"Tread with caution
Construction ahead"
The sign passes behind her
Lost to ecstasy and joy
She crashes through
Brush and thicket
On dream-paved paths
To where the little white cottage stands
Spit-cleaned and rag-polished
Waiting
"Caution-sinkholes
Beware fragile earth"
She slows her pace
Bouncing slightly
Till the ground caves in
She leaps as earth sinks at her heels
Consuming her spirit
Leaving dirt on her knees
And the little white cottage stands
Cobwebbed and dust-lined
Waiting
"Beware- cliff ahead
High tide, rough waters"
She approaches warily
The dirt still caked
To the soles of her shoes
But ignores the sign
Arrives unprepared
The cliff comes as sudden as a drop
Land to air in seconds split
Frozen water breaking her fall
And the little cottage stands
Stone-cracked and rain-streaked
Waiting
"Danger- falling rocks
Avalanche prone zone"
The water drags at her fingers
As she crawls to the shore
Huddled under the cliff
Overhang so close
She can smell the mossy wear
Water-clogged she fails to hear
The rumble of stones
Till they crash to the ground
And the little cottage stands
Foggy-black and death-caked
Waiting
"Construction Site-
Building in progress"
The stones crash against her
Down to the sand
She falls to her knees
Pinned by the boulders
With the weight on her shoulders
She remembers the signs
But wishes she remembered sooner
And the water takes her
As the little black cottage stands
Time-worn and wind-torn
Waiting for the future
Never to come
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
I don't fear emotion. It comforts me
Emotion cradles me in its warm embrace
Like a new born child gasping between tears
And holds me tight until I catch my breath
I don't fear language. It welcomes me
I've spoken since I was 2 and articulated for years
Words are as vital as my heart and my lungs
Even more so when they keep me from suffocating
But I fear poetry. It taunts me
Structure is my comfort
Yet the bane of my existence
It haunts me
Mocks me
For the road that I take
And I fear that I diverge
Too far from the rest:
My poetry lies in breaks and stanzas
Not breaths and motions
It poisons the air but breaths life to the page
It ignites the heart but dies on the lips
It penetrates the mind to it's deepest depths
But when it is spoken it falls to the flames
I don't fear the reading. I fear the response
The silence that echoes in place of the cheers
The tentative applause that chokes me to tears
The thoughts that resound:
"That's metered not free"
"It breaks far too much"
"Not slam poetry"
Too different for them
Too different for me.
I fear the impact
After the fall
Because it makes me wonder
If I'm a poet at all
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
We create ourselves
Pen on paper
With little scribbles
Of Ink and lead
Wordless volumes
That endless pages
Can not contain
We lose ourselves
Time after time
In mindless journeys
Through overgrown forests
Un-trodden roads
That endless steps
Can not penetrate
We find ourselves
Chained to stones
With eagle-torn livers
The product of our spirit
Worn by questions
That endless answers
Can not explain
We destroy ourselves
Word by word
With trembling roars
Shrinking lions to mice
Lifeless corpses
That end all lives
We can not remain
We are created
Wound after wound
By the thick black blood
Seeping from our hearts
Empty souls
In endless parchment
Bound by that
Which we create.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC