My mind sits as a
Soft infant
Trapped in a
a gangling crib
Of despair with
No way out

I feel I am
Helpless, small,
And worst of all
A loud
nuisance

Heavy hands toss
and tear as the veil of
peace is torn

Dense punches leap out of the sea
and meet with the sharp strikes of the winter air

The ocean and the wind

Two childish men bickering
with bloodied hands
brawling to caress the soft
curves of the sultry sand

My life is a poem
that is being written
day by day

It’s not pretty right now
nor will it be next week
and it might not make sense next year
but it’s coming baby

line by line it’s
getting better

one
after another
and then the next

I can't wait for
you to read it when
I'm finished

Fear, anxieties, and
failures circle above my head

they are vultures scouring for
the once dead flesh I was

But now I am alive,
now I am
free

They fly through my mind like before
but they are unable to make nests
now

Made a couple extra dollars last week
well actually it was a check to be
exact and now
it’s gone

I used it as a bookmark for the time
being, but forgot which book I left
it in

Now on a brisk Tuesday morning in October
the only thing that stands between me and
a smooth cup of coffee is a stack of
crinkled books

Slowly but surely, I ****** up the tattered copies
of Dickinson, and Tolstoy, and Lawrence, and Byron
tossing through the pages

Not a drop of worry enters my mind, knowing it’s
in one of the books but I just have to find it
and hell, it’s going to be sticking out of the top
there’s no way I could have misplaced it too bad
I’m not a complete fool after all

“Just gotta get through the books and
all the money is mine,
all the money in the world”
I say musing myself

You know, I actually went to a place
for four years straight and I swear they told me
the exact same thing

“Just get through the books and you’ll have
all the money in the world” was all I heard relentlessly
from the teachers, students, and myself
all while I was giving them
all the money I had in the world yet here I stand broke
scraping for change

I guess I am a fool after all

“Where is the rest for the weary?”,
Cried out the sappy sun.

The burden of lighting up the
world left his own soul lusterless.

His blistered fingers handed down his glow
as he stood frozen up high in
his onerous profession, keeping
a bright smile in a baby blue prison.

In his own shame, the pitiful sun covered himself,
boosting his rays so no man could beam their eyes up
To see his dreary tears.

After work he would blaze back home
Dreading the next day to come while
countless stars flooded outside his home,
Night after night
Begging for his spot and
Dreaming of his celebrity.

While the stars pounded on his door, inside
He emptied endless tears out of the well of his heart
But he could never let go of his pride.
So, season after season he suffered in the spotlight
all to hold on to his futile fame.

Take a turtle from his shell.
and tell me what he is.

Naked or homeless?

Neither,
he’s dead.