Magazines, newspapers, letters strewn across
every table.
Flowerpots, paperweights, nick-knacks atop
every remaining empty surface.
"Tacky" was the word that first came to mind.
Ledges, counters, and all but one chair are drowned in the mess.
The last chair is the womans.  She used to keep a few other chairs vacant in case of company, but
as she continued to grow slower she couldn't make the effort

and an extra chair was never needed anyway.

Sometimes a voice in your head will tell you that you are a disappointment.  Look that thing in the eye and say, "You're a disappointment!"

Then realize that you are still shouting negative things at yourself in the mirror.  Second thought, don't.  Please don't take advice like this from me.

why must time progress??
i need to take a rest
each falt'ring sentence brings
me closer to my death

Having the sudden urge to hug someone, but restraining yourself because you don't know hour they would react.

It's not the shadows themselves that are alive.
The darkened places are where you hide the thoughts you dare not face.

What did you expect?

Because a thing may seem cliche won't mean it isn't right.
Warm sunbeams, drumbeat thunder, and the clash of dark and light.
Or just because it's overused, don't say it can't be true.
Old words and phrases well describe my burning love for you.

I have a particular fondness for snort-laughs.
They are among the most graceless, horrid, undignified, embarrassing, beautiful truths in the world.

You didn't want to admit that the pun was amusing and give them the satisfaction.

You didn't want to break the societal norm decreeing silence and sobriety.

You tried to hide your innate childishness so condemned.

You needed to keep up whatever stoic, unfazed "cool" facade someone once suggested you wear.

You clenched your jaw against the giggle, but the spurt of it could not be contained and was released as a jovial exhale.
Graceless.
Horrid.
Undignified.
Embarrassing.
Beautiful.

I don't mean to only express myself
Let's turn our gaze outward to something else
Because really, we're nothing
reflections and vapors
our lives seem so long to us then as time tapers
down to the end
it's
getting faster again
and it's time that, my friend
in this time that you spend
looking out for yourself realize your wealth and your life and your thoughts they are
just
so
small.
I'm nothing at all but a freckle of dust
but looking around there are millions of us
there's a picture out there taking shape so we must
have courage and dare to strip off all our lust for
our own affirmation
our self-presentation
must find a foundation in something much bigger than us.
As you cry to be heard pause and listen to hear
for when long you have listened the Light will draw near
and you'll find all the words that you cannot deserve
so please gather the nerve discontent to preserve
And climb outside and point out to the stars over hills
and from you the joy and the knowledge will spill
For expression is best when it's not just for you
My confession is this, let it always be true.

Some people claim that special intuition
to know another person's thoughts and mind.
I do not.

I did not read her like a book, so I read her like a poem.
Her words did not arrange a neat picture of who she was.
So I listened.
I felt
and I paused
straining to hear every moment.
Envisioning.
I reflected, then I listened some more.

I saw patterns repeated,
the strain
and the wince
and I tested hire they felt on my own face

After learning a bit of backstory I flipped back through
what she had said and let the context take effect.

I saw stanzas, couplets, and rhythm

I did not analyze,
I felt,
Hearing her song-story.

I might be wrong.  I might have projected too much of myself, or glanced over a detail.

I can not recite her story or show you her heart,
but I listened to her poem and that is all that I can do.

Have you ever thought that
the weight on your back
might be never-used wings?

Something is stirring inside me.
It urges me,
Surging through
Nagging me.
move, grow, fight, dance.
I miss the quiet and yet
I dread it.
Right now I can not **** nor calm this yearning
And yet I am afraid it will die a natural death before long.

One
Two
Three
Four
Se conds of your life just passed
Five
Six
Se ven
Eight
Did you think that this could last?

The enchanting, unearthly fog
overwhelms the parking lot
and my small romantic heart.
This drab field of concrete becomes
a magical fen
the place where epics and legends unfold.
My feet lift lightly through the damp
and I dance with the shadows
transformed by the mist into something
fantastical.
The street lamps beam fantastic eerie rays
in to my wonderland domain.
Am I a storyteller?
wanderer?
faerie?
I think I am the beloved of a great Lover,
pursued with gossamer dreams
and romanced by sacred light.

A crackle of a shell
being torn
cast aside

The flutter of a wing
new and fresh
limp and weak

A squeal from the child
watching close
eyes are wide

The  waiting and the rest
little wings
strength to seek

The wings are now stretched out
orange and black
beating slow

A flutter and a cry
take the air
sailing strong

It lands and then takes off
up again
high and low

It's lilting towards the clouds
out of sight
flies along

Fare thee well, young butterfly.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

Right now I am
thinking in poetry

line breaks

word shapes

stack sounds in strange ways

Is this how it is meant to look?

Maybe it would look better
feel nicer
sound clearer
if i put in fewer spaces.

