it will start
as a dream
slowly rotting to
a memory that
you can’t burn
from your mind
it sticks to you
like it did to your skin
and no matter how
nice life is right now,
still it will swell and show
that you are
a basket for shrapnel
of things you survived
but
don’t worry,
there is more
than just surviving this,
there is also the joy
of just knowing you aren’t dead
and that maybe life can be great
despite the fact that you’re still in it
say you’re at risk of becoming a partial optimist
just rest assured that this likely isn’t a terminal case
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
No matter how many
love poems I write,
Or times I try explaining
all of it to you
None of it would be as effective
as if I were to simply
place my heart on a platter
and that would be an act
whose gruesomeness
would be profane,
no statement is proper
no statement is effective
and you tell me that I don’t need
to try explaining it ,
but then sometimes lying next to you,
I am afraid that I am draining too much
and not opening my own floodgates
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
something
stays here,
in the broken
glass world
of my memory
my blinking eye
looking back
because all
the sharp edges
of the past
keep my walking
ignoring wounds
I move forward
only because
looking back
proves that
I never should
have been there
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
I will avoid the ocean waves of epic love poems
and just say she is a small fire that burns,
providing the carbon base that makes me a life-form
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
poems come from the abyss
one always hopes to fill,
at least for me ,
no lines from heaven
behold the joy proposed of being an artist
worrying that you really did fail
in turning your soul to statements
the true nature of what we do , unknown to us
letting the decay of sanity sink in,
we hunt beauty by way of letting logic fall to abstraction
close your eyes, let the right line and word and image be a piranha
hand goes in the water, hoping for a bite, for something to
latch on so hard you can pull it away with you
the loving breast of an artist allows eggs to be planted inside
it, only for them to devour till fat and mature, to burst away
and take flight, as far from you as possible
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
keeping yourself alive
by believing in
the gorgeous cause ,
the idea that justice is real
and that you can see it
But then, you actually pay attention
and these things you hoped for
become stained glass portraits
in church windows
as seen by Atheist eyes:
dedications, so very pretty,
likely to nothing at all.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Poems sometimes
aren't enough ,
just
a hunger falling
from fingers ,
hiding in paper
pretending to
be a statement
the less you write,
the more relevant
it is
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
1
writing to devour time
as time devours bits of me,
wrinkles are gaps
2
I break through walls,
barriers made by saying
only human, if enough bones break
I will heal to inhuman
3
after a while, you see yourself
as territory others walked over,
by this age, you seek to reclaim yourself,
now, obsessed with conquest
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
1
The art of growing up is teaching your skin to become a mask factory
All the orifices stuffed with paper , tainted with ****** poetry
My transgression is to pretend a part of me is still innocent
calling back to my own instinct , be as dead as a statue
2
Some nights, I am left in moods
I thought I have left behind ,
guilty feelings over my wife
mopping up the mess
of my self-evisceration
I remember as a child I would feel
bad for standing outside
obstructing sunlight from
a boy shaped patch of grass
now, in my mid-thirties,
a part of me still has not
grown secure,
wanting to stay quiet
about wounds, who
still sometimes
feels the echoes
of being told
how worthless I am ,
at nine after
harvesting a whole
onion field by hand,
or the times younger
left with the responsibilities
of alleged adults,
the ********* who hated
his life and fatherhood ,
or the mentally ill woman
who would’t get off the couch
to do anything except ****
my pets in front of me
when I was behind on chores
they are the ones who called
themselves farmers
and they have left seeds
which I have tried pulling
out of my bones,
but you always look insane
when trying to circumvent
your own skin
sometimes at night,
I can feel a bumper crop
coming on
3
Because I love to be not loved
they will ask me what my damage is
and I will say impiety is a comfort
when one was raised with grace used as a weapon
my future is a success if others fail to make sense of me
4
I learned what innocence is,
birth throws us into a world
gentle and illiterate ,
we age, hording weaponry
our skin turns to armor
by reading sharp edges,
this is a world of broken glass streets
every human soul a bottle ready
to fall off its shelf
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
go to sleep
hoping that
all of today
that hurts
will be put away
on the shelf
in back of my mind
headache and sore back
the feeling of aging
a few more broken trophies
above cob web covered bits
of past anatomy ,
on a shelf in a darkened corner
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC