letting loose old chains
you and your wry laughter
defeated by the day old machines
of life and their constant clogging

time's hands tear into spring
nail first, peeling off the light constricting canopy
twisting barbwire off delicate skin
strangling you on a couch from hell

wake up to the smell of bourbon
and dead roses - so pretty
your lashes creating the shadows
on your gaunt cheekbones, and your name is Soul

but it was just a picture
or a painting

Yet I saw people walking
a funeral procession
or a celebration
I’d never walked like that in a crowd
not for a cause
or a memory
I wanted to care as much as they did
but it was just a picture
or a painting
It was in another part of the world
across the ocean
or the street
That part of the world is different
I’m not there
I don’t know them
It could be as bleak as ancient snow
from a memory
or a picture
Buried within five hundred pages
of a lost book
that was subversive
But that time passed long ago
the author is gone
as too his outrage
And so the minuet ended abruptly
they were disappointed
or just not ready to stop
The world was outside the window
sadists bent on order
no matter the cost
The room was silenced as they left
the sight of love comforted them
and they knew where it went
Away… always away
inside another heart
another life

It was just a painting though beautiful
how could someone know
how could they believe
But there was no time to touch the paint
it was only time for dreams
and to heal open wounds
It was time to think of a branch tapping a window
while a child wondered
wondered of his fate
But who would make him care beyond himself
he had a heart
but it was just a picture
Or so I thought
it was just a painting or a picture
yet I wept for its life
It was as real as life itself
it reminded me
of people I never knew
I wondered if he cared about others
he needed to hear a song
played by a genius
Would it stir his soul beyond his doubts
to write of suffering
and the tragedy of love
Like the people who silenced the room
because they were not in love
they had only danced together
Things are not as they appear sometimes
especially a painting
or a picture
You don’t know why they did it
the moment is gone
as is the feeling
But so many want their suffering known
does it help them
or all of us
We have to be able to care
and not assume
that it was their fault
That is why a painting is so much better
it’s not real
so suffering is not real
There is no suffering in the imagination
how could there be
it’s just a thought
But what imagination cannot think of others
could it ever be a painting
or a picture
Could it ever be if the painter didn’t suffer
for others
for strangers
Could a boy that was never alive change the world
a boy who could not sleep
because the world spoke plainly
Outside his window ready to enter when asked
but it was just a painting
or a picture
The artist neither closed her eyes or her ears
not to life
yours or her own
It was no longer a moment of gaiety
the boy was her own
and she wept
Though it was just a painting
or a picture
of her own imagination
And she wanted his father to say these things to her

"I want to tell you something
I’m in love with you
yes it is true
I see you smiling
but I want you to listen
this is the time for me to tell you
I can’t sleep
I worry about it too much
and I wonder if I can make you happy
So instead of all that I just want to say how I feel
we can talk about life later
but I want you to know that in this time in your life
I was in love with you
and it was real
and it was true
I don’t want to think about it anymore
I just want to say it
and I want to say it to you
In my dreams you never say anything
because I’m chasing you
for to love someone like you is a dream
A dream that is about finding myself
wondering if I am worth your life
because your life is everything to me now
And I know how important it is
I want to make you feel alive with passion
and I want you to think of me
when you want to be like that
I want you to think of me
when you are ready to give yourself away
when you want to fly there
To a place so high and far from your past
to a place that not even you could dream of
And when you give yourself away
it will be into my heart
there is so much room for you
But I wonder if it is enough
the weight of loving you is upon me now
but I’m ready my love
Because I love you
and now you know
because it was time"

but it was only a painting
or a picture
And she painted until her heart bled
and her hands
and her eyes
She bled until the painting became a curse
she could not look upon it
for it was her life
We would gaze upon it and gasp aloud
because of her capacity to suffer
and to tell everyone of it
But it was not to protest but to draw us near
for we were to numb to her heart
and to the wars written about long ago
It was incredibly personal
more than we would reveal
to anyone not a poet
She didn't care about this anymore
it was the only way to be free
though it was more than we could bear
But this, this was the way home
walking together
in a crowd of flowers
In common cause with her imagination
for we too wanted to live
inside a painting
or a picture

So someone would remember

When I was small
I walked on fairy dust and
my dreams were as tall
as skyscrapers towering
above the universe
inside of me, was the galaxy.
I was born of the cosmos,
full of light and love
passionate in my quest to
give this to others.
But as I grew my star began to fade,
stars need love and light to survive
and deprived of both my blazing fire
transformed into weak candlelight.
At school I had learnt it was easier
to hide your light
than to stand out as different
and be extinguished in an instant.
So I kept myself to myself
at the back of the class,
knowing the answers but not
shouting them out.
I daydreamed, and doodled
stars on the corners
of my books, all the while
I could hear the universe
calling out to me to trust,
that we are all born of this
cosmic stardust.

Age-assumptions are allowed
where youth is concerned
because --
EVERYONE WANTS TO BE YOUNG.
But truthfully,
the gift is not in the youth itself,
but in the young people.
Just as with people of greater age,
young people have talents, strengths, and wisdom.
The difference lies in our perception that
youth have more time to realize their potential.
That they will, in time, become something great
-- and yet --
the challenge really should be for all,
that we grow past our labels
realize our potentials
and become who we're meant to be
TODAY.

I hate the fact that I can come up with stories for people who never lived,
Or a poem about things that happened when I was a kid,
But I can't figure out how to remember the quadratic equation,
And nothing good comes out of my power of persuasion.

I have no idea what comes out of having a creative mind,
But not being able to do complicated math in record time.

I hate that I would rather spend hours coming up with a metaphor to describe the panic I feel,
Than learn things that are supposed to help me make enough money to pay for even one daily meal.

I spent more time trying to write this,
Than I ever would trying to understand functions and statistics.

But writing ****** poetry isn't going to help me,
When I don't even have the slightest idea what I want to be.

a dream—
of landscape scorched,
its reflection my
soul.
the place one oft ventured
wandered—lost,
alone.

thunder,
lightning in the distance, the
rumblings of a
turbulent mind.

the ash of failed dreams
drifting
through the air,
strike as rain breaking silence—
a nagging reminder of effort’s shame.

angst, regret, fear
despair
a place damaged,
not yet under repair.

a flower
shocking contrast amidst mire.
perfect white petals perched on the
stem of a pen.
“My name is poetry.”
the instrument spoke,
“and you—are my purpose.”

so the stars are hiding
tonight...

perhaps they make a deal
with the clouds,
so every now and then,
they can kick back,
drink a beer and go
to the movies....

it must be hard,
to keep your twinkle, sparkly
night, after night, after night,

everybody....
even the heavenly ones deserve some....
                        down-time.

am i right or am i right!!!!

The people I meet
Seem like forgotten voices
In an old, long dream.
The sunlight on my skin
Seems like the faraway light
Of a ship disappearing at sea.

But the clouds, the clouds float by
Suspended chaos amidst the trees.
'Neath my torn feet, swirling grey and white
The mist has no form; shapeless, like me
If only, if only...