And my humanity wanes in the winds of disintegrating calcium and the taste of dead skin.
It feels sometimes like I can see clearly, when the dead come to life and dance in familiar patterns. They are wrapt in their skin again, they've left impressions of the underside of their heel as the ridges of my brain.
My body falls in line, I forget who I am and the revived carcasses play out daydreams from the darker corners of my mind. For the moment, there is nothing else. I cease to exist, I am only as real as the memories that got me here.
Then suddenly they stop. They die once more.
As they fall to the floor the process begins again. My eye line is cluttered with corpses, slowly putrefying until the trumpets call and raise them for another dance.
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 1:16 AM UTC
Sundrenched Pathfinder, scraping up pieces of the past beneath mossy stone
Trail Bird whistling to the tune of the falling bombs.
Tall proud tree peak flinches at the venomous bite of percussion
Sundrenched Pathfinder, mountains burying us beneath ashes
Apr 22, 2020
Apr 22, 2020 at 12:22 AM UTC