there are some nights
and some mornings where you just wake up like that
like the moon had gotten under your skin
and fresh hands want to rip it out again.
-
I’m satiated by a knowing deep within my being
resting
as wild thickets burr up from beneath my chest
I don’t know how they got there.
-
As mindless apologies plea for another beginning
I waver upon a life where second chances come too quick
my thoughts thickened with heavy traces
of every foot print ever stepped.
-
He meets me again in the back ground
I wonder why it always comes back to this.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
I see stark contrast
skin against pavement.
poles adorned with lights
governing the flow of life
ceaselessly.
I avoid fluorescence
and beg for fleeting glances
Yet I somehow accept
the relevance of belonging
here
momentarily
the slow distant bellow
of a drum beat
As I discover my song.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
hop scotch
a writer
pieces
break apart
like letters in words
of a poem to your loved one.
I demand
closure
disclosure
of my insides
rampantly splayed out
across your carpet.
I make myself known,
Uncanny,
flailing out,
released by phrases
set upon a page
I am relevant
only until
relevance is no longer
I am swayed by the ink
by your tongue.
Gasp.
I am not glory
As it all is undone.
Hold on.
To me darling.
As I break apart.
Letters
Of words
Stark.
Like those blank squares.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
the sheath, white
coating pale skin
as moonlight discovered
her wholeness
spreading out over the river.
-
the depth, craved intrinsically
like the blood that gave life
beneath her flesh,
was sought after
in the midst of madness
and concrete.
-
She bellowed deep
within a forest
a jungle
her home
feet, muddy and quickened
with a worry of returning
to a stale world.
-
but beyond imagination
she lived there
still.
under the waxing
and waning moon
between the trees
and thickets
against the cool
pull of the river.
And here she gathered
a sense of peace.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
“You intricately beautiful, rich, deep, dark thing. Brilliant light and the darkest dark. With stories to tell and emotions to share. Simple and complex, you are the paradox of life made manifest. I love you like I love the ocean or a forest or a sunset. Or the night sky. Leaves changing colour, falling, decomposing, nourishing new life. Fresh young flowers. You are all of these.”
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
'This too shall pass'
rings through my ears
and sings the present truth
as my eyes begin to well
with something
I was hoping was forgotten.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
as the sun sets
we melt beneath the horizon
our ears pressed to the wind,
and eyes to the skyline
our hearts beat rhythmically
under the new moon.
the dawning of a new time,
the sound of an old truth.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
Cold coffee.
Brown.
But brown isn’t really
Cold coffee.
Tepid and minor,
White sliver swirls
Slowly caressing the
Milky hazelnut brew
Concocted for the witch
Or woman
At table 8.
A quarter cup left
Of the 12oz pleasure portal
Or just a hit or fix
Hot beating heart shaker
Soothing, steaming, black
Cream laden
Laced with sweet hints
Of bitterness.
Cocoa. She can detect.
Cooled by the hands
Of the clock
Ticking
As I burn my finger
At 12:02pm.
An onward we go.
Pulsating in time
Moving with fervor
Motion intoxicating
Spinning gently
To the rhythm
Of a to-do list
Never ending.
Burnt mahogany softened
With pale pastel
Honey Cream.
Cold coffee
In a cheap white mug
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
in her flesh
a story sits
unfolding
scattered
by its own predicament.
how cautious can one be
too afraid to bare the weight of the ages
trickled down through time
she's been young a thousand lives
fear her not
as she begs renewal
fear her then
when her thoughts were fresh
incomprehensible
when she'd bend
or plead for the love
of another.
in the story wrought
from fact, truth, or fiction.
untangled and dismantled
she remembers it not
yet you see it written
in words by the dozen
or a fleeting glance
the story sits
in her flesh.
touch her only with love.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
He asked me if I wrote much anymore
I couldn’t comprehend enough
to plaster any words onto a page.
Everything that comes out seems
laced in sadness
And he mentioned the darkness
of his current project.
Sometimes we need to spill out
in words or songs
and it doesn’t always
look how we are told it should.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC