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DEW Feb 12
Toe-skewered socks shuffled in years-tattered shoes
Patched-up tweed elbows rested gently; arms folded in poised disapproval
He was my teacher
A man steeped in the essence of the written word
Every bump and groove of his face were the syllables of a life long lived
Stressed and unstressed beats of the tension between us denoted his impatience
For he and I saw the word a different way
He detracted the sweetness of my plum-purple prose
and I loathed the strictness and banality of his expert structure, his measured cadence
but we could agree on one thing
We loved the word
We loved every echo of it in the long night
After fires fade and blue birds sleep
How dreams tumble out of the mouths of snoring dissidents
See those murmurs become the dialectic, the dreams, of poets galore!
We agreed on this
The desperate cry of freedom
Yet we could not agree on his score of my work
Which I had so passionately written till early morning
Rings of the moon beneath my eyes as I argue
And his stonewall-gaze leaves my arguments blunt
For you are young, he says, you do not know the way of the pen still
With sword I could ply approval from his lips
Rend his flesh asunder
Feed the dogs and the birds
Leave marks on his children like slave brands,
The power of the sword could make him do as I asked!
Exactly as I asked…
But with pen I could get nary a nod
I abandoned my search for his smile that day
Yet not the pen
In fact, I pressed firm, not with the nib, but with my mind
Day by day
Hour by hour
Past midnight into dreamland, by the light of the cosmos I composed worlds into waking
Tirelessly, my fingers plodded upon the keyboard
I watched the letters tick by
On and on
Full speed ahead
As if I were running
That stonewall-gaze
Peering down at my soul from an emerald tower
Each keystroke was a step away
A step beyond, years beyond
I sought my pleasure where it could be found
The approval of my peers
My professors
My colleagues
My fans
Scores of adoration, as if by the metric-ton
Still running
As if a scarlet letter of FAILURE were etched in my soul
And just like that,
My running came to a stop
As news of his death reached the shore of my self-imposed exile
Exile from shame
Exile from disappointment
I saw myself more lowly than ever
As, for after all those years of running, those stonewall-eyes had gone to sleep
And had not cared for my embarrassment
My resentment
My bitterness
It were as if I were fighting a ghost I created
And look where it got me
To the top of the world
Chased into an emerald tower
Fearing myself a fraud at the ease of my keystrokes
How could such talent belong to a failure?
Well the man who proved I was a failure was dead
And I realized
So, too, should my defensive pride live no longer
So, too, should I free myself of the fear that manifests the agonizing toll of the pursuit of perfection
So, too, should I realize…
Just because he did not approve
Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t approve of myself
Exit stage left
Where dreams await
And I learn to enjoy what the dissidents dreamed
A life in which our dreams live free
No longer sheltered in the embrace of our childhood nightmares
No longer living in fear…
It's funny, I've often reflected on this particular comment one of my English teachers gave me once.

What's weird is, at the time, I considered his comment a compliment, "Second-rate author," I never considered myself to possess authorship, much less being second-rate, so I accepted it as subtle praised and moved on.
Yet years later, when I began to take much pleasure in, and put focus on, my writing, I began to resent this comment of his.

Obviously, I'm a much better writer than when I was 16/17, but for whatever reason, this comment of his bugged me as I was getting my degree in creative writing.

It's also startling that I got some very cruel criticism from some professors of mine while getting my degree, yet none of them needled my brain as much as that which I heard as a teenager. The irony is starling, LOL.

Anyway, I myself am now a teacher. When I began heading toward this profession, I knew there was going to be some sort of transformative lesson I would learn. Something important. I kind of lead my life this way.
Yet this poem is every proof of what it was that I set out to learn and this is only the beginning.

I love when a poem comes together like this one.
I had the first 5 lines pop into my head ad-lib and I had such an itch to jot them down that I ignored some important things to wait on my slow computer to open up Word so I could record them.
An hour later and I have this poem, which I consider a beauty.
It's certainly pleasing to me.
I haven't written a long poem like this in almost a year.
I've been on a steady diet of writing Twitter poems, haha.

Last night, I was looking at my pinned tweet, which was the last poem I posted here, and I thought to myself, "I need a new one, it's been almost a year."
Lo and behold! The Lord provides, haha.
It was a great day for this, too, because this was a great teaching day.
Rewarding, valuable, transformative, a source for reflection and catharsis, all culminating in this poem here.

