Poetry is just taking

Fear
Pain
And anger
And forcing it into words

Poetry is simply taking

Sadness
Depression
And anxiety
And giving it rhythm

Poetry is merely taking

Worry
Love
And broken hearts
And making it a pattern

Poetry is taking these things
And writing it in blood
Pouring your heart out
And giving them life

I'm looking forward the moment when I'll be fine again
I can't remember the days when I didn't feel this pain

If only you told me what I was about to go through
Maybe now I would not be this broken heart to rescue

I want to be happy, to laugh, I want to be complete
And most of all, I really need to be back on my feet

No matter what it takes, I just want you out of my mind
But it seems like all you did, was to leave me colorblind.

He never taught me
how to perform
the art of the jump-shot.
I simply watched.
He would dribble down
the clumsy circle
of our carport, back up
behind the exomaed bicycle
and detach his body
from the world, against
gravity’s insistent pull
and fade into a legend,
his wrist becoming a swan
pecking toward the sun.

He never taught me
how to arc a blade,
the gripping bite of a razor,
against my cheek.
I simply watched. He would
lather his face with foam
and I sat conversing with him
as the blade giddily glided,
graceful as a demi-god
reaping the crop of auburn
from his then young face.
When I tried, as a teenager,
I nicked my upper lip and
only harvested my own blood.

When he grilled, he flipped
the meat like an ace of spades,
magic in his wrist revealed.
When he drove, his hands
and feet became extensions
of the car. When he drove
a bus, his eyes sought all angles
of the road, chatoyant caution
in the flicker of his iris.
When he fiddled with our old,
beaten, mellow-toned guitar
he was articulate though
he never knew a chord’s name
nor what song erupted from him.

He read the Bible, but kept
the gospel in his eyes, at the tip
of his green thumb. He read
the Koran, the Torah, the words
of Gotham. I read how he
sought truth, beauty, in all
people. I simply watched him
traverse the dividing line
between saint and stubborn,
between sinner and relinquish.
If there was ever a man
after some God’s heart, he was
one who asked questions
and lived into the answers.

He kept his hands clean, kept
his chin high and mind
was always lofty and companioned
with a world of dreams.
He would often stare out windows
sitting at the dinner table, and I
knew he was living into a prayer.
I never asked what he was doing,
never asked how to do what he
could do. What my Father taught me
was to listen to my own inner voice,
no other’s, and if I wanted to be
a man, I was to simply watch
what a man did for that spoke
a language more fluid than air.

He loves women
As much as he loves
Himself
Promising her the moon
While handing the stars to another.
A consumate poker player
They never see the truth
Hidden within his eyes.
If he kept one eye on the table
He'd see she has upped the ante
And her heart's at risk

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.