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Feb 12 · 544
The Pursuit of Freedom
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.

Jul 2020 · 255
Portrait of the Devil...
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.


May 2020 · 189
The Last Test...
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...
Apr 2020 · 420
Soft Was The Light...
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.


Mar 2019 · 288
Dreams Made Flesh...
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 :)


Mar 2019 · 468
Disparate Ties...
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?


Mar 2018 · 506
The Phantom's Farewell...
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.


Mar 2018 · 4.4k
The Greatest Story Untold...
DEW Mar 2018
The waves undulated as if
they were the backs of 100 wriggling worms
The sky shed tears as if
a 1000 angels wept for the death of hope
black clouds roiled, sparking with fury
casting lightning down upon the mire
but below, upon the sea,
a miracle was set to transpire.

A boat rushed down and over the waves...
Back and forth,
a juggler's ball tossed and turned it appeared to be.
Yet, despite the malice,
and the seething spite of the sea,
the boat was safe
snug as can be.

And in this boat was a silent baby
his eyes stared out into the turmoil
he did not understand the frustrations of the elements
how they wished to smite him where he lay.
Despite the twisting of the boat
he did not roll, nor did water coat
his soft cheeks, his baby blanket
he passed on into sleep,
into dream he

He awoke to battles raging about him
the crashing of thunder
was the desolation of a mountain
the world knew war for the first time
deaths in the billions, no pasture without crime.

He stood as a man
with bearded face
skin like the earth
armor embraced.
He realized he held a mighty weapon
it gleamed in his hands
power coursed through his veins
down to his soul
up to the heavens!
A beacon of light he seemed to be
but heir to destruction he truly was.
He did not know what power does
to the feint of heart
to the well-intentioned...
He struck the ground amidst the battle
the whole Earth shook, oh, the chattering teeth!
The mountains lumbered to form again
as if by the shovels of skyward giants!
The battle paused for the barest of moments
the awe was palpable
like a kingly feast
but the people's hearts hadn't forgotten the pain
their hate surged up, like volcanic bile
despite their peace present for a while
the massacres began again in earnest
perhaps more so than before his deed.
No one knew the power he wielded.

He still had hope, he could do something!
But what greater act was there than mending mountains?
His heart was up to good,
but his mind couldn't ground him.

"I must stop their wanton annihilation!"
He roared within himself,
"Are they not my people? Am I not their savior?"
He went to the most heated battle
struck the air with his weapon
and every person's foe was replaced by their loved ones.
The battle ceased in an instant.
Each person stared in utter disbelief.
By what power had this happened?
It was said that mountains climbed back into place,
but what could summon loved ones,
even from the grave!
The fighting ceased despite their hatred,
and the stories magnified in flavor.
Many who were hungry
for peace from the storm of violence
fed upon the hearts of those in doubt
they claimed they knew who stopped the battle
they hoped to mobilize a peace effort.
He gathered these hopeful souls
banded them together so their efforts became tenfold!
Soon enough, the stories crept across the lands
across the seas
and underground.
For once, hope had purchased ground,
but hate, when cloistered, beaten back, starved,
becomes ever more malevolent,
ever more conniving.

He did not call his people an army,
he called them the Samaritan Initiative.
They did not fight their war with weapons of battle,
they fought with hands that mend and bind,
they saved the sick and the dying,
they uplifted the oppressed and those denying.

As time passed, his efforts grew,
but someone used his deeds as currency,
mobilized the scandalous, the warmongering,
someone hated he who mended the broken...
Someone plotted his demise.

He led his Samaritans across the world
each place they touched was left whole again
and though war still did reign, rotting and true,
he did not tire to end the end.

A new beginning he hoped to create,
but whispers that he was a fraud began to sate
the ears of those whose purpose it is to doubt peace,
they sowed the malice back into the healing wounds
soon enough, his power began to abate,
therefore, rumors seemed to be true.

He grew restless when he was barred from homesteads
barred from cities,
even countries!
Somehow these echoes of forgotten civilization rose
only to defy him
and he smelled someone's stench in the air.
His weapon yearned for someone's death.
For once, it did not wish to mend, but break,
and he felt spiteful all the more.
All the adoration he had garnered
had blinded him from his true purpose.
He sought out the taint that spread its tendrils.
He said,
"Is ruining my... empire..."

One day, while regrowing a desolated forest with his weapon,
someone came to see him.
She smiled at him, marvelled at his work.
"Who are you?"
He wondered, suddenly charmed.
"Someone you know..."
She grinned.
He spent weeks distracted and curious about her,
what was her riddle all about
and why did he feel her in his heart?
She did not seem to threaten or scheme
in fact her presence was a dream
and he yearned after her like nothing he knew
his mission delayed
his plans askew.
Many around him questioned him saying,
"Who exactly is it with whom you're playing?"
He would blush,
"Oh, someone..."

One day,
she did not meet him at their lover's spot.
She did not appear for a week, then another.
His mind began to churn about the months.
Since when had he last sent forth his healers,
or mended cities and silenced weapons dealers?
He began to be suspicious of her
he could have summoned her with a flick of his weapon,
but he dared not discover if she really were foe,
for if he should break, what can he grow?

Eventually, she appeared again,
smiling broadly, like an old friend.
He then knew the anger that so many harbored...
Oh, the twisted things he felt by her abandon,
the sheer weight of his turmoil felt too much to bear....
So he ****** it upon her without any care.
His voice was louder than a church bell,
flashing out across the forest where they would meet.
She cried out in fear
she ran from him swift
he chased after with guilt he couldn't lift.
He found her weeping by a well
on his knees he apologized incessantly.
"How could there be darkness in you,
the mender?"
Her question struck him in all places tender.
Doubt crept into his addled mind.
His weapon's glow flickered
his conscience was blind.
Surely not now should he have such trouble?
Could it really be so simple to pop his bubble?
"I love you more than I can bear!
When you leave me,
I begin to tear."
She nodded and held him close to her.

Someone watched from shadows not far,
they saw his frailty,
like a door ajar...

The months passed and he went back to work
new cities to grow and malice to mend
people saw him more for the savior he was
even though the rumors of fallacy were abuzz.

A special time became the moment of his life worthy of note,
a marriage to the woman whose life he knew by rote.
They consummated in the night and in the day.
Time seemed to stretch on and shrink all at once.
His happiness was a thing of infectious charm,
but all that glittered soon became alarm.

Upon returning home from time spent mending the broken world,
he returned to find his home
covered in blood.
He knew whose blood coated the walls.
Bones, ground into paste, smothered pictured frames.
Flesh reduced to pulp covered the floor.
His mind fractured in no way subtle.
The light of his weapon winked out with no rebuttal.
He wept uncontrollably in fits of despair.
The world seemed cold, frozen over,
desolate of love or laughter.
"I can't bear to live."

Someone crept in through the doorway.
"It's a shame, isn't it?
No man is greater than any other,
yet no man is born equal.
No man lives without love,
but every man dies alone.
Maybe you can understand now,
why we deserve our own genocide...
Maybe now you'll let us fight to the death,
and have our peace that way!"

He looked up and,
despite the pure evil that stood before him,
he did not see that.
He saw someone lost,
someone abused,
someone desperate for truth,
any truth.
He saw someone fighting to love something,
He saw someone forgotten by loved ones
after committing acts that person was unable to avoid.
He saw a frightened being
lashing out at the world
in the hopes that the suffering would end.
He felt boundless compassion.

"I have no power left."
He said.
"No power to mend or bind.
No power worth your scorn."

"I'm going to **** you now."

"If I'm to die,
I hope my blood is enough for all who suffer."

"You're no messiah! You're just a lie we all want to believe!"

"If I was just a man...
I would have died when you killed her.
I would have hungered for torturous retribution.
But you have broken no one.
You're someone who needs to see your own suffering
out in the world
to justify the injustice dealt upon you.
But for every drop of effort you put into destroying her,
I wish you never experience my pain.
I wish to mend what drove you to break me,
so no one else may be harmed by you,
or anyone you inspire to deal death."

"No, I defeated you..."

"You tried..."

The weapon flickered.

"No, no, you can't feel love for me...
You don't have the *****."

"I have very big *****."

"You think you can love me?
After how I destroyed you!"

"If I could be destroyed,
I would already be dead!"

The weapon burst forth with light!

The killer realized they were someone foolish
Someone lost
Someone in need of healing.
For if "he" could not be broken,
surely there was hope.
If he could mend mountains
bring back loved ones and unite lost families
grow cities from the earth itself
grow forests from twigs
and deny a cold-hearted killer
the satisfaction
the honor
of seeing the fractures of a shattered soul
in blood-red, swollen, tearful eyes,
perhaps this man,
this one man,
could reveal what love is
to the killer's own famished soul.

He saw something shift in the eyes of that tortured someone.

That's when he realized...
That's when he understood.
He had the thirst for solving puzzles,
but humanity is not a machine,
it is a collection of gears
each just as vital as the whole,
for the whole does not exist without the worth
of every individual.
And to ignore an individual like this...
Someone who stood at the center of all the woe,
the evil,
and the tragedy in the world.
To ignore them would be to throw out the puzzle completely.

"May I mend you?"

Realizing they were someone facing an open door,
that person nodded.

He struck that person with his weapon.
Light flooded out as if by the sun itself.
Time seemed to stop.
People looked up in wonder of the light.
The very winds halted,
seas stilled,
nature perked up in unison.

When the light faded, he saw himself staring in a mirror.
The man in the mirror had blood-stained hands.