I feel quite satisfied :)
I hope this poem was great for you, too.

DEW Jul 2020
It is not paint that his lifeless creature wears.
It is the make-up smears that animate its features.
It scares me not consciously, but with a deep sticky dread
hiding in the shadows of my mind.
Its face parades in color and shade, in light and dark,
but I know its face to be hollow.
I know its fingers to be as the roots of a tree
that feed on you at the slightest touch
and you dare not let it ***** you
love you
or all you will know is hate.
It withers down the soul of a man
so that he will never love a woman;
she will appear to be a siren
and he will run in shame from his flaccid courage.
It disembowels the soul of a woman
until she thinks her entrails more impressive
than any pecker;
she stumbles around like a blunt fork
never holding on to what she needs.
It enrages the soul of a lover
until he cannot bear to witness love endure without a scream.
All the while, its hollow face feeds
upon what glimmers in the sun and glows in the night,
a vacuum never sated,
never feeling peace's respite.
I've kissed this face and I'll never kiss again,
not until God and I can uproot the devil's sin.
I wrote this back in January of 2017 and discovered it while my girlfriend and I were reading old poetry notes to one another.
We've both been hurt in love and both had dark poems to share.
In reading this, I felt the weight of all the shame and fear I believe dwelled within me when I wrote this.
It was refreshing to share this with her, as, indeed, I had not chosen to never kiss again. Whatever the devil's sin was, I now view my relationship with it differently.
I've learned to forgive myself for whatever plagued me in the past.
I know myself to have deep veins of emotion, with high ups and low lows, so all the better to keep the peace.
Anyway, I hope you found something in this poem for yourself.


DEW May 2020
A gauntlet, of sorts...
The proverbial frog in the ***, I was.
The temperature of life went from heaven to hell,
and I boiled and drowned in the hate I thought was love.

Question one: who prepared the broth?
Answer: Me...

Stuck in the endless quackery of bottomless insanity.
Tasting the brutal shenanigans of deviant savagery.
I came upon the realization that *** was a tapestry,
that I've been weaving since I was in nappies and won't give up gladly,
but I obsess over the embroidery and the glistening femininity,
what I now know to be delusions of romance and calamity.

Question two: who proved to be unwilling to love in the end?
Answer: Me...

Last question you knave, you hopeless bumpkin.
You wayward host of tasteless pumpkins.
My tactless whims for stagefright dumplings.
Deflated effigies of, "Oh... sweet nothings."
Darling, you crazy, you an expert on bluffings,
Teetering on the cliff, with your pinstriped stuffing.
I carry my shorts on the inside, on the outside I'm long,
Word play is horse ****, but if you understand me, you're wrong.

Question three: who sold their soul for entertainment in the end?
Answer: We...
It's nice to write another one of my nonsense, satirical poems again.
I gave a slight social-critic edge to it, but in reality I tried to focus on my own failings in life, my own troubles. Yet we do not live in a vacuum.
We all share the same mistakes, troubles, guilts and dreams.
So this poem tries to encapsulate that into the idea of taking an exam at the end of one's life to atone for all the ******* we've put ourselves through in this world.
Taking responsibility for what we do/have done in this world is the first step toward solving our issues, yet imagine only taking responsibility at the end of all things when nothing can be done but pay penance. A sad thing indeed...
DEW Apr 2020
I wait in tantalizing agony,
skin prickling with lustful heat.
Silent is the night,
absent even of humming wind,
and croaking crickets.
She whispers,
saying the things I've always dreamed.
"Let us lay here
till the end of time
in each other's arms
dining on love
steadfast in wonder
only parting
when Earth is no more
and yet we remain
souls entwined."
The heavens open.
Worlds, once locked away, bear their cosmic fruit.
I transcend the confines of my mortal form,
tasting love like breath to the drowned.
Sunlight cracks the shell of night, peeking over the horizon,
my eyes part as I wake from sleep.
If but a dream of love could stir my soul in slumber,
what can love true do to a man's endless hunger?
I love it when poems like this come to me.
It's been a while since I felt so impassioned as to write something like this.
My poetry writing times come in seasons.
Could this be a portent of a season soon to flood its way into my life?
We shall see.


