poets write with care
as if they have control
as if they know something
when they know nothing.
we know nothing.
and that's why we create.
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 3:21 AM UTC
why is it
that I have
no secrets
at all
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
I can't find the words
No matter how hard I try
I've scanned the yard, I've looked outside
I've even looked to the sky.
Where did they go?
I know I saw them
Wrote them, took them, found 'em, catched 'em
Why, why, WHy?!
w
o
r
d
s
!
Escape my grasp!
**** those words, they're too fast!
They astound, create, they flabbergast!
My brain can't catch a sight!
Fine, leave me!
See how you'll do!
Even though you've got nothing to lose
(and I've got an assignment due).
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
If want was water,
I would be drowning, my head under completely
and my oxygen quickly depleting.
If confusion was cold,
My fingers would be numb and I wouldn't even
have a coat to ward off the freezing.
If youth was you,
It would be slipping away by the second,
And I can't get a hold to stop it.
Now,
my air is gone,
I'm shivering to the bone,
and can't keep a hold on.
But, this is only a poem:
I know I'm not suffocating, subzero, or slipping.
But I can't help but feel like the more I write,
the farther I get from reality
and the closer I get to metaphor mortality.
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 12:10 AM UTC
I walk through Hell
To heal the fallen angels
Because halos shine brighter
In the glow of the underworld
They've abandoned God's light
In search for another
For within a sinful plight
The hater becomes the lover
And perhaps I'm them
trapped beneath an expression
Because in place of my God
I am stuck in depression
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 2:12 PM UTC
voices.
the first word I searched.
an idea now purged.
as the whisperings merged.
voices.
not insane, simply choices.
as my subconscious rejoices.
for many are voiceless.
voices.
so melancholy, so loud.
too soft, or too proud.
one person, or a crowd.
voices.
not deafening, like quiet.
or hungry, like a riot.
a lull hum, near compliant.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 3:01 AM UTC
the paper, torn
old garments, worn
faces, forlorn
ancestors, born
towns, dust
forbidden, lust
crime, just
metal, rust
these days were sepia
like everything around
the trees, the grass, the lovers
even the cobbled ground
trapped in torn parchment
in a long forgotten attic
in a colorful world
more theatrical, dramatic
sepia, sepia, sepia
and only still
forgotten, denied
only a cabinet to fill
and soon, you and I too
sepia will take
our faces drained of color
nothing left to make.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
is this it?
the life we were promised?
we look past the present, we say that we're honest
is this it?
the great romance novel?
a happy ending sappy ending a villain who's awful?
is this it?
our legacy? our time?
the hate the love the good the bad the justice and the crime?
if this is it
where did our time go?
fast and then slow, fast, slow, fast, slow
is this it?
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 1:39 AM UTC
dangerous is the mind
when you let it wander
sit and contemplate
but the more you ponder
the less you will find
like a lake drained of water
we do not control fate
we just push it farther
away, pesky thoughts!
i don't want you anymore
i want you few and naught!
nothing left to explore
and as i sit here shivering
on the cold bathroom floor
why, oh why, can't i escape this war?
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 1:21 AM UTC