He stepped across the threshold and hugged himself.
His darkness hugged him back and the blood seemed to vanish.

"I forgive myself for killing her."

His darkness melted into a bulbous, gooey form and sank into him,
as if he were some kind of sponge,
leaving no trace of the darkness visibly.
He accepted within himself that he was capable of
unimaginable evil.
He accepted that he had control
and that he was responsible for the health and sickness
of the world.

Around him, the world began to shift.
In fact, it appeared to melt into liquid
and splash around him.
The liquid became clear, like the ocean.
It splashed and slid,
rocking him about.

Light flashed!

The baby awoke, curious about the world around him.
His boat had touched some distant shore.
Flecks of water spotted his cheeks and he laughed.

A couple crept up to the boat.
"I swear I heard a baby," a man said.
"You're crazy," a woman said, "Out here?"
The couple looked within the boat
and found the baby smiling at them with his
toothless, innocent smile.
The woman held a hand to her chest in awe.
She tenderly carried the baby out of the boat
and rocked it in her arms.
The baby laughed.
The man reached out.
"Not that hand!" The woman said, "You just cut yourself!"
"It's okay, no blood anymore, see?"
He pinched the baby's cheeks.
The baby touched his hand.
His **** healed in an instant!
"Woah!" The woman yelled.
Feeling for a scar where there were none,
the man stared in wonder at the child.
"Honey," he said, "This kid's got potential..."
This poem sort of came out of nowhere.
It does sit on the border between a poem and a story.
I've been fascinated by the Poetic Edda and the Iliad, how a poem could be hundreds of thousands of words long.

So here's my little poetic narrative.


Mar 2018 · 536
Full of Emptiness...
DEW Mar 2018
Floating in an expanse, trapped in a room
the walls could be the ends of a universe,
or a martyr's doom,
and I count the atoms of its shifting embrace
it dances within sight, but ever out of reach
truer things have never been more curious
the walls are my castaway beach.

Endless journeys coil within me,
my mind is a boundless jungle:
the predators linger in hazy umbra,
while the prey lazily graze
with eyes diametrically opposed.
I am some sort of misshapen construct,
a being lost to himself, but a target nonetheless.

****** into the deep
from which secrets sweetly seep
I find answers to keep
demystifying puzzles caged by sleep
the malice in this wonderland
nibbles at the soul with perilous teeth
just to taste the suffering
of a man who's trapped beneath
beneath the undergrowth of the city
within the fissures of a sidewalk
betwixt the folds of a chewing gum wrapper
he is gnawed by the everafter,
the what if,
the may be,

Perchance he truly listened to the bright void
oh, how it oozes soft, eldritch light
the essences of somber dealings with ethereal misfits,
whatsay he consumed the knowledge whose
once consumed him?

We all imagine that he would be
empty of emptiness...
but is there such a thing?
So, this is me just thinking about how I'm always stuck questioning why life is life. How did I end up here?
We're meant not to question this concept to the point of delusion, but I find myself daily deluded. As if seeking the answer can open a door from which I can escape.

My friend, do you believe in a transcendent escape free of death?

And with that, enjoy!

Feb 2018 · 461
The Last Time...
DEW Feb 2018
My old darling, she sighed,
as she relinquished my affections
roses and keepsakes,
delicacies and carnal delights.

Your pining weighs heavy,
she whispered in fatigue,
I cannot bear your sorrows
as I kiss you goodbye.

Holding my slack-jawed chin, she smiles,
this will be the last time,
for there is a world to see
that's bigger than you...

Her kisses needle
like the deathly caress of winter.
Her lustful embrace
like the coils of a python.
Even inside she is jagged and unforgiving
as is a cave sought out in desperation
discovered to be the abode of a black bear.

Yet I need her.

I cannot let her go.
I insist, take from me my skin,
my soul.
Whatever you need to stay warm.
Whatever will cover your hollow form.
If I should shiver, it is in my fear of your abandon.
If I should cry, it is the milk upon which you shall suckle.
If I should die, it is only that you may feast.
But please,
let it not be the last time...

Is it mortal anger that you desire?
Do you crave wrath in its divine fervor?!

Is it a devil may care grin you favor?
Do you lust for my cold shoulder, akin to tundras and the endless expanse of space?

It'll be fine, she says,
there are plenty more fish in the sea.
Fish for you.
Fish for me.

The last time!
I bellow,
any moment could be our last!
Any breath can become a rasping choke for life!
Any midnight stroll could turn you into roadkill!
Any night of the soul could be your last grip upon sanity!

Any romance can become a suicide.

Any last time could be your last time alive.

You say it's the last time?
Then our love is surely dead,
and I am that ghost wandering in those halls,
looking for you,
calling out in vain,
for you have moved on to the after life.
After us.

Last time?
I guess there's a first time for everything,
even the end.
It's a common thing for me to dramatize trivial things.
Or to ponder the complexities of a simple truth.
Not every simple truth must be simple.
And love is that most complicated example of simple truths.

DEW Jan 2018
I said I'd never find you.
I said I was adrift in the nonsense of raw bedlam,
that the needles embedded in my skin
weren't stitching me together,
they were tearing me apart,
I said I was forlorn,
I said my heart was barren
I said my soul was sold,
I said many things,
but my excuses are old.

Trapped under a rock-slide,
and every rock an old lover,
bad romances to smother
face down in the gutter,
in which my tears are the water
that gushes in high tide,
trickles in low.

I scoured the world of love
by being restless
by being unrelenting
ashen and devoid of substance
the world spun like a top ready to stop
and all who were left were ****
feeding upon my misery with contempt.

It's true, all my fitful lusting,
all my callow obsessions,
all my inebriated braying,
cleared the world of reason
and made it easier for me to spot you.

You glistened in the gloom,
silken gown smearing the dust but
leaving flora in your wake.
In the same way, you enrich me.
My barren heart tilled and teeming with
pastures green, meadows whispering.

I hold you, heart to my heart, my darling,
as you embrace my soul to your soul.
Apart from you, the world is harming,
but with you, I am whole.
Maybe this is for someone, maybe it isn't.
Regardless, I'm pretty happy to be writing for the first time in a while.
Feels good :)


Jan 2018 · 534
Feminine Fickle...
DEW Jan 2018
Her feminine fickle,
does tickle my pickle.
I sample the fruit.
Tastes like a sickle.

She cuts me with passion,
and when my pulse is crashin'
she decides to save me.
I wake up thrashin'.
I'd like to cash in,
on love's fashion,
but she gives me no portion,
of her cookie's ration.
Date: 2/24/2016

A strange poem I found while digging through my hundreds of iPod notes.
Notes that I haven't touched in a long time, so it's refreshing to take a look.
My notes on an old novel of mine are especially delightful :)
I'd share them here, but NONE of it would make sense to any of you unless you've got a black belt in insanity, LOL ;)

As always, enjoy!

Dec 2017 · 629
Hot Button, Good Lovin'...
DEW Dec 2017
I drank her in with my lonesome stare
I said,
"Give me that good lovin'
darling it don't take work
to turn on your oven..."
First she feigned indifference
then she sighed with deference
and I coaxed her in like a trout in spring.

Honey I'm looking for the hot button to push
some women will holler,
men like me will shush
cause the hot button just needs the right touch
celebrate good lovin' with me, don't fuss...

Politics are all about the hot button.
Men with the long arms ain't seen nothin'.
Law man bows to the law maker.
Hot button respects your journalistic prayer.

Some men see what some men hide,
but you can keep hiding if the law will abide.
Even when the law man says no-no
lawmaker's got a hearse:
'nother **, 'nother **...

Hot button's the only thing you'll see in print.
What your momma's momma says is what will glint.
The bird is the word, I'll say in vain,
but top dollar pays what's at the nose of the vane.

I've wanted to push the hot button all night long
classic poems galore, but mine are all wrong.
I guess I'll go back to where I was born,
chew a dog bone, scraps, with my baby teeth worn.

In the junkyard, I see yesterday's hot buttons
emaciated bells and whistles just struttin'
They've lost their minds and luster, no thanks
I'm like,
"These are the gals you see walking the planks."
Every day more hot buttons walk in line,
heaven is just a misery for these topics of history
but I polish them with chrome
I get desperate, what can I say.
I'll never leave a hot button to rot with dismay.

Just give me another hour, good lovin' can dream.
I'll bring a hot button to you, good Lord! It'll gleam.
So, I just wanted to write for the sake of writing.
I have a theme running through this, of course, from the title to the last line, but I also just wanted to write since it's been a while.

This poem doesn't have a consistent rhythm and I partly didn't mean for that to happen, but I also needed it to be this way because of the conversational tone of the piece.

In the end, it's its own little romp through resentment and frustration over my life firstly, but also the life we all share: the sorry state of the world.

As always, enjoy!

DEW Dec 2017
I’m struck
Struck, not by stubborn winds
nor seeping rain and bitter snow
I am struck by the audacity!
The audacity of life itself…

Grating insults hurled
middle fingers flashing like upturned fangs
sumptuous thighs, bare and glistening in the sunlight
heavy alcohol dripping off the cheeks.
Failed relationships,
I was bored so…
Isn’t that always the excuse,
as to why I can hear her
***** him
didn’t she know I’d be home?
Who cares.
It’s the audacity of life that bugs me,
the simple answer, with every infraction,
I do so, because I am.
Now leave me be.

But I know they know it can't be that simple.
They're all the 29th round boxer fighting a shadow:
an unyielding mass of darkness
chained to our souls
occupying no more than the air itself
yet heavy as the bedrock of hell
deep and destructive.