Do I want all punctuation?
Properly formatted sentences
can be difficult
to rhymatize.

Is rhymatize a word?
I think so.
Red squiggles underline.
Wait...
Google says no.
I still say yes.

Now I digress.
But does that work?
Should the flow of ideas be neatly outlined, or come freely as my thoughts?  Perhaps I should spill the words out all as one in unbroken strings of color and thought the way they feel in my head unsaid
occasional rhymes and occasional beats and breaks keep changing

is this poetry?

Do
random line breaks
really take
prose
and
make it poetic
or
do
I
need to do actual
work
and find a form and stick with it?

For now today
I'll lilt and play
around.

Every poem a new experiment, another chance to try something new.

To play with rhythm, feelings, and sounds, to meticulously arrange language into a perfect unbroken form,

Or to simply see where the thoughts take me.
Should my real point be what is said, or how I
am saying it?

Sometimes the saying itself is the point.

I dare me to be happy.
I dare me to be strong.
To not be blown back and forth be every wave along.

I think that I have courage
it might not be enough.
I dare myself to not grow hard while also growing tough.

A tender heart, a gaze that's firm.
Instead of sulking I will learn.

Mature and determined without growing proud,
softly I will pray out loud.

I'm working to be happy,
I'm working to be firm.
I might not be there yet, but trust and pray that I will learn.

I dare not listen to the news.
I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse.

Torrential cries and senseless violence
I look past to hold my silence.

Is this so wrong?
It's not as if
My worrying the world will shift.

I do not know if it is right,
But I will skip the news tonight.

A shuddered sigh, then some hope inhaled.
A wince of distrust, yet a heart unveiled.
A cautious smile leaves a little too late.
And a hopeful look rises to the bait.
A tensed up brow begins to relax,
For peace and joy have been too long taxed.
Sorrow still lurks in the back of the mind,
But reluctantly it is left behind.
A cautious faith is restored anew
And I open myself
back up
to you.

It is there in the grasp of the hand of a friend.
It is there in the shade of a tree.
And yet I forget it again and again,
So draw me back down to my knees.

It is there in the tear, in the jolt through the heart.
It is there in the storm that is braved.
And still it pursues me through cold and through fire.
It follows me down to the grave.

It never can die though it flickers in me,
And yet I forget it. I fail to see

Now remember the Source, oh! remember, my soul.
The proof in the pain and the calm.
And cling to the signs, all the proof of that Love.
The fire, the wind, and the balm.

be gin and it seems there is so much time left / pro ceed ing and speed ing much fast er a gain / craw ling and march ing the mo ments count down / the tick ing grows loud er the se cond hand 's shou ting and fas ter yet slo wly i'm fro zen a sleep / i'm thin king in slo mo time's spee ding and surg ing a round de com pos ing and what do i mean  ? what can i show for the min utes i'm was ting ? i need to be mov ing like there 's no time left / can i get some where make some thing be fore the end ? move me to trust you build some thing be cause I can 't / ev er y se cond i'm dying i need your breath /

Lightning.  
Brutally shocking, burning, destroying.
A sudden flash, out of nowhere with striking speed and power.  

Then thunder.  
A rumble,
low, distant, and spine-tingling; a hovering fear, a looming threat.  
Or a crackle--
fierce, sharp, wild, unpredictable.  
A jolt.  
A deafening, heat-stopping jolt.  
Not just near you, but inside you.  
Burning in your chest, pulsing through your blood, freezing on your skin, screaming in your mind.

It ends, but it doesn't leave.  It remains, hovering in the air and burned into your soul.  It echoes.  It fades, but it remains.

Looking at myself I cannot see
The One who sees inside of me.
Stuck in my head I'm not aware
Of everyone
Out there
Who cares.

The cold bites my nose
And the frost chills my lungs
And the wind is stinging my face.

But outside in this moment I'd rather be here than in any more comfortable place.

A shout.  A cry of triumph and all is silent.
The blast rings back through time and foreword to the end.
The chaos of battle, the order of music.

Beside me are others.  The breath erupts through us and we shout or sing through pipes of brass.

Triumph.

An end, a beginning, and all comes together
Now glad in song, now fierce in battle.

Triumph, alarm, and a final blast
From when I have said enough at last.

My soul cries out for truest peace
But flesh trades rest in mindless ease.

My soul, it yearns for truest love
But flesh says pleasure is enough.

My soul will strain for freedom dear
But flesh holds comfort out of fear.

My soul will long to show pure love
But my flesh decides it's done enough.

My soul wants selfish thoughts to break
But my flesh will live to only take.

"Enough," my soul arose and said,
"I will not rest 'til Flesh is dead.

"It can't be done in just a day,
But I will fight and find a way.

"I'll struggle hard as it holds on
And grapple with in 'till the dawn."

I'm choosing not the path of ease.
Now I will fight for truth and peace.