Ride Red Tricycle
ride soft and slow,
through cool breeze
and bloodied knees,
through the sun
and the snow.
Ride Red Tricycle
even when the sweat
glistens your face,
you are whole
you are pure,
you are in
first place.
Ride Red Tricycle
your time is slowly running out,
your tires are deflated
your innocence,
degraded
you almost can hear
your mothers shouts.
Ride Red Tricycle
far away from those shouts,
and never doubt those pedals,
while simplicity is still alive
because once your tricycle is gone
life feels like a lie.
Ride Red Tricycle
because that crimson complexion
never lasts,
soon it will be ghostly white
and all that will be left
is rusted memories
of the past
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
You said once you'd sew my uneven edges back together,
You tried, but the stitches popped like over worked violin strings that you still tried to play
The audience filed out as the procession of broken music danced through their conscious and out their ears.
They did not applaud.
But I did.
My hands rediscovered each other over your failure to compose
You were remiss to the horrible noises that covered the auditorium but I gave you a standing ovation.
And if my uneven edges became broken violin strings than your soul become the worn down ebony that let the strings go.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
Who was it that robbed you of your voice?
Who's slithery hand reached down your esophagus and tied your vocal cords in knots?
Who was it that locked up your soul?
Chiseling your emotions into solid stone.
Who was it that twisted the curves of your smile upside down?
Was it old man winter who painted sorrow in your eyes more accurately than Picasso?
Or was it an even older man, the creator, the man that rules everything? Was it he who told you not to be happy?
Ah I know,
how could I be so blind.
It must have been the imperfectly formed face staring back at you in mirror that's causing all this trouble.
It must have been me.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
If I were to paint my body a certain color I think I'd choose blue
I wouldn't choose black, it would be too telling
And any bright color just wouldn't be true.
Blue would be a median.
A wave in the sea of many, passing by swiftly. Undetected.
A tear on the cheek of your most loved friend. Falling down with no exact path in mind. Melting into the kitchen floor, alive one second, gone the next
Blue,
Would hide the true shadows. The cobwebs in the corner of the attic that incase old photo albums we haven't opened in years
But Blue would also be honest,
Blue would not be the sun that paints circles of joy on your face,
Or sand castles on a summer day.
It wouldn't be fire, destroying everything it's tips grazed, there would be no flame.
There wouldn't be any point to Blue,
It would just be.
It wouldn't see
Or feel
Or speak
With blue there would be no emotion, I'd just be a rolling sea of bleak.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
It took an apple to the head for Newton to realize he was being held down.
But me? No fallen fruit as knocked me to my senses.
Every word spoken seems to condense in between the rigid, chilled air between us and float off above my head looking for ears that will welcome them home.
Even on the most frictionless days nothing seems to pass by smoothly.
But darling, I guess there is more than just the laws of physics that leave our feat tied to the ground
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
I miss being a ten year old. There's much more alacrity in debating the existence of Santa down by the park with your neighbors, than there is in debating the existence of God on the bathroom floor with the barrel of a gun.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
We could slip into the lake and lay there mellowly
We could float on the will of each other alone
If you are scared of shallowness,
we could drown into one another and find comfort at the bottom
If the water becomes unsettling we could lay out by the mountains and melt away the past on just the serenity of your smile.
We could
Oh how we could
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Trying to find the right words is like super gluing my mouth shut,
igniting fire works in my esophagus and praying that the seal won't break,
so my throat can implode on itself
and my mind can boil until skin and bone and washed up empathy can't contain it. So my cranium can crack outward. So my thoughts can combust in a crackling display of bright reds and electrifying yellows for everyone one to ooo and aaahh at.
Maybe then you will comprehend the depth my emotions for you
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Emotion
is a barbed wire fence
and I am an inmate of hostile commotion
and you
are visitation hours
opening up from 3 to 4
and always leaving me wanting more
hung in a noose of suspense
behind that barbed wire fence
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 7:22 PM UTC