I've seen these shadows break a man.
I was that man.
So I tremble at the audacity of life.
Wherein the puppet manipulates the master.
Wherein the blind see more than the visionary.
Wherein the beggar is imbued with purpose,
and the money mogul strips his vassals of soul and sympathy.

Yes, and I have the audacity to write this,
like I give a ****,
when I'm just like you.
Another day...
Another dollar...
With this poem, I wanted to reflect on the reality of living in a world one does not understand, as well as the presence of hypocrisy that seems to be, not only a fact, but a staple of human consciousness.

How do we shake this weight?
It is our willingness to bear duplicity that splits, then weakens, then shatters our "self."
Every building needs scaffolding to become a grand structure.
I think humans are much the same.
Our lives get so complicated that we forget we are organic.

Anyway, enough for today!


Dec 2017 · 428
Sleep is a Memory...
DEW Dec 2017
I tremble violently
the spirits dine with me
a feast of illusions break me
because sleep is a memory.

When did I last sleep
grains of sand ne'er grace my eyes
never caked with desert lullabies
So dry, I can barely weep.

I don't remember what nightmares are
and though dreams haunt me
I don't know where they are
they're neither near nor far.

I've been awake so long I'm twice my age
I'm so tired I cannot even call on rage
Lust lies asleep while I watch it slumber
Hunger feeds on itself in a sightless umbra.

There are times when the astral planes call me
I stumble, my eyes droop, I feel heavy
It's like I'm embalming, passing into shadow
But I must continue to work, for I am a slave.

Some day I will sleep and I may never wake.
Such waking would be a second birth, fit for a cake.
How many candles would adorn this pastry?
I don't give a hoot, so long as it's tasty.
I've been awake for 24 hours and I'm afraid I'll just pass out and wake up, 12 hours later, on the floor.
It's snowing outside, soup is cooking, and I've got great music on.
Does any of this add up? LOL

Hooray for randomness! Praise be to this random poem here!
May I finally sleep sometime... sometime...


Dec 2017 · 595
Patient Storm...
DEW Dec 2017
The city was laid bare:
like a patient upon the operating table
I walked the streets with precision
I was the scalpel carving communities from the fauna
the city was alive, and so it was truly sick
concrete jungle
projects and penthouses
the beleaguered old traipsed about, silent, but not quiet
the youth, rambunctious and carnal, feasted upon the dying
With each touch, I soothed the soul
Kisses, like antiseptic.
Lectures, like stitches.
Like cumulonimbus, the raucous ramblings of crowds grew
I said to myself, "It is fine, this is life, let it live."

Youth, ablaze with carrion wings, descend upon the old
beaks barrelling forward, pecking and snatching decency
still there are some who help
swooping down like proud eagles, they shoo away the scavengers
they beat back the tide of villainy
they shelter innocence, foster truth
but they are not enough...
I carve out the **** of corruption
I ventilate the lungs of the city and plug the punctures
but the pollution is virulent and stubborn...
Still, I say to myself, "This is poetry, love is a mystery, let them be."

I will hear them cry in the rain
I will not know my place
I might extend a hand, proffer an embrace, but
they will shy back,
for man will become monster
and God will become devil... in their eyes: deluded; poisoned by hate.
I will wonder where I went wrong.
Will I try my best to turn the helm against the wave,
go THROUGH the heart of the storm?!
Of course, I will try
I will try,
but I will fail.
Man will flaunt his freedoms, those which were freely given.
Despite my grief, I will say to myself, "All things have an end. There was nothing I could do."

I wonder to myself...
How many centuries have I folded my hands against the storm.
Behold! It's patience!
It will ever rise,
It will ever approach!
So long as man lies,
It will reach for his throat!
Man will always feign surprise,
It is a sickness he cannot broach...
As the color of morning skies is calming,
The fumes of the rumbling storm are maddening!

I always let the storm build until the lightning sets the world on fire
I thought the storm was man's voice in an inimical life...
But I was wrong, the storm is the beast that lurks in the shadows.
It sets the table for carrion.
The beast builds the cumulonimbus, preparing the kindling for the floods of war.

The storm's pallor stains man's skin so ubiquitously
That he mistakes the storm for himself.
The storm is the color of sin: six in total.

I wanted to breath about the idea of responsibility: culpability.
Watching the world burn paints you as the enemy.
We have to do something, even if we're not sure why, or for whom.

God is the people. He is the future.
He (the "Wholeness" of our (human) being) is what we strive towards:
The Perfection of Humanity
The Peace of our Souls
The Sustenance of our Planet
The Respect of All Life
The Beauty of Divine Soul in All our Works
The Tempered Passion of Truthful Expression
Love for, and Security in, Ourselves that Spreads into Love for the Community
Patience Under Hardship and Tolerance Under Misunderstanding

Without setting our goals upon improving humanity, we feel empty.
If we're not focused on being good people, why are we even here?

That's all for today...


DEW Dec 2017
Gloved hands flex in umbra of night
a cot rocks, glittering in the rays of moonlight
baby coos, shaking its rattle
the leathery hands stalk the craddle
finding their prey, the gloves seek the neck
like guillotine, they reap
... they reap

Every idea meets this end
Every dream of mine every prayer
In infancy they glow then glow no more
throttled by shame, they break
chastised by fear, they fade
I would rock them, nestled in coaxing arms, close to my heart
the clock chimes its hour with pride and finality
at midnight, the reaping begins
upon the witching hour, my dreams are snuffed
and nightmares usurp their place.

Is it torment to expect more of myself?
Content to write poetry and leave epic tales of heroes and nemeses to doom and dust?

How many old lovers have I professed my dreams to
how many friends have I bored with my tales
how many family members smiled as I asserted my storytelling chops
only so I could stop, even before the period could halt the last sentence of the novel, thwarting its purpose.

How many heroes clambered upon my doorstep
begging, pleading for me to pen their heroism
How many villains woke me up with their cackling
In the corner, sitting, their eyes glowing in the void of night,
smiling teeth too white
or too black
feathered hats bobbing as their malice peaks
when they hold snaking knives to my throat
and with morbid breath instruct,
"For the love of God..." they say,
"Paint me in a good light, but make my misdeeds known, **** you!"
And I would lay awake, dreaming of these worlds
until the clocks knell
allowing the ebb of time
to wash away my desires, my talents
and the glistening, far-off worlds fade to nothing...

In the end, indeed,
even my mind fades
leaving nothing but a husk behind
and all who knew come to watch
hanging a tombstone upon my rigor mortis neck,
it reads the words,
"He tried, of course he tried
but the devil has his price,
and this poor soul couldn't make rent."
My most cynical take on my problems with writing long stories (some short stories and otherwise, novels): It's also the first time I've written about it poetically, almost therapeutically.

I remember a time when I could sit down and not leave until 5000 words (or midnight, whichever came first) sat on the page.
I remember when there was no concept of a chore, or bore.
But these are just memories...
Who am I now?
Someone unhappy, that's for sure!

I'm trying to do something about it, so I hope I can keep doing what I'm doing (had a list or goals here, but it's wayy too long).



DEW Nov 2017
She's watching me
but she's never said a word
I know not her face
her touch
her aroma
I've only seen her eyes,
in the stars
for years
and I'll never know why,
her beauty claims the heavens
her light cures the blind
and robs sight from the foolish
I've stared too long
transfixed and fiendish, for just a taste
I would make love to her even if she has no body
I would kiss her splendor with my words
caress her aches with fragrant whispers
charm the bones of her imagination with tender glances
and consummate our bonding with admonitions of love.

I need no more than words
to know she loves me,
if she would but speak
yet she only stares...
Her smile is the constellations, I know
and her breath is the sigh of the sun
her arms are the rings of Saturn
and her ******* the moons of Jupiter
yet, I am but a man
I cannot make love to these things
so I pen this yearning,
Sitting under her, the Cosmos,
with passion, I enjoy the view.
This is one of those poems that I wasn't sure was coming.
It started out a little slow, searching, but I found the rhythm and I'm enjoying the re-reads.

I'm trying to avoid those gushing poem-notes so short and sweet this time.


Nov 2017 · 458
DEW Nov 2017
Often, these dreams pierce the veil,
between sadness and bliss.
Armies cross
bliss is defenseless
I wake up cold

My steps feel the weight of the stone floor
out to the window, my dreams take me…
Even awake, dreams command my vision.

The world is blind to me and I am blind to the world.
They do not bear my dreams and I do not know their torment.

If they knew my dreams,
they would carry me forward
hands on my hand
we move the bricks together
sight for sight
blindness for blindness
dreams for truth

The strange warmth of fellowship fades in loneliness,
as if it were antidote… or poison.
Still, the memories linger
yearning to blaze
but they cannot provide warmth
for they are dreams
and fires must feed on flesh.

The armies continue to pour
from somberness into bliss
the fires wink out softly
my eyes dull; my dreams fade.

And for once, I see what they all saw…

So, this poem ends on a dark note, like many of my poems, but it's the type of note that I'm not sure about.
Still, what I am sure of is, the message is about conformity and losing sight of ideals in place of stasis, or regression.
Things like, "I don't give a f**k."
Or, "I can't be bothered."
Even, "F**k you and the horse you rode in on."
These can be funny to consider, especially in a movie.
However, in real life, the tone is different:
it's why "motive" is so important to a police investigation.
If someone cheats on you, is it because you were an *******,
or was it because the person is an unabashed cheater who lied to you, every, day?
Boo-hoo, right?
That's what I wanted to touch on in this poem.

So, without further ado...

