Maybe it's time
The captain goes to.
Maybe it's wrong
But I still want to ask you.
I know it's been long
But now it hurts like a loose
Cheap shirt
That's patiently grinding away
At the skin and flesh
That I call home that I call
My own.
It would be justified if the assaults Came
In waves
Of gratitude and respect and all the Pillars of hope and love that we
Stand on
High
Unexalted and unimpressed
With the thoughts that dwell deep Within.
They don't.
And the presiding rune says
"Maybe give up".
**** that it's time
To fight. Fight yellow tooth and Chipped glossy nail
For what's yours.
Fight with threads pulled tight
By the wind
Flying high into the blue but beyond That into the place
Where you can be exalted.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
He saw a small animal running
On a wind and a whisper.
If the wind had an air of fear
The tiny beast was tearing through
the leaves and the bark and the dirt and the cigarette butts with a passion that couldn't be tamed.
Escape from the evils that chase you
he thought.
Maybe he was the evils.
If the wind had an air of hope
Then the creature was bounding
with a still resolute destiny around
the next fallen branch.
Find your prayers in the dust
He thought.
Maybe he was the prayers.
If the wind had an air of love
Then the being was moving of absolute and resounding certainty
Yearning to take each step and leap quicker pushing the brink of existence to get to his livelihood.
Find your steps to reach your hearts desires he thought.
He knew his own desires.
He knew because they were in
The whispers.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
Maybe you shouldn't
You might be no good.
The runs you use
Arid drags through the dead dry woods.
One day you could be great
A Marrash of My Computer.
But right now your just a union.
A shredded rubber melded with a rusty, obliterated grate
Chalky granular air spoiling my stare
Art.
Diamonds are forever banished
And that aphotic space gets smaller
And the rough gets rougher
And the facets lose face.
No blogs will bulge grace.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
One more ******
Just push
And maybe I'll feel
Just a little budge.
No...no give
Just take. No time
To heal.
There is time
When I think
The time is lost in
Thought.
A clock who's
Concern is not
To tick but tock.
Daydreaming about
What makes us tick
Makes him lose track.
Instead he just sits,
Wondering if he'll ever
Be wound back.
Here I'm just sitting and
Waiting. A clock
That won't tick,
Won't tok
And can't be walked
Can still be
Right
Twice a day.
How can
I ever know
When the time is
Right?
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
Poems is wrong
Due to this red line.
Maybe poems died
Long time ago, and
The Word buried
Them.
With red line.
Word wants
Properly placed punctuation
Punctuating. My. Thought.
Stop flowing and go
Back your work is a
Fragment,
Consider revising.
How about if I run
And run and run
Run as fast as I
Can I’m tearing through
White with black is
Coming from me but
It’s not a pen and
Then I see that
Red again.
It sees me running
And knows I can’t
Get away. From the
Steel bars and concrete walls.
Soon I’ll give in and
Start my proper grammar.
It knows me, it
Knows my work. As
I tirelessly follow those strict rules about how to make it all scholarly.
A work of impressive
Measure. 98.
**** that! I want
My judging arrogant
Red lines back.
Those are my fans.
Highlight the best parts
A festive zig-zag.
Green and red decorations
Everywhere
Just like Christmas.
Poems is wrong
But someone made
It’s real.
If poems is wrong
Speak wrong too.
I’ve never
Considered revising.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
A pair of shoes
That have no
Sole.
Worn to the
Ground, they
Still walk
Around.
Proudly torn
They hold
Together.
Frayed laces
Can still keep
The rabbit at
Bay.
These shoes have
Never heard the
Dogs bark.
Never walked in
Anyone else’s shoes.
They stay proud.
A spring in every
Step.
These shoes are
Full of soul
After all.
After all they’ve
Been through.
Still know ev’ry turn
And kick.
Every step makes them
More comfortable
With themselves.
Until they are
Left.
It’s not right.
New shoes may
Shine.
But these shoes
Are mine.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
Maybe it's the thick
Of things. That's what
Takes your breath.
That thick sticky
Recombinant air.
Waiting, hanging, plotting
Against my lungs.
Or it could be the
Water. Poison swilling
In the bottle. Cutting a
Canyon inside me.
A crevasse I cannot
Cross.
My boots could be
The culprit. Strangling
My legs and tearing
Into my flesh.
They drag me by
My ankles. I'm
Being dragged for
Miles, but no one
Can know where.
The backpack is
Trying to save me.
Pulling against
Whatever
Took me here.
A friend trying to
Keep me from a fight.
My friend couldn't
Save me.
I must be dead.
The air must have
Taken my breath.
The poison river must have
Cut through me.
My boots must have
Taken me
To my grave.
And then I went to
Heaven.
The only place where
True beauty
Surrounds you like this.
Must. Be. Heaven.
Must be...
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
If only I could tie
All the birds to
The tree.
A simple cord
From branch to knee.
The birds would work
Together. In chaos
Comes flight.
Carry the tree south…a message:
The winters are warmer.
Before the oak wilt sets
Before the mistletoe comes.
The birds can save the trees.
Instead they sit and Tweet.
Then **** on my car.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
Her footsteps sounded
In a time unbounded
By pain
And worry
And woe.
The day carried on
Until she was drawn
By lust.
Innocence
Destroyed.
A serpent made sure
The lovely and pure
Woman
Would return
To dust.
The cobbled red stone
Lays low as her throne
The earth
Reclaims the
Beauty.
Eve’ning colors shined
But mankind is blind
To beats
And dances
Of old times.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
The boulder seems
Cold to the touch.
The calluses on my fingers
Scratch at the rock.
Slowly the tools
Come into my hands.
Piece by piece
My hammer chips and chinks.
Blisters break open
And the rock
Turns to steel.
Hot metal, fired
In the oven,
Sparks to life
With each
Strike of my hammer.
Heavy tools feel light
In my hands.
The metal cools
The blade begins
To shimmer.
And then melt.
Like ice on a hot day,
The steel drips
Deep burgundy
Gently, slowly
Into the chalice
In my hands.
The elegant golden cup
Vessels the fine wine
Into my mouth.
But it is only stagnant water
In a cup made of stone.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC