My mind is its own body
of water, fluid emotion
at mercy to the moon
Sometimes rapid as
the churning ocean,
unharnessable, dams
each waterwheel I build
as if equilibrium was Hell,
& then
Sometimes vapid as
a stillwater lake, where
peace is dawn's ripple,
days' first surface breach
of a fish upon fly bait.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Hearts of stone melt
At heat tissues burn,
Blood to boil, into ash,
Muscle blown away
strengthless, weak
at Mercury's Ascent,
Wherein this fluid rock,
reveals molten flexibility,
An adept athleticism for
Love's sport alchemy
As cold marble turns
to gold.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
One ruffle divides
once allied kingdoms,
prosperity lost for
propensity's folly --
The stranger gained
is the lover lost,
the rival conceived
between the same satin
that birthed a union of
kings who can't crown
but wear as robes
what rolls off the shoulder
as you turn away (lying)
like a wave of intent
that shifts the tides to
flood empty channels,
a moat to surround these
castle walls constructed
in stone defense, having
forfeited our palace
to break this treaty.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
The night beasts assault
My mind, digging out
Of my brain, rampaging
Down my spine in fury
To commandeer my hand
And spill on to the page,
Released to the world as
My open-heart bridges,
Beckons them outward,
Afraid to close the gate
And lock them inside.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
My body is a temple and
on holidays, they prey.
"Come to the feast,"
An invitation to
forgive and forget
the sins and trespassings
of crucifixation.
The body and blood of
--oh Christ--
Taken by you, shed by me,
as this Holy wine saves us
from a judgment
between comforting beliefs
and cold, hard facts.
Love, Loss, Lust,
The divine Trinity that
brings us to our knees
in front of the altered;
Bliss-ed is he who comes
in the place of the Lord.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Partners in crimes
of war
on the battlefield
of love,
Like refugees
of war
Seek the solace
of love.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Art heals the creator
like scar tissue, sealing
cracks of a broken past,
Red-raw against pale skin
For the world to see that
You're recovering whatnot,
Till time fades these wounds
To nothing
a little makeup can't hide,
So we blend back in, to
Where we never belonged,
An find our identity within
Public display of deformation,
Striped naked, to express self
awareness, no more gruesome
enough to repulse, nor normal
enough to ignore the silver line
Between trauma and wrinkle;
scars fade, not vanish, but
keep us together regardless.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
This current resistance
in our duel circuit is
measured in ohmmms
of my meditated solace,
Mediated by the breaker
of a once-broken man
wary of a blown fuse
too burnt to salvage, a
lost cause to discard,
Replace & repeat with
each carless disregard of
the whattage we're wired
to handle, may a switch
on to off when overblown
prevent the spark that
burns down a home.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
A holy demure had risen
from the thoughtless exposure
that crumbled under her heels
each crux up Olympus;
And I, forever faithful,
belaying her ascent, unfounded,
delaying my own, grounded as
her head breached the clouds,
A fairytale if not for the landslide
burying me under stone proof
of her unfathomable scale
out of my rope-burned hands
that only God can measure.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
It seems like just yesterday when we'd give our affection away without a second thought. If they said they wanted it, we believed them. We thought, "if they're willing to ask for someone's heart--something so precious and complex that it needs constant tending--why would they do anything but cherish it?"
As it is, we do anything but nurture one another. If our hearts are gardens--each own's blossoming with combinations of colors and fragrances too beautiful to be anything but unique--then our minds are corporate oil drillers, buying up land with no greater intent than to turn profit. We invest in a lush plot only to **** the land--suck it dry of a natural nectar we cannot ourselves produce--and move on to a new plot of untouched, fertile soil: another new, untapped resource for our consumption.
What became of the gardens you destroyed? Are they as barren as the day you left them? Are they overgrown with weeds in pathetic attempt at recreating that former glory? Or have you never revisited the land that you once claimed, purchased, and called your own?
You know, you were beautiful once too; I can see it under the scars. I wonder who destroyed your garden, who drilled through your crust--relentlessly, mercilessly--until your soul gave and bubbled up to their hands for the taking. That's what brought you to drilling, after all. You're not consuming, you're replacing. You're trying to regrow.
But flowers don't spring from oil. You need a gardener to tend to your tarnished land. Yes, even as your surface gets greener, your well will be dry; give it time. Oil is born from seasons--generations--of an evolving land. With your gardener by your side, you'll get there. Trust them. Cherish them. And, above all, be their gardener in return.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC