The tears of a man
Don't fall down his cheek
He learned as a boy
To never look weak
Instead they gather
Inside of his brain
Endlessly swirling
On top of a drain
Whose one relief valve
Never gets lifted
The liquid remains
Forever unshifted
Pressure builds up
A mental monsoon
Dam walls are bursting
The overflow strewn
Into surrounding
Channels nearby
Causing more damage
Than a measly, old
Cry
Nov 5, 2020
Nov 5, 2020 at 2:52 PM UTC
when you sleep it's like you never cried,
breathing soft and steady, wet cheeks dried.
when you sleep it's like you never lost,
boundaries weren't broken and lines weren't crossed.
when you sleep it's like you're still there,
and you still smile and you still care.
when you sleep you look young as I,
no crease in your brow and no old worn sigh.
and so if sleep is death just being shy,
is it still so wrong,
to wish
to die?
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 1:58 AM UTC
A man told me once that all the bad people
Were needed. Maybe not all, but your fingernails
You need; they are really claws, and we know
Claws. The sharks--what about them?
They make other fish swim faster. The hard-faced men
In black coats who chase you for hours
In dreams--that's the only way to get you
To the shore. Sometimes those hard women
Who abandon you get you to say, "You."
A lazy part of us is like a tumbleweed.
It doesn't move on its own. It takes sometimes
A lot of Depression to get tumbleweeds moving.
Then they blow across three or four States.
This man told me that things work together.
Bad handwriting sometimes leads to new ideas;
And a careless God--who refuses to let you
Eat from the Tree of Knowledge--can lead
To books, and eventually to us. We write
Poems with lies in them, but they help a little
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 1:16 AM UTC
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,—
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 8:38 PM UTC