Oct 2017 · 648
She Fades Away...
DEW Oct 2017
In dying day
we trust dismay
Like scent of edible death,
it marks the forlorn path
that marks the traveler
that marks the soul
that feeds the beast.

I cry upon the balustrade
I climb the walls
assail the roof!
I cling to hope and tidings sweet...
but hope, she fades away

In misty day
haze thick with ire
like defiling spear
it pierces the shepherd
who ushers the flock
who bicker and bark
who worship the beast.

I thirst 'pon fetid ocean
amidst mustard fog
oar strokes batter the brine
frost clogs the air, my freedom, my heart
while the sun hides his face for shame of the world
every other face is a mask, and beneath it a mask
their truths are lies and their confessions are lies
so I brave the ocean, seeking her wholesome face
Her voice is the bedrock of countless miracles.
I peer into the cloud that hugs the sea
her face smiles in the obscurity
I reach out to touch her visage
but hope, she fades away.

For years I sought her company
I wished for odes to reveal
the residence of her testimony
Her word would defend, like steel!

Yet when I finally found her,
my grasp bound death's door
I realized I was the hope
that no one will know anymore.

As hope, I fade away.
I have tried my best to describe my life's struggle in this one poem.
As Mahatma Gandhi said, "Be the change you want to see in the world."

We can't complain about nothing changing when we're the ones unwilling to change.


Oct 2017 · 334
Eye of Truth...
DEW Oct 2017
She gazed, transfixed with dread
The path stretched on in hunger for eternity
Although it had not turned its hunger upon her
Despite its silence, its passive existence
She heard the road like war drums
Its rage was flame and steel
She broke her gaze from the path
And consulted the shaman
The shaman, upon giving her earthen herbs, sent her to wander
In the forest, where no path exists, she lost herself
She heard a voice call out to her, “Resfeber…”
The joys of life escaped her in the musty heat of dappled light
The rains tore through the canopy, washing her fears away
She began to lust for vision, for purpose
The wandering filled her with a desire to know the unknown
For all around her swelled the inescapable, the densely profound
And she happened upon the path once more
Its narrow vein was like the canal from a womb
She stepped out upon it, tasting the freedom of escaping the shell
She flew off, out into the storm
Seeking the eye of truth
Braving the harsh road
For the narrow path leads only to heaven.
Hadn't really written a long poem since the end of July.
I'd spent July doing 30/30 for Tupelo Press.
Basically, I wrote 30 poems in thirty days.
It changed my life in really important ways, many of them subtle.
The confidence I gained has waned a little, but I'm trying to hold onto the lessons.

So, here it is, today's poem.


Jul 2017 · 431
The Relativity of Agony...
DEW Jul 2017
The nuclear fallout of a lie
So powerful the dye
Snakes its way-into every life-it
Breaks the mold, impending strife-it
Takes the souls-of every washed-up child
The tsunami of the call of nature will divide
Human nature is but a pawn, do or die
I hate to see the hunger it provides make you cry
Toss out the rhyme
I want to see you sweat when you hear
Most people will once upon a time fear it
It’s the attention of a demon in your house
Preying on your unit, infecting you when you spoon it
Is where it finds you, invading your dreams
I’ve tried to find meaning in the ugliest things
But something stares back and it has no face
You don’t know its watching because you believe in race
You believe in consumerism, except what’s consuming you
More than sticks and stones
More than ticks and thrones
I realize, you’re out of the box, so pack it up
You don’t realize, you rely on the fox, so back it up
The wolf can come in many forms and many norms
It’s inside the books you sell, the lies you tell
The things you yell, the ring of the bell, at close of life
So understand the meaning of youth is edge of knife.
Farewell to the beautiful things when we create
For the vanity of our souls consumes what’s on the plate.
Another rap-poem for you to see,
another story woven by the whispers of infamy.
Trembling with scorn and fear,
these are the words I hold dear.


DEW Jun 2017
Loyalty and power,
I gotta take a shower,
My salary’s forgiveness
In history I cower.
The sharpest devils were created in wealth – in wealth
That money power getting bad fa ya health – fo yo health
I climb the lady of liberty
Holding the fire of infamy
**** girl, how tall ya. gotta. be?
How much a man gotta pay for a woman to be free?
If it costs him his life, the debt is paid
For just an hour a day, living death is the wage
I can’t even start about the water we wade
Constituting ignorance, no more to a slave.
I predict the government will feed on your hate
And product your anger to the tricks of the trade.
There’s more to the story,
I’m ****** and poorly,
Ganked and gory,
Just ignore me,
Cents and sore knees, forgetting my name is Jason? Lord, please!
They’re brainwashing with
trumping ******,
jumping ******,
crazy info?
Know what you’re in fo
When you
Turn on the telly, the venue, is
Just another place for kids, welcome,
We’ve got another ****** for your cerebellum,
You’re welcome!
Mosh! Jump up, jump up, and don’t frown, when
They murdered more babies in jars.
That is if your mother’s in a jam...
I don’t know, half past midnight in the twilight zone,
Which means absolutely nothing when a dog is a bone
Under your house
When you mistake your cat for a mouse.
How many things do I have to get backwards
For you to realize I’m doing math with slick words
Calculating fascination, a concoction, a plantation
Of seeds so small they appear not to exist
Turn the page and out comes a fist
Rattling down the road is canned laughter
Wait up a minute I’m down in the rafters.
So much energy today this poem had to be done,
and though it's more like a rap, the web had to be spun.


Jun 2017 · 430
Beatnik Turntable...
DEW Jun 2017
I’ve sat within that crowded room.
Elbows, like the knobbed tree branches of a forest,
sway with mirth and freedom.
Yet, my heart lost its fire long before.
And as I sat, I sighed the rousing air
of the room with carouseling dancers,
and felt that no one was there; not even myself.

There are many things that solitude can inspire.
We desire what we can only hope to have again.
Yet, how lucky am I? I dream of things I’ve never known.
I see her hug his hip to her hip, whisper in his ear...
What did she whisper?
He will tell one dear friend,
and that friend,
will feel what I feel – a burst of elation, a drop of envy – a deadly cocktail.
And that friend will go on and wonder, “What if she were mine...”
And I know because I was that friend who tasted her in his words. And dreamed.
I dreamed until the dreaming kept me awake
until the dream cannibalized other dreams
until the dream put visions of her in the clouds
until the dreams, dreams, shattered-my-soul!

I was the one who told my friend about her.
I crafted her beauty and charm with such power to disarm, using my silken language,
and he tasted her essence in my words.
So, now I sit here.
I sit here in this room filled with carouseling couples.
I can only sigh,
as I watch her dance.
What does it take to be in love?
Sometimes, it can take a fool as much as it takes a prince.
May 2017 · 1.0k
Lady Sea...
DEW May 2017
The sweetest words
embitter my Lady Sea.
Nor can fire evaporate
that raging ocean.

When a man speaks
with voice of mouse,
hear her shriek-ethereal
nullify even love-potions.

I darest ask her,
mustn’t I dare?
Wouldn’t even a grimace,
tease my loving stare?

Lady Sea, storm in your soul.
Were you to splatter like glass
wouldn’t I still find nourishment?
Just an element of you.
Just a taste.
I would consume it infinitely,
leave none to waste.

Lady Sea,
lady see, I whimper, I pine.
Your wish is thine.

Lady Sea,
hair like nimbus sail,
I paddle at your door...
To no avail.
How do you know when you're in love and, most importantly, does it even matter if she doesn't love you back?
May 2017 · 293
Unless You Shine for Me...
DEW May 2017
And were it not for the sun
would there be dream?
Would cloud cry upon the day?
I would find, you and I, slavishly cuddled ‘round dragon breath
and every sight would be for sore eyes, lest they be blind.
Every man would be a beggar.
Children cackle in the dark.
Women, free of childbirth, are instead consumed by the world.
Without the sun there is no age.
We are what we haven’t chosen to be.
This is what I see when you’re not with me.
Emptiness separating reality from understanding.
And I call to you.
And I call to you.
And I scream for you!
And I boil alive in the broth, my own anger...
Whatever I can cook up to feed the hunger that you inspire.
a peace shatters the storm.
A shaft of light jousts the gloom like heavenly charioteer.
What else could it be?
It is you, so long as you shine for me.
I should be writing more often, but this will do for now.

Enjoy :)

May 2017 · 473
Distance Between Us...
DEW May 2017
Two horses galloping on sun-kissed plains
Hoofprints on roses
Hoofprints rippling surface of quiet lake
Hoofprints carve your name on yonder moon
Because we’ve been everywhere, and I was everywhere with you

Are your fingerprints on the back of my hand?
Must I be careful not to touch someone new, lest they know you’ve been there?
Would they tremble in fear?
Such love! They would say. It burns bright even in dying!
I needn’t fear such things. I’ll never touch another.

Should I cry? Would tears express such sorrows?
If I were to bring peace to the world, would I ever find my own? Such sorrow.
With such sorrow, would ****** sate the wound? Worlds reduced to graves and still sorrow lingers.
Such sorrow must burn away of its own ilk.
Better to have loved then lost? Better not to have loved you, at least.

I laugh.
The miles between us were a drop in the ocean. Truly, they were.
I can't get far enough from the memory of us... because I am the moon upon which your name was carved.
Better just strip down to the bone and walk to the nearest monastery...
Apr 2017 · 246
Edge of the Knife...
DEW Apr 2017
I stand on the edge
Why should I care
I'll tip this way or that
and glide in the air
It's all a game of how I can stay
when my feet no longer bleed
cut down to decay
My wounds are the grooves from which
music plays
The knife is the needle;
that's how I behave.

