when is a writer happy with their work?
when is it ready to be published?
when is it enough?
when they have said all they can say
and have beaten the horse passed dead
when no more words could possible relate to the message
when it is exhausting to think about
when it is finished
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC
after the hurricane i sat on my porch
smoked my last cigarette that i shouldn't be having
with "the shining" in my hand
getting wet from the strong breeze and left over drops
i saw the telephone pole next to me
tilted from the storm
and i wondered...
what if it fell over?
straight into me?
ruining the house?
ending me?
it was a calm imagery
so i stood up at this thought
and looked out the railing
fresh fresh air
looked down both ends of the empty street
calm.
no one outside
nothing happening
nothing but the shingles from the roof tops, scattered on the pavement
it was nice
i threw my last drag into the calm
and headed back inside
it did not fall over.
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 11:28 PM UTC
no one is real
all cares are centered around themselves
when they will smoke their next cigarette
who's lips they will place their's on tonight
what girl they will fake a smile to
what boy they will pretend they never loved
no one is original
all thoughts are synced together
shave half theirselves away in pacts
appoint the men they will claim
the girl they will blame
this has to be one big joke
and i don't get the punchline
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 10:48 AM UTC
buildings. tall, new
marvelous and proud but ignorant to their beauty
tracks. old, rusted, worn down with travelers
street art. colorful, incredible, stories in a word
drifting backwards through the city
soft lulls, force you to sway
muffled rumbles, felt under the soles of your feet
inaudible chatter, as people enter and exit
quite men in suits, with smart phones and newspapers
young girls with books and headphones
dark tunnels with green tints
as begin to leave the city
the train becomes more alert. awake, alive
the window's view is in fast forward,
like an old video cassette player
persons eyes cannot focus on the world outside this box
skyscrapers and bustling folks
turn into suburbia apartments and trees fencing them in
the sun seems to get brighter
and nature more humble
more frequent interruptions in the journey
things are slowly becoming familiar
names of places, buildings, homes, scenery
the final halt
everything is comforting and relaxed
For I am home.
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 10:35 AM UTC
the music I hear
comes from the wind
whispering its prayers to me
the gentle voices of the faceless
I care not know
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
you may have always loved me more
but you broke me down
you stripped me of my strength
you towered over me as you threw down your words
you laid your hands before your lips
you placed your tears before mine
your guilt never exceeded your pride
until i begged to say good-bye
your anger and your self inflicting hurt
will forever stain the beauty of the love i know you had for me
and the jealous and pity over powered my heart
and ran my love away
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 1:44 PM UTC
surrounded by all these faces
the feeling of loneliness consumes me
though he wasn't the man for me
he seemed to be the only one who really loved me
none of these kids know how to really love someone
other than themselves and the bottles in their hand.
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
i hope you feel as i do,
i've never met another like you
you're something foreign and new
you're something i can hold on to
your voice is calm, effortless in your words
it passes right through me
like a breeze over the ocean
with you i am weak
you smile at me and i am nothing
yet i know nothing about you
i doubt i'm even good enough
but there's my problem
and that's why i'll fail to win your heart
like you've stolen mine
i will not pine
nor will i wallow
but if all fails, i will always wonder
you have the greatest potential
to mean so much to me
to become the "what if" in my memories
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 1:22 PM UTC
pen.
black ink
my enemy
waste of paper
and the ink
black ink
from the pen
wish the words would pour out
with this black ink
the time
minute by minute
it's on the pen's side
not mine.
deadlines, pressure
deadlines, pressure
ink and time.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 7:21 PM UTC
i am lost from myself
no set path- i must make my own
but through the complications
there is clarity
warm thoughts
loving touch
colliding smiles
packaged in a boy
naive and wrapped in youth
i will not misconstrue
the beauty of my years
and my true lack of wisdom
for a dream
an apparition
i quietly pray for it all to fall into place, into a commitment
though i pray to no god, or higher being
or any figured based on faith
but all my thoughts lead to nothing but wishful thinking
sprinkled in doubt
flowing out of my heart
and over whelming my mind
i am. left with confusion
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 12:44 PM UTC