DEW Mar 2019
No more a whisper
Such were the demands
Demands levied upon fields of dreams
Fantasies sowed into the field season o'er season
Crops rising bone dry and thirsty for verity
Babes who would never know milk
Carrion who would never know decay
Work that would never know pay
Such were these dreams!
Slave to the whims of whimsy
Tossed o'er a deranged sea, churned
Spurned by the ****** that cackle in the depths,
Twirling their hands as would a maestro
and the dreams dance by these strings
Reigns upon the centaur
Thought himself more man than beast
but his master proves him wrong
throttles his dreams like so many tragic ****** and still...
And still!
He dreams.
But the dreams begin to seep a saucy essence
The stuff of childbirths and ****** victories upon the battlefield
Both an emerging of brilliance and an escape of nightmare
Both a wailing cry and a roaring scream
And the scaffolding clinks and clanks around the wispy form of the dream
And it clinks and clunks its way up, providing the mold for new dawn.
The prophet, who is both midwife and sycophant, utters a chorus of impassioned voices singing to the ends of the universe,
while the dream bulges and creaks against the form of the mold.
The scaffolding breaks in an uproar of so many eggshell fragments, blasting forth like shrapnel
And the veil of ignorance is pierced by this awakening.
And a hush falls upon the world in a tremor of silence
And the ache is felt in the effort of producing a single thought
For all is absent in the wake of this dream made flesh...
"She is here,"
The paragons of ages announce,
"And she will command your pleasures until your pains are destitute... and you shall live no more, for what is life without pain."
Inspiration is such a funny thing.
Sometimes muses come thundering down and zap the mind with wonders beyond comprehension.
Thank God for such muses :)


DEW Mar 2019
Two moons rise and one moon sets.
Spotlight captures the one who frets.
Caught unawares in pursuit of wonders.
Tears drops stain the gloves of blunders.
Slipped off to forget what we have done.
The gloves decay under rising sun.
One moon sets and another rises,
while the sun departs with myriad disguises.
If two moons were wed in sunlit dreams,
would we forego our plans for all good things...
Would pleasures unstitch our tidy strings
and delay our minds for fallacies to sing.
I admit I'm unsure.
Nevertheless I will try,
to wed the moons, to brighten the sky,
but beyond the celestial weapons of love,
an infinite yearning awaits our passion.
For there are many moons in need of another.
There are many suns that must shine on the two.
For at the end of the day you and I do not matter.
Wherever there is one, there must be two.
So I say to her, I must be with you.
Thinking about someone I adore.
Then again, if not her, maybe someone else eventually.
That's how they all say it works, right?
Many fish in the sea.
Here, I say many moons in the sky. Keeping in mind we only know the one. A little irony, eh?


DEW Mar 2018
Her death was like quicksand
I tried to escape the grief
I tried to run, swim, crawl
but, like spectral arms,
I was dragged back beyond the precipice
down into the gravely depths
down to my despair.

I sought after her and found crumbs
but the trail of bread yielded only hunger,
hunger for perhaps her scent
perhaps echoes of her voice as she fades
into the distance
perhaps her reflection trapped in a mirror
any sign that she were still living
but the world had closed her chapter
and my hunger became a fasting...
I once hoped for love everlasting,
but my truth will never be love ever-after.

Just when I thought hope was forgotten,
I found an envelope with her name scrawled upon it.
Her crest engraved the wax of the seal.
The torment of her abandonment sunk into me once more,
and the quicksand trickled all around.
How dare I imagine her again?
How dare I open this audacious package.
I pry open the letter with haste,
mouth dry, tongue limp like dry wood,
eyes bulging,
my nourishment is within this envelope, of course!

within it, I find cobwebs and shame.
A picture of her I had never seen.
Her arm wrapped around the trusted embrace of a suitor
and I cannot penetrate this world she has found,
I do not belong.

I burn the picture...
With each spark of the fading image,
somehow I am freed
and the chains she bound to my soul are now vines
I reside in a fortress, barren, but safe.
"Darling?" I hear.
My wife peeks down from the stairs,
"Supper is ready..."
Of course.
Of course a mistress can never be real.
She will ever be a phantom.
And phantoms can never say farewell.
They were never there.
I'm thinking about this feeling of never being satisfied:
of having what one desires only to realize,
our desires are just dreams...
and dreams, when fulfilled, are not guaranteed to be truths.

Moreover, the feeling of having far too much,
more than we can consume,
more than we know what to do with, but we continue eating,
and realize a man can be bottomless,
despite always being filled.

Anyway, just musing.


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