I stand on the edge of a blade
My journey splits me in two.
I forget who I am
each eye's a one-legged man
I want two things at once
Each thing, two things more
I feed the hydra,
carry me, carry me
The thousand-headed-beast
feeds the world.

I dance on the edge of a blade
because there's freedom in my abandon
There's hope in my tragedy
There's life in my dying
but the dying never ends.

My only silver lining
is the blade
of this guillotine... and
my only hope
is this dream within
a nightmare.
I hope you've enjoyed this one and,
are able to reflect on the things I've dug up.


Mar 2017 · 569
White Sheets Whisper...
DEW Mar 2017
White sheets flutter...
they dance around the room
they whip and crack like storm-kissed sails
I cower in fear, my bed is empty save for pillows.

I rest my head
I'm nearly dead
I ache with dread
I crumble, like abandoned bread
and the table we set
is unwoven by time.
Splinters, like loose thread, pile up as do bones.
We are no longer held together by compassion,
we are butchered by sharp tongues and piercing glares,
for shame! We thought it was a funhouse, but we revel in slaughter.

White sheets flutter...
they wave like sleeping flags
they wave like quaking lands
then they settle and I hear the white sheets whisper
and the whispers haunt me
are they soaked by old lovers
tears like oceans raining into the sky
blood like rivers escaping the bed
bowels of deceit coughing up their secrets
let us drink all this vile bile and be drunken by horrors.

Is that the only way we can escape?
Not sure how all the ideas came together or where the inspiration was derived. I just had a thought:
"What if our bed sheets were ghosts? What would they say?"
Mar 2017 · 466
Mountains Flow...
DEW Mar 2017
Like an anthill I was, at birth.
The sprouting of a tree not yet mighty.
The trickle of a river not yet strong,
but within my mind were dreams.

I thought to myself...
When will I flow?

Every touch,
every word,
every color,
every note,
every taste,
was another grain,
another pebble,
another boulder,
another hill,
another expansion to my range of view.
And though I could yet call myself a mountain.
Though streams wove their ways from my eyes,
fresh springs of tender breaths,
trees rooted deep enough to whistle in the wind,
thoughts beginning to form,
I still spoke the words,
“When will I flow?”

I caressed the clouds and their silvery charm,
hugging my neck, like heavenly trinkets,
a beard of trees splayed down my chest and back, like emerald robe
rivers, splashing and bubbling and whooshing and running,
like naked children tumbling down from innocence,
giggling all the way
until they learn that the world hungers for blood.
The clouds at my neck are a vice at my fury.
They blacken like mists of soot
and crackle and moan.
They roar and spit fire upon the earth.
A tree splits and becomes a beacon of wrath, a torch
setting other trees aflame.
Oh, all nature is the same.
There is a time for peace and for war.
But when the flames settle.
When my skin is charred and creviced.
Then sprouts the green fingers of spring.

I am the mountain.
I command the seasons.
The winds are my whip.
The Earth is my chariot.
The clouds are my helm
and lightning my sword.
Guardian or warlord?
Lover or slaver?
Is it an illusion?
Am I at the whim of the seasons?
Does man define my beauty?

Thence comes the answer.
I flow.
I once flowed into me,
Growing strong, I was the mountain,
But the flow is leaving me now.
What leaves me is what I can do without.
The flow becomes my power.
In dying, I gain control.
Strong is my pen,
my word masters the sword
for every beginning
there is an end.
This is me thinking about age
and everything I can be with time
and all that will be lost to the ages.
Mar 2017 · 529
Just Change the Channel...
DEW Mar 2017
I surf through a crowd,
click, click, click,
am I slick?
Am I sick?

The faces cascade, each one like a molecule
in a waterfall of desire and liars and fire.
Do we sit here to burn or to yearn.
Do we ever learn or feel concern.
It seems I will never tire to conspire
against my own soul on this wire.

I'm wired.
The screen crackles a strange glow.
The bits and bytes tell me there's hope.
Ones and zeroes like so much knotted rope.
I hang on her every word,
oh, my shame is ethereal.
I want to stop seeing her,
but my hunger is serial.

She whisper's, "But wait...
... there's more..."
and I die to be born her prisoner.

In lust we trust,
the internet anthem,
the trumpet of the millennia
our senses abandoned.
The cascading fire, behind the screen,
the ache inside: my mind? my spleen?
I must be rotten,
how could I not be,
their alluring words and forms,
imprison me.

Can I break free? Qui-qui? Hehe!
It's a total lie, there is no greener grass.
So I hunger for more of the poison that made me;
I seek to drown myself, like a manly baby,
"Gimme more! A little more!"
They stand in shock,
then retreat to their bottles,
ignoring the ticking clock.
Back to her and her and her,
the ones who will never love me,
who've ensnared me to drain me,
me and me and me.

There are different kinds of blindness,
many we will never be ****** enough to see
but when the blinds are open,
can we really change what we see?
Do we come awake to a ruin,
a festering, aching, screaming lump of chaos
that we are but fingers to... this abomination.

I surf the crowd
and when she comes again,
I'll just change the channel,
and a new face materializes,
her beauty renders me thirsty
I smile my sleekest smile,
I recite the uncanny words,
"Mirror mirror on the wall."
So, despite my words in this poem, this is not just a sort of commentary on online relationships. This applies to many of the unhealthy relationships we engage in on a day to day basis, stretching back into our earliest memories and forward unto our deaths.

I can only hope that this poem will help people who might be fighting their conscience to consider some powerful self-reflection.

Have a great day :)


Feb 2017 · 639
Will You Remember...
DEW Feb 2017
Fire and ice, you and I... wet with wonder.
We tangled and tossed and turned.
Our passion was poetic,
the way I saw truth in your eyes,
the way your smile hurt me the right way, that sharp tickle of pleasure.
Our joy was boundless, our toil of love without measure.
Our love was a tide that crawled back to the heart of life.
Our ebb and flow of desire and fulfillment bled
all over that designer rug.
I sit in a cafe obsessing over deadlines and profits,
can I really forget?
And when I run out of deadlines,
and when I don't profit from profit,
the memories will bleed into me from
the past like rain "inside" an umbrella.
I will break.
I will sigh.
My eyes will mist,
my head will cloud.
I will shake my head and wonder...
"Will you remember?"
Hey, it's been a while!
Missed me? Anyone? ;)


Jan 2017 · 652
Substitute my Soul...
DEW Jan 2017
You're born,
you live,
you die.
Is there time to evolve?

Sometimes I sit cross-legged and I hum,
and I congregate with familiars to hymn,
and I congregate with warriors to gym,
and I smash keyboards to poeticize,
but it there time to evolve?

I will not let you substitute my evolution.
It is not some rabbit evolves from hat trick.
It is not some ******* nothing to something odd.
I don't know what it is, but you're not substituting it.

It's something weird.

I can go insane and wake up a god,
is that not evolution?
I can fall in love and become superman overnight,
is that not evolution?
I am the ka-me-ha-me-ha fusion of my parents!
I was,
once as worthless and aptly sized
as the penny under your bed,
but just you wait (you know what I mean)
I became big enough to rob you of common sense
and maybe your cents (yeah, about those pennies... can I sleep with you?)
I became big enough to hurl mountains across lakes (warning: stated objects are proportional to ants).
I became big enough to be the most insignificant speck on the earth, but I could nuke San Francisco and you'd see my handiwork from the moon,
is that not evolution?

Evolution is the survival of the fittest,
that's right,
every football player could be the next evolutionary link,
just wait until the end of the match,
you might be the first witness ;)

Tell me I'm not wrong!
If you say the opposite, you're a communist... (see what I did there?)
Is that not evolution?

What exactly are we passing through,
to get from where I am typing "a" to you saying, "Why'd he choose 'a'?"
from all across somewhere else where I am not?
Mouthful? Mouth full of what? Imagination?
Is that not evolution?

I don't know where I am sometimes,
and then I pull out a cellular doohickey,
and I command a machine 100 times my size
that's somewhere where there's no air or gravity
to tell me where I am. Sometimes I threaten it,
"I'll give you the AIDs equivalent of a computer virus you,
you... you pervert! Yeah, I know you know where I am every hour,
of every minute,
of every second,
so... there!"
You've got to give satellites the what-for sometimes.

I don't know.
I guess you don't believe me...
Is that not devolution? (See what I did there?)

Okay, okay, I'm not impressing you with anything,
neither wordplay nor swordplay,
neither hiccup nor genius,
I'll leave you with this.

What did the signing ape say to the other signing ape?
(Is that not evolution...)
Had a lot of fun with this one.
Writing three poems in succession can be a bit crazy, so maybe that's why this poem is so zany, hahah.


Jan 2017 · 949
Love is Poison...
DEW Jan 2017
Love is poison,
love is love,
love is hell,
love is above,
when in heaven, God rest your soul,
when in love, no rest for you at all.

Love is the poison,
love is the antidote,
love is the noose,
love is the hymn,
when in hell, sing, sing, screeaam away the pain,
when in love, I'll come back again, again... again.

Love is death,
love is cure,
hate is doubt,
love is sure,
when in doubt, hold out your hand,
when you're sure, she doesn't taste bland.

And still, I'm dying for love,
because love is poison,
and I will love only when it kills me.
I hope you enjoyed this :)

Jan 2017 · 532
In Your Hands...
DEW Jan 2017
Words like "baby" aren't depressing
when you quench me like salad dressing.
You're the drapery in my soul
when I think I'm empty, you know I'm whole.

