There’s a solid blue pen,
As blue as Zankynthos caves,
As a calm mediterranean sea,
As the eyes of the creature
That stares back at me.
Translucent blue plastic skin
With simple white insides.
A grip that’s too large,
And shiny silver details.

Made a dime a dozen
In foreign lands far away;
Crammed with its twins
A hundred pens, all the same;
More than anyone wants,
Sent by boat on blue seas
The same color as the pens,
To be left out on store shelves,
To be judged by passersby.

Finally, it was bought
To sign laws and bills,
Letters and documents,
And secrets and gossips.
Meant for one purpose,
To be under the domain
Of one human master.

But this pen belongs
In another man’s hand

Ditch Digging

I look upon ***** hands
Unclean in their deeds
Of shoveling their last pit.
For all those sad little things,
For all the past pains,
There is this one grave,
Dug out in the night
To hide all the shame.

Looking mournfully back
At one man’s miserable life,
At one man’s miserable wife
Who covertly snuck away
On a night just like this.
She left to find her real love
In the darkness of the sky,
Only to sneak back home
At the dawn’s first lights,
Only to find her husband
Waiting awake patiently.

Peeking back to his job,
Of a boss who would deny
Every request for a raise,
And every pitiful plea for
Just a couple more days.
The boss who always drank,
And smoked, and yelled,
Who always made passes
At his employee’s wife,
And would call his house
In the middle of the night.

Thinking of his two
Most precious daughters,
Who were the most cute
Of all the little girls.
Those innocent fiends
Who always took their
Spoiled mother’s side,
And would make life
Miserable for their father.
The two girls that looked
More like the man’s boss,
And would barely pay
Their father mind.

As the poor man dug
With his short shovel
And his tired hands,
He thought of all his miseries,
And those who did him wrong,
And how in this 5 ft trench,
He would fix it all.
The faithful pup that turned wild,
And now tries to rip out his throat.
Of the bus driver that steals his change,
And gives him spit in return.
Of the corner shop bread baker,
That only sold him stale baguettes.
He would bury all of them,
And make again, his happy life.

The grave digger finished,
And he washed his hands,
And climbed into the hole,
And fell deeply asleep.

Rose petals fall,
One after another,
Ticking time of
Wilting flowers.

One petal for friend lost,
One petal for dead dog,
One petal for time gone,
A last for constant pain,

A wilting rose,
Has not a name,
Lost its color,
Hates lover’s game,

Flower sits pretty,
For a time it stays,
In the best vase,
A handful of days.

One petal for loss,
The other for grief,
Pink petals for lust,
Black for jealousy,

The flower is nice,
But soon fades away,
Turning dark black,
Petals piling up.

Just throw them out;
Have no more pain.
No more keepsakes,
Only memories remain.

Fading smiles and happy eyes
Of the picture from good times.
The wear of years has done its work
Upon memories and photographs.

As the color blurs
And the gloss rubs off,
So too, does the remains
Of the emotional stains.

Looking back at the past,
Through third person lens,
Remembering the stories
That took place that day.

But the corners are ripped;
The edges are torn and frayed;
The light bleached it white;
And water left sagging spots.
It’s only a piece of paper;
Wood pulp and ink in the end.

So the photo is pushed back
Into a box of others forgotten,
Just a jumbled stack of history
Rotting away in my brain.
They are still most important
But I go out to take some more.

I want everything to be still;
I want wars a thousand miles away
To stop causing explosions and children’s screams.
I want movies being filmed as I speak
To just disappear and never be made.
I want all the butterflies to die,
So they won’t cause any more hurricanes
To pull me away from the words on the page.
I want all to be silent, motionless, and calm,
So I may sit here and grow old with my book.
I will sit here reading and rereading the simple lines,
Until vines grow over me and hide me from the world,
Until time stops caring whether or not I die,
Until I turn to stone, a monument to myself,
And even then, I won’t put down the book,
Until I know the meaning behind every word.
The ones I disagree with
The ones that I love
And even the ones that make no sense at all.

Then I’ll be content,
Being forgotten by everyone
And everything

I want to go to war ;
Not for glory and valor or duty and honor,
Not for some government’s victory fantasy.
I don’t even believe in killing,
And yet I still want to.
What a sad sight it would be to the soldiers,
The trained psychopaths who grew up,
In families that took away their fear and weakness,
(Their soul and heart as well)
Who were taught from birth to hold a gun against someone’s head
And shoot.
They will look at me, and
They will laugh until the veins in their over muscled necks pop,
And then they will laugh some more, and
Say” What the hell?
Who gave a pacifist a gun?”

And I will tell the murderous
Merciless
Arrogant
Brutes
“I want to rob a bank as well.”

And they will stare at me blankly
And inquire of me “why would a ***** ever,
Ever,
Ever
want to do something dangerous?”

And I will simply give a knowing smile
And reply
“I’m jealous,
I’m tired of only being a monster
Inside my head.”

Welcome to my humble abode,
My mind, my heart, my soul,
My madhouse and my prison,
My open fields and dark caves.
Come inside and see,
Where I play out all my fantasies
From simple walks
On sunshine beaches
To chanting crowds
After great speeches.
In one room, I play dress up
With many faces of different sorts.
In another I just repeat one thing,
“I love life”
A million times a day, just to believe it.
You are welcome to wander
My labyrinth of many halls,
Where you might find
Temptation gremlins and inhibition faeries at play.
You can walk through this castle’s yard
On a winding path that never ends,
Passing the shocking sculptures and hedges,
Kept by the half mad, half blind gardener.

In fact,
If you so crazily wish,
You can spend all your time here,
Peeping in to my inner workings,
Finding wonderful things,
Devilish things,
Things that make no sense,
And things that should not exist.

But I warn you;
Don’t try to understand the order here.
Don’t try to pick up any meaning.
Don’t touch anything, don’t get involved,
Or you might get lost in here
And become another voice inside my head,
Going about the rest of your life as merely a
Whisper