Face first
into the pasty mud
too weak to crank myself up
too ashamed to continue hugging earth
but we all hug our mothers when we're hurting.
Finally risen from the pit
Face up, proud, and defying
I gave him my stony gaze
Face caked with loam
He sneers
I could swear there are
canines in all gum roots
as he speaks
tongue dancing to farce
I hope he guillotines the messenger
He utters
you look pretty when you wear
the ****
He thwacks me deadly
I tip and tumble
right down
down
It is the betters years now
I've soared up, up
up
and now people wear mud
for me
not on faces
not that I'd care
I'm paying them, after all
after all, I'm not buying their souls
after all, they want to be here
they're happy
and after all I've been through
It's high time someone takes the mud
for me... and then
I see her
Red hair rippling in radiant sun
casting glints of desire I catch with
hungry eyes
Her skin pale as pearl
Her face speckled like rich mineral
Her features delicate and strong
Her eyes, sharp and bright and silhouetted, like
windows to a garden,
yes,
green eyes.
I've tasted never
I've spoken never
of such quibbles as love,
but her beauty is the embrace
I've never known
It's all a shimmering flow
a cascade of fluid memory
the quenching of things
not known to be thirsted
My eyes open to a path
I've just found the will
to traverse in peace.
Yet, like Jack and Jill,
we go tumbling down
down
the hill
and...
It's a wedding anniversary
not ours
because silence
and delirium imbibed
is preferred on such occasions
I smile
She glances
and sighs deep
unearthing cavernous
voids
of misery
caked on memories
of bittersweet mysteries
called love
It is only in the mirror that,
with those windowed eyes,
she gazes with scorn, pity
a truth meant for me
Shame crushes my heart
heartbeat pulsing like
a crumpled soda can
rattling on empty road
With languid brushstrokes
she applies the mascara
You look pretty when you wear
the ****
I said
The pin drops
and with it
the canvas...
One man's trash is another's face
We can find solace in the
shattered remnants
of our dreams,
or we can challenge
the very precepts that
assured our rightful happiness
I burned the midnight oil to get this done... 1:28am to be exact.
Though, you'll probably only see this in the morning.
Still, today being August marks close to 8 years that I've been writing poetry (seasonally), from the days in which I was trying to dazzle people in my High School, senior year "Creative Writing" class and... sometimes succeeding, hahah, that is until administration pulled me out of that class and stuck me in Gym class (the history behind that is way too complicated right now, LOL).
Starting in 2012, I went through three years of not being able to write anything substantial. That was very painful.
I've got a really complex relationship with writing, so I'm always excited and amazed when I finish a piece, and I'm prone to sharing with anyone who'll give it a chance.
I've never won any competitions, I've barely been published and I still carry this idea that someone will care even if I don't, LOL. It's not like I don't want to do those things. It's that I'm too busy dying inside to care (cue fake laughter...)
Anyway, I'm always trying to write my thoughts out after the poem and am thankful that this option is here. I get to read over these things a month later and cringe at how weird I was and, "Why did I say that?" and, "Shut up, idiot!" and "Ah, nice, that was cool..." and "Oh, you always LOL me, man."
Yup, life is sad, but we get to write about how sad it is, as if that would make it any less sad, I mean, if that's the way it works, why don't I just write about how I don't have any money and *gasps* it's the cosmic loophole! Chuh-ching!!!