I rolled out of the womb,
a lump of clay, motionless, fidgets,
screaming for love.
I shambled through life,
a *** forming, cracking, breaking,
searching for myself.
What I eventually found was precious,
but to hold onto this truth proved to be a war.
The chaotic braying of battle subsided
when you fixed me with your eyes
and crossed a room
that seemed the length of an ocean
to pass your living breath into my bones
and I was as an instrument
in your hands.

I was amazed to find,
that I too am your castle in the storm,
that I am your raft over the deep,
and I am humbled
despite feeling so powerful
because something so precious
lies in my monstrous hands
and this brittle gift
is what bonds the bricks of my flesh.

Like a piano, you play me,
and all wonder why I sound so well.
They look to you and they know,
through joys and broken plans,
I'll be safe
in your hands...
It's been a little while since I wrote something.
I had such conviction with writing, especially through the first half of last year, but you know... life :)

I'm trying to connect with writing in a new way, somewhere deep down. I guess I'll know when I figure it out.

As always, enjoy!

DEW Jan 2017
So many hopes have
been laid to rest,
snuggling tight and cozy
where all dead dreams lie.

There wasn't even time to say goodbye.
Oh, my fighting spirit is now a sleeping spirit.
It doesn't wake to sweet smell of fancy,
to the buzzing of bees and all manner of honeys,
It lies dead in the gutter,
or should I say,

The only hope I have left, is to lie of the pain.
To wish away the wash of bitter taste
and lie away the bodies of thought and waste.
I have died too many times to count the carnage
and how I massacred myself,
past, present and future,
there is no more potential,
there is now just a rein
lying slack for lack of force,
the beast was too burdened...

There is a constant whispering.
Voices from a place I dare not venture.
My hands are bent and scarred, like twisted puppets.
How can I mend these broken dreams?
I can no longer traverse the seams,
now torn
beyond are the hopes I knew.
How do I mend the horses?

Is it not the hand of God that restores life
to dead things?
Why do his hands look like mine?
If I do not believe in myself,
how might I believe in him?
As a popular Youtuber put it:
"What is life?"
It seems the only question worth asking and worth an answer anymore. What would we even do with the answer? You've got to think about that. Is the answer worth anything?

I keep saying in my head, "God, I can only believe in you if you show up right here, right now." If he's not showing up, it surely means he doesn't want to. Maybe that means I'm a scumbag...

If you're one of those people who's been living for so long not knowing what you need, yet knowing you need something, I feel your pain. I think I'll write a poem about that next.

I hope you've enjoyed this poem.

Dec 2016 · 1.8k
The Father I Never Had...
DEW Dec 2016
Grow up without a father?
That wouldn't be so bad...
Yet every broken man whispers
to his devil,
you're the father I never had.

My chains are my desires,
my eyes are your possessions,
and when I walk into the fires,
my lies are my confessions.

Just a taste of your flesh,
will bring me to life,
but if you depend on me
your heart is a knife.

My father was a ghost,
but I grew up
I sought bigger ghosts,
the devil in my throw-up.

You can run from what haunts you,
you can hide from your past,
but the devil will flaunt you,
up there on his mast;

because you're the fool
who sought comfort in gold
you would have learned,
if you could grow old.

I've been the king
in an ocean of sand,
not knowing choice
is in the palm of my hand.
The things only God can teach you.

NOTE | I came back and separated the fifth stanza into the fifth and sixth stanzas that they are now. I also wanted to mention, each stanza has a voice of its own.

I decided to name them according to stanza:
1) wrath. 2) envy. 3) lust. 4) gluttony. 5) pride. 6) greed. 7) sloth.

I hope this clarifies things and adds more depth to the poem :)


Dec 2016 · 340
She Was No Illusion...
DEW Dec 2016
As peacefully dying as the setting sun,
was our time together.

We did not long
to be apart or together,
but we drifted
kissed a farewell across
the ocean between.

It is on this day
that I
find ocean: guilty
It is not on looking back
but on looking forward that I say
dear lover that I never knew
I regret now loving you.

What does it say of the empty album
What does it say of seeds never planted
What does it whisper of happiness untold?
for fantasy cannot break the sorrow
of this moment.

It is the heavy pining that I gnaw at
like some lonely ******.
It's no **** that I build,
but a raft,
for I refuse to be an island.
Better to drift with the school,
learn common sense,
and remember not to throw away
new shoes.
But I remember...
running barefoot led me to

In the quiet night,
borne on evening wind,
her dress flutters, speaking beauty.
In the stillness of my curiosity,
I pace over to her,
I whisper,
"She was no illusion. Liberty."

"What was she?" she breathes

With outstretched palm,
"Take my hand and we'll find her..."

She smiles,
she shakes her head,
"That's not how it works..."

My brow furrows,
doubt weighs on my hanging lip.

She dashes off, running wild and

I give chase, laughing with glee,
for liberty does not run without me.
I came up with that line toward the beginning, "Dear lover I never knew, I regret now loving you," while washing dishes (not the first time that happened, LOL!) and, as usual, I had to write a little story around it.

I think this time though, I leave it up to you as to what the meaning is. It's too fresh for me to speak about what it means to me, because, I think, this poem came from a place I haven't paid much attention to recently.

Anyway, enjoy!

Dec 2016 · 676
Tears of Rain...
DEW Dec 2016
My darling, Nature, don't leave.
I was never good to you,
I love you.

I kissed your back with water.
I ran my fingers along your womb with rake
I burned the poison with fire
I withdrew from you, for your sake!

It was easy to stand apart,
wasn't it?
Yet you never left me,
no, no,
and I never stayed.

When seasons are delayed,
I never blame you,
I blame myself
I'm horrid
to abandon you
my Human Nature.
A planet unto its own.

Where are your gardens?
My mind? My soul? My heart?
Where are your temples?
My bonds? My kin? My world?
Where are your laws?
My books? My emotions? My life? My death?
These are all things I can grasp,
yet grasp no longer.
Things I can feel,
yet watch the bridges

And they say it is your fault,
Dare I call you by your name?
Dare I call you Human!

so many tears so little effort to stop them
and all our lives are washed away
because the flood is pain
and the end
I just felt like writing this one.
Maybe it's to myself,
maybe it's to us all.

Enjoy, but do think.

Dec 2016 · 1.1k
A Subtracting Symmetry...
DEW Dec 2016
Picasso had it right, you know...
there is no such thing as perfect.
Yet, there is gratitude in the flaw;
there is hope in the falsehood.

She appeared to me
as the manifestation of a fantasy.
I thought that
the perfection within her
blossomed her appearance as symmetry.

The madness
of my obsession cemented
upon her scent.
The string instrument
vibrations of my heart so nuanced,
so rare, yet, so familiar a dream as to be recollections
of heaven.
If she, living, tastes like love,
do delicious pastries
taste like death

The more I knew of her,
the less I knew

From our love,
so robust in its ripeness,
time gormlessly gorged upon us,
and we decayed,
like seeds in the apple
trapped and never to be free.

It was then that I saw her flaws
and it seemed they were "real"
The distortions grew numerous
and each beauty lost appeal,
peeling away to slowly reveal
the scars that Frankenstein
couldst never, ever heal,
for his monster's myriad scars
are the pillars of its humanity...

Picasso measured the conflicted angles,
and saw perfection would rob them of life.
It is the awkward jostling of misshapen things
that gives them movement, as they ever so try to
shift into place, but if they were to do so,
they would be as the yonder rock,
or the caged boiling soup
of ancient fuel all

I let her go;
I freed myself of
the death I refused to
become. And when she broke,
I told her,
"When you are whole,
you will be happy to break, again."
Break bread with love.
I had, until today, maintained the belief,
that perfection is simply the highest potential
of what we are capable of in the moment.
Yet, I have found myself constantly trying to achieve my potential,
ignoring the fact that I was not capable of potential,
I was only capable of trying.
It means that
Instead of reaching for the goal,
I should have been making the necessary steps
(one step at a time)
and not forcing an insanity upon myself of what I understood as
the full extent of my ability,
because the more I expected my best in each moment,
then failed to succeed and later regretted my "inability", the more I lost sight of the fact that some moment are meant to be,
simply enjoyed for their

You see, I lost my conception of value, and furthermore the ability to practice evaluation. This occurs when you lose touch with reality.

I won't go on and on about it, so, this is where my commentary ends today.

In conclusion: if we lose touch with reality, we have to get back to what we understand is real: our core conception of reality; and build from there... we may just find that we are remaking ourselves, as the person we were before was headed to nowhere, or to disaster... don't waste away and waddle in despair.

I hope you've enjoyed this! Peace :)

Dec 2016 · 69
Chains on my Soul...
DEW Dec 2016
This is the narrative:
I live a comparative nightmare
disparate psyches battle for clarity,
within one body,
the cycle's insanity,
but humanity is the parody of a benevolent charity.

I lead the *** of an army
and lay waste on the enemy
so heavy that the donkey
is appointed head of the EPA:
it's on the trump card.

I don't understand the garbage I spew;
so much waste that there's nothing new.
It all conforms into a deep black goo
that I must dump in the rivers, my pride, too.

There are chains on my soul,
and they are sewn into my flesh
so that I am caged in my body.
When something rots,
there's no room to breathe.
When there is pain, it is amplified.
When I wish to love, I am destroyed,
and this happens with every glance,
for I love at first sight, but I am destroyed
yet, the chains remain, gnawing,
choking, hanging me, please...
Let me free.
Writer's Note: The third weird one tonight, also from November 2016. Can you say, "Skeletons in the closet?" Or, "Existential crisis?"
Dec 2016 · 480
The Crush...
DEW Dec 2016
Under the weight of this elephantine sea,
of smiling faces hiding madness behind bitter glee,
I try to find myself subliminally,
while tucked behind the ear of chemistry.

