Even the peaks of Everest will soften and dissolve one day.
So fight the gravity no longer.
Become a river, an ocean, the rain.

The Small Brush in Hand
Just like a Magical Wand.  
So many Colours to choose.  
Nothing much to loose.
Out he went to Paint the Wall.
Following All the Protocol.
Too bad his efforts were wasted.
As that Wall was already  Painted.

i am the insanity painted across the walls.
the pestilence growing behind your teeth.
the walking contradiction.

together we are the red string, and i am the seamstress.

i tied us together during my tour of heaven;
after the angels revealed my fate
as a word prophet
sealing our fate.

What
makes
A poet

Well
I think
Eventually

One will
just
know it

©  2019 Jim Davis

Pen Can Write
Pen Can Draw
It Can Even Paint

Pen can fill Colours
In Shapes and Drawings
And in peoples Life too

Pen has Sympathy
Pen has Empathy
Pen has Emotions too

Pen can Heal
Make you feel
Calm and cool

Pen can save
It can control
The way we behave

Pen Can Fight
For your rights
And for others too

Pen can **** colours
From peoples life
And make it pretty hell

Pen can help you
****** poor's property
And make you very rich

Pen can throw
Culprit in Jail
Or can even grant him bail

Pen could be Cruel
Only needs some fuel
Then it could easily burn

Pen is Sharp
It can Cut and Wound
And Make you Bleed

But is it really the Pen
Or the Hand and Mind
Of one who uses the Pen

Pen is a Weapon
Pen is Lethal
So handle with care

Hello ghosts of my old conversations,
I hope you’re doing well, I hope you’re doing swell.
I’ve held off analyzing and questionable relations,
I know it’s hard to tell, I let it drop after it fell.

So pardon me for the pity party,
but life’s put me in my place,
it provided me with it’s greatest gift
and saw me put it all to waste.

While I’ve been battling consciousness,
you can only see a glow in the darkest nights.
So I walk along to escape what I wish to repress,
and continue on with a saga of streetlights.

Hello hauntings of my old meaningless mistakes,
I see you’re standing tall, I see you’ve found your call.
I’m lacking heart and still it yearns and breaks,
I should no longer stall, I’ll think I’ll construct a wall.

And oh how those ellipses, how they cut when they clip me,
I’m feeling blue, falling into you and play it off like I’m tripping.

While I’m picking prisons instead of flowers,
I close my eyes cause I could never set my sights.
I waste the minutes but it feels like hours,
and I’ll continue on with a saga of streetlights.

Life is like an empty box,
no, not a box of chocolates.
Lately I’ve been creating static with my socks,
and sticking silverware into the sockets.
And I went to lock the door
but I couldn’t turn the **** just right,
I froze up just like before
and I clenched my fists too tight.

So while I’m battling different versions of me,
I won’t hope to win, I’m too experienced with fights.
With a broken leg and a notoriously bad knee,
I’ll continue on with this saga of streetlights.

My daughter sleeps to the sound of the ocean
softly, gently rocked
forth and afar into dreams and nightmares
a soft static blanket
the assonance of water

My daughter sleeps
to the sound of an ocean that she has never heard
a loop of imagined waves that have
never wet her feet
she has never run screaming and laughing
from the imagined horrors of seaweed, foam
Tangaroa’s arms enfolding her

As my daughter sleeps, I cry
as salty as the swells she’s never seen
in this landlocked room
slowly falling from my cheek
to land on hers
a soft saline baptism

As my daughter sleeps, my thoughts fly
wondering how I can fill her
with the awe that something as elemental
something as capricious
something as beautiful
can exist in this tattered world

but still, my daughter sleeps