I could save true love for a rainy day,
but I have to take things slow
light myself on fire
to smoke the pain away.
I've become a drug to every woman I've known,
the ones who kicked the habit
threw away the bones.

I used to sleep in empty coffins
but I'm trying to live again
trying to love again
but it seems
I only end up "friends".
I write the poetry
to climb the tree
to find the me
that you want to see,
but I'm left with the question...

"Am I not enough?"

Attention is a bluff,
it's the mating call of emptiness.
I want to fill me with you,
but you're a fiction in the blue.
It's the idea of filling that fills,
it's the false love that kills,
the ha-hah, he-hee,
to hide that you don't love me.

So I'm saying goodbye,
I won't write to you anymore.
No more love letters,
I won't be your *****.
I tried to impress you,
but you loved what I hated
and hated what I loved:
you waited above,
but I found you below.

I found that there's nothing,
nothing left to show,
the crush of elephantine sea
crushes more than flesh and bone,
it grinds more than my heart,
no, it crushes the soul.

It's not the crush I'm afraid of,
it's who I won't be after it;
I would no longer be myself,
I'd be the ghost of somebody else.

So I slip out of the sea
and into my life,
because if I don't land,
I'll drift off into nothing.
Enjoy the poem :)

Dec 2016 · 595
DEW Dec 2016
His footsteps lead to lost places
only he knew the journey;
for all else it was treacherous
they had no light like his burning.

When he drew near,
the horizons were lit as quiet embers that
rise, singing majesty to the heavens
as he rounds the Earth.

His laughter set babes to slumber and
their mothers would shake with desire,
yet none of this would stir him,
no warmth for lord of fire.

'Pon still surface of captivating sea,
a ripple racked the endless reaches
from it rose an alluring beauty,
such that sun seemed weary.

Lord of fire felt his power dim
from somewhere on Earth's rim
and sought out this source
of unyielding force.

There she was,
and how she tamed even
the dance of fickle flames
the lord she did astound.

"What have I found?"

Quick as a blink
the beauty did sink
and silence her visage
leaving lord disparaged.

He searched the sea,
unable to find beauty
no sea could sate this thirst
and erase what was seen.

There wasn't a sign
a glimmer sublime
of beauty to delight
our lord from fright.

His father chastised him
his brothers derided him
yet not fact nor fancy,
could quench him.

His fires grew fierce
they scorched friend and foe
"Where'd you last see her?"
I don't know... I don't know!

A quaking delirium
no sanctum or serum
could quench lord
and fight the flames.

The fires began to
do something tricky
they began to burn him
like a candle's wick.

His shouts pierce the aether
The heavens did respond
they put lord to sleep
mighty flames abscond.

In his dreams,
she was there,
he touched her hand,
he smelt her hair.

She was real,
how could he know
that he was asleep
an endless show,
but his thirst
was quenched
no fray, no throes
he knew what it was
to be drenched.

One brother crept by
and siphoned lord's fire
to become the object
of the living's hungry desire.

But an ember remained
in lord entombed
He's somewhere in sky
we call him Moon.
I'm so happy about this poem.
I wrote it in tribute to the song, "Starving" by Hailee Steinfeld.
That song does things to my heart... Give it a listen! LOL

Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this as I have "greatly" enjoyed it!

Dec 2016 · 372
Messages from the Womb...
DEW Dec 2016
Cast off your secrets
light the lamp
shake off the veils of slumber
indulge in the essence of life.

She calls
She calls to you and me
the Mother.
She speaks in the tongue of your soul
she is never a stranger
and when you listen
memories of love and bliss enchant you
though they were void not moments ago.

There is a chord still connecting us.
It is strummed when we love one another.
It is strummed when we share in selfless joy.
We are the instruments of this innocent music.
It coaxes the beast, our delusions, into its den.
We lock the gate and frolic in the fields,
safe from the weapons of our own chaotic powers.

The Mother invites us to her table.
Before us, the meal of life has been prepared.
It is whole in the giving.
She warns us to keep it whole.
If we give it back as one, there is a door she promises.
Who knows what lies beyond,
I want to go there...

Do you?
I hope you enjoyed this :)

DEW Dec 2016
Like cadavers are so many lovers.
Drunk on a table for two,
laid out and cut open
examined, weighed and cataloged,
cupid has your number.

He sharpens his arrows.
"Oh, how cute! He's like a baby!"
Shut it!
He's a monster.

It was nothing serious.
Angela and I were noncommittal,
it just...
I kissed her and she lost her footing.
Her legs slackened like climber's loose rope.
Angela fell, hard.
I pulled out the arrow. (I only wish I had disinfectant.)
She was breathing funny. I wasn't sure what bit her,
but when her eyes flickered open,
I felt the shame she would never know.
I looked up in time to see a fluttering of white.
A dove? I was too naive.
Angela started to get clingy. That's when I got stingy.
Soon, I began to ignore messages selectively.
Eventually, she was a fading memory.

Monica. Jessica. Lisa. Monique.
The story kept repeating itself.
"Get a grip, love was chasing you! Some should be so lucky..."
If that grip is cupid's neck, give me two handfuls, please.
I nearly stopped ******* around altogether,
haunted by feather after feather,
but I really just learned to play it safe.
Cut them off after a couple of weeks.
I'll never forgive Cupid, that rotten ****.

Her name was Felicia.

It was day thirteen.
I had my copied and pasted, "Sorry," SMS ready to go.
We were engaged in pillow talk,
it was nothing serious.
Sarcasm turned into playfulness.
We rolled over,
she had me pinned,
she nibbled on my earlobe,
and with artful tongue stroked
years of pain
from my soul.
She reared back.
Our eyes locked in mutual reverence.
We smiled and embraced letting our slick bodies revel in the moist residue of our tender frolicking.
It was then that I felt the itch in my shoulder blade.
Color and warmth fled my chest.
It was with a numbness that I let her go,
and reach back,
and felt the long spine of the arrow,
like the stem of a scythe.

The weeks that followed were a heaven
that I had always hoped not to enjoy
and felt ever more guilty in knowing my unfettered happiness.
Simple pleasures I once knew were then mountains of joy.
My passions magnified were as the flames of the sun.
I even feared I could turn her away with mentions of my love,
but this was not an unrequited venture.
We shared in admissions of our deepest affections.
There was not a moment passed in yearning of our old lives.
Even shedding light on our past imperfections was a delight
incapable of breaking the spell.
Truly, this is the purpose of youth; this love; this roaring of souls entwined.

Is justice blind?

I certainly felt this token of nature cast its judgment upon me.
No sooner than I had finally accepted my new reality, did I watch this sheltering bubble burst.
We weren't as open as I had imagined, of course, I shouldn't be so naive to think so.
She disappeared. I was distraught for what seemed like weeks, but.
I got a phone call.
The phone call led to a hospital. Within the hospital, a room.
Within that room, she lay on a bed, head shaved, smiling weakly.
I sat hesitantly by her side.
She grinned as she pinned me with a pink ribbon.
"You'll fight with me, right?" She said, as her eyes searched my soul,
quivering, yet there was a fierce strength behind the weariness.
"If I don't fight, I'll lose more than losing you."
She lay her head in my chest. A chest that could lend its power.
Looking out of the window into the horizon, I wished for things I never considered to be signs of hope. Yes, I'll fight...

In that moment of my life, it was as if I weren't alive.
Perhaps my body was waiting for me to return: sitting there, breathless.

Are brave words the measure of fate?
Oh, I wish this were so, yet some battles only time can win.

I didn't go to the funeral. I simply asked that I may scatter the ashes.
It was a moment for two. I stood on a cliff by the sea, a place she and I loved. I spoke to her, in ways I knew she deserved. I scattered the ashes, and I knew she had returned to the promise of life, a place beyond time and pain.

And so, time passes for me.

In time, I am ready to love another.
A familiar itch in the shoulder blade.
I know the arrow is there.
I look up and there is cupid, smiling.
No need to hide from a gracious soul.
I gaze and I whisper:

"Please, Cupid. This time, don't leave me breathless."
Enjoy :)

DEW Dec 2016
My passions, like a flood of magma, pool at my feet; caking, cooling, cementing... and I wonder why I am rooted in my beliefs.
This was a Twitter poem that I posted either late last year or very early this year.

Enjoy :)

Dec 2016 · 241
From the Heart...
DEW Dec 2016
Tiny necklace locket
resting on a rock
gleams in the sun
next to necks that met a gun.

I wonder why they left
left my soul bereft
of the dreams I wish to hold
oh, the story's growing cold.

They were dreams!
My dreams!
Whose do you think they were?
I was the one with all the youth.
You put your hopes on my shoulders,
didn't you?
So why did you leave me?!
It's not my fault I forgot the

The colors run from my face
and twist and turn
the drain
leaving stains that
I wish
were the mark that I'd be
satisfied with leaving on the world,
no one appreciates a colorful drain.

Even when the end of your life
is a paradise
does that justify the hell you've been through!
Don't you wake up
in the heat of summer
and wish the nightmares would just pour out, too!
Why is it that the biggest fish,
in the nets of our minds
are the angler fish and the puffer fish?
Terrifying and poisonous.
Rancid and unappetizing, because we leave them
out in the sun
afraid to touch our own dysfunction!

What justice is this?
My father wasn't father enough!
Why did he sleep all day?
When he died, didn't I already know he was dead?
Did I experience a déjà vu no more feeling than it was a jagged knife?
Am I dead too?
Is that why I think this is hell?
Is that why I wondered if there are souls? The confusion borne by still being flesh and blood, yet being so ghostly that I couldn't scratch the itch of my bleeding soul.

Justice? If you cry inside, does anyone hear you scream?
Can you?
Only when it's too late.
The last drop of the blood of your soul spent.
Mortgages! Taxes! Insurance! Loans! Employment!
Yes, please, they're all a merciless enjoyment!
A ceaseless tickling of agonizing fun.

What choice do we have?
The choice to tell those who tell you, to tell those to tell that person,  and on and on that it's enough!
We're tired of being told money is life-blood.
Why should my ability to live be based on how much dead tree you've been siphoning from the life of the planet I am worth? Am I a resource?
I'm sure that's in your audit, isn't it?

Citizen #11899382280 is complaining again, send him back for conditioning. Advertise some more bacon and send him to the hospital again so he's distracted, this will distract his whole family. We'll advertise a specific hospital he should go to to them so they feel compelled. When he's at that specific hospital, we'll shorten his life as our insurance. His family will think he's graying because of the stress of the heart attack, but it's really the drugs, which always look the same, yet are increasingly more destructive. We'll send Lawyer #448322783 in to talk about his retirement and will. The family has requested him, but Lawyer #448322783 works for us. Lawyer #448322783 will edit the will to suit our intentions. Once the will is arranged, we will increase the life-shortening medication, which will, in and of itself cause complications. We will introduce a catalyst to forego the critical time we have to avoid his otherwise impending and damaging insubordination. When Citizen #11899382280 is dead, we will retrieve the damaging and insubordinate files from his account and erase his existence. Were he alive, he would find this poem ironic that his emotions, being a matter of the heart, led to a death that was a matter of the heart.

From the heart,
Your loving government & your ****** life
Pain and suffering.
The face of our existence.

I hope you've enjoyed this.

Dec 2016 · 245
Forgetting the Forgotten...
DEW Dec 2016
I forget where I forgot you...
That place is a ghost land,
it's a dreamscape,
it's a netherworld,
where Styx was our path
and death was our guide
for into life we emerged
absent of one another.

When I remember that I don't remember you,
there is a gentle flutter of the heart
or the buoyancy of a smile uplifting the balloons of my cheeks
even the pull of earthly forces
a magnetism that I'm sure slams us into walls
across time and space
when we can't escape the force.
I'm forced to regret my shame.
My heart splits apart where glue,
like melting-hot pizza cheese,
can't protect the seams and my memory is suddenly

There you are.
Cradled in a vignette.
It's snowing, and I've fallen over.
My friend cackles next to our Quasimodo snowman.
You fear that I am a basket of eggs
sliding toward the precipice
time counts down
you fade
I smile,
and tomorrow
your haunting is a stormcloud
the past comes raining down upon me...

"Good morning folks, it's 97.8FML; look's like we've got repressed memories. Visibility is low. There's a sharp depression chill sweeping over. The tears won't let up; about 70litres today. Better have good wipers, it's looking like a long weekend. And now, we have a word from our sponsors. Kleenex."

The memory surfaced the same way you found me.
Out of the blue, like an angel: of death or of life, I don't know.
Sleeping is harder than catching butterflies.
When I count the sheep, they have your face.
When I think about you, it's a circus.
It's a mixture of laughter and staring into a wall; the occasionally thrown chair at an invisible lion and the whiplash of my dreadful anger.

It doesn't make sense. I last knew you in the time it takes to grow a forest. And here I am. In a thicket of bedlam.

I used to forget that I'd forgotten you.
Now, I can't remember you're not worth the memory.
So, it seems like it takes me a long time to process my emotions.
Maybe over half a year ago, I had this resurgence of feeling for my college sweetheart. It was strange. I've been thinking that I probably never processed the emotions properly. Over the past couple days, the memories came back again and I saw things in a light that I've been afraid to consider for, years. How does that even happen? LOL

Anyway. I was also thinking about the people we forget without even thinking about it. People we couldn't even imagine if our lives depended on it. I became painfully aware of that the other month or so, and now I've been keeping tabs on how I do it and I don't know what to think. I'm just confused. I suppose I care for the wrong reasons. Maybe because I've been forgotten by people that I wish remembered me. Anyway, this poem echoes that and probably many more things as well as the two aforementioned topics.

I hope you've enjoyed this piece :)


P.S. I've been thinking that writer's block is actually just a secret craving. We have to search our feelings and write about what our heart (if you want to call it "Muse" that's up to you) is trying to say.
Keep that in mind!!!
Dec 2016 · 427
In Reverence, Ignored...
DEW Dec 2016
What do you hold dear?
I've seen it.
Tasted it.
Owned it.
Thrown it away.
I've loved it, hated it, ignored it.
This is what we fear:

The primitives unearthed the obsidian.
Their eyes caressed its semi-reflective luster.
Their fingers ran along the smooth confines of purpose,
or rather, surface,
it was cool to the touch
and obsidian whispered its secrets
imparting realities the primitives sought.

Tree bark was no longer an obstacle.
The flesh of beast
land, air, or sea-bound
came away like loose clothing
and the people rejoiced, teeth all the whiter.

One day, whilst digging with his prized tool,
one man found a sparkling oddity.
It puzzled him deeply.
And so,
he unearthed it
and sought to reveal its
mystery, disrobing the dirt that clung
to its crystalline body this thing, this... diamond
in the ruff was beautiful, but truly,
what worth was beauty
in light of the fill
of belly?

The man put faithful obsidian
back on the shelf
and joined his hard-working brethren at the fire.
In the night,
a stranger passed through the village.

The man sat at his fire,
chipping the stone from the crystal,
entertaining the astounded onlookers
as he perfected the gem.
The stranger looked upon the diamond
and she delighted in her providence.

She stood at the fire of the meal place
allowing its haunting glow
to cast her face in flame and shadow.
She announced,
"Look upon his treasure.
This is no mere stone!
A fist of this
can buy you king's riches
in Assur.
This man cares not for that..."
And with that, she skulked into the shadows.

Those whose hungry eyes
spoke for their hollow hearts
came forward and pleaded with the man.
If he does not care for the stone,
mustn't he choose a kin who does?

"You care not for the stone!"
the man declared,
"You care for the debauchery of the city!
I must keep this to ward you from death."

Their pleading became insistent
then ravenous,
but the man defended himself,
until one deranged man,
drunk with the fantasy of the gem,
stabbed the possessor in the back.
Thence began the war for the diamond.

Who should be the
possessor of the diamond?
Bloodshed can be no true reward.
Bodies lay strewn across the floor in warring poses
teeth gritted
eyes glaring
one ****** palm sated with the prize.

The stranger danced into the bankrupt fray
snatched the gem from the dead grip
clutching it for herself.

She smiled her yellow smile that
by her sin
could only be cleansed
by the innocence of the crystal clear gem.

She walked off triumphant.

All around, obsidian glittered in the fires
that now fought to consume the village.
The first man crawled in the dirt,
like some blood-trailing slug,
trying to escape the inferno.
Trapped, he leant against a wall
and obsidian clattered to the floor.
He picked it up,
"****** are those who delight
in fill of fantasy,
o'er fill of belly!"
There, the fire consumed him,
screams and all.

How unfortunate it is
for the meek to pay the price
for the world's greed.
I love that spark of inspiration and what follows.
Kudos to all you poets out there who've influenced me to this point.
You've made me stonger, and for that, many thanks!

Enjoy this piece to the fullest :)

Dec 2016 · 489
Cardiac: A Rapture...
DEW Dec 2016
The heart. The errant symbol of restless devotion.
It can be a blind lover's hope, a buoy in death's dying desperation,
Or damnation to the wise, a martyr's foolish, festering, folly.
Be sure not to forget, that the heart is sure to die.

It will be diseased, before it is deceased.
It will be broken, before it is bereft of beauty.
It will be hopeless, before it is hesitant,
And in that pause before the final blow,
It shall weep its last tear, and love no longer.

If betrayal is dealt with a kiss, then pray tell,
What is the sign, that heralds love's abandon.
Any moment, any breath saved for eternity,
Is snuffed out in the most glorious fashion.

Calm before the unapproachable sigh, and
Still no whisper of frustration from me.
I would still be strong, if I were to say,
That I am no longer passion's, patient, prisoner,
Or cupid's, aimless, trusting, intrepid, target.

He wouldst claim me heretic before heir.
Hair like the winter white, sprouts 'pon my scalp.
Signs of my bitterness waning in the wash of wine.
For we are all grapes, longing to be sublime.

Were I to count the leaves from June to June,
Where in the world, would I find love soon?
Would I learn that life on a silver platter,
Is useless, enjoyed with plastic spoons?
Surely any fork would do, unless the meal forbids it.

Foraging amidst the gardens of Eden and Amazon,
The animals wonder at my perplexity, my regret.
How could they understand, these apes and snakes.
Up in a tree, there it shone. A familiar shape, for me to long
A ripe, red, resonant fruit shaped for open hands.
The apple shook in branches, fading like.
The heart.
I'm trying to remember, but I can't ease the forgetting: I'm pretty sure I originally intended the title to be a sort of pun.

Anyway, we journey into the past, 2010, once again.
I used to read "way" more back then and am only getting back into that mode of mischief of late... too late, in my opinion.

I hope everyone enjoys this one :)

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