This is my something
for the day
I'd better make it
good enough

When these words are penned
back I'll crawl
to my warm, safe bed
once again

This is my something
for the day
I'd better make it
deep enough

Things I feel between
wake and sleep
must settle somewhere
here I choose

This is my something
for the day
I'd better make it
sharp enough

Validation earned
only through wit
"Look, I'm clever, see?"
give me love

This is my something
for the day
I'd better make it
true enough

No lies on this page
so I say
but do you believe
my quick tongue?

A single strand of cobweb
buffeted by the strong winds
passing between
the steel bars it bridges

A home, a trap, a project
abandoned
for a better location

If I were that spider
there would be a full web
built on this crumbling foundation

I am a poet
who cannot spell
I prefer to love words
with my lips, my tongue
the inflection in my voice

its not that I don't like
writing
the action of ink on paper
but sometimes I **** up
and I injure a strong
colorful
word with my pen
and the shame of this
is enough to keep me distraught
if only for a few moments

because I love words
all words
especially the vibrant ones

I love the soft curve
of their voluptuous vowels
and their sharp corners
consonant collarbones

I love the words
who's many meanings
swiss-army swap
them into sentences
where you would not
expect to find them

I love soft words
who hiss past teeth
with a susurrus
and I love long
complicated words
with edges that could
cut. you. right. open.
with vitriolic intent

I could have chosen
any one of dozens of
lovely
words to fill that space
but I chose one
that I could not spell

Maybe it wouldn't be so hard
if I didn't always write in pen
but I am a stubborn man
who finds it easier
to forgive a few misspellings
than to live with the knowledge
that all he has written
will someday smear

My previous tendencies
so exhibitionistic
serve now to only
make me sick

From here on
I will raise the walls
of the house
before I detail
the basement

I rarely edit my work
I prefer the fresh
green
words that sprout in the moment
There is something disingenuous to me
about letting someone
even a later self
uproot and replant my ideas

My mother wants me to
let the editors inside
she wants me to open my sanctuary
to the norms
the opinions
the pen
of the world

I'm afraid to touch my own words
because god loves ugly
because
I
love ugly
what would happen
if I let
them
touch my thoughts?

I think therefor I am
so if they help me think
am I still?

give me your downcast, your ugly, your broken
the grit and the grime of your teeming mind
I lift    my       pen, I peel back the wool
this is life, there is no golden door of escape

complacency is sickness
have I found it
of from it do I flee?

today i feel hollow
for writing nothing
but irritated texts
my intent
penned in action
both half truths
spoken confidently
like a well practiced reading

today i feel treacherous
for not fighting very hard
letting this ground
disappear beneath me
sinking without struggle
welcoming the warm embrace
of the oh to familiar
the persistent 'friend'

today, i feel trapped
for being where i am
this room, this mind
this life story
i don't call it mine
i would like to pen that one
with a lazy ending
cause i've never finished strong

today i feel dangerous
don't touch me
i need a warning
label, **** this repetition
lets break stained glass
windows lets litter in
the streets lets
burn our parents masterpiece

today i feel open
but tomorrow i may not
creaking loudly as my doors
close quickly, don't be caught between
these swings remain risky
running a hot glass
under cold water
shield your eyes

Do you remember the way things were when we were so small?
Do you recall being reckless and never answering phone calls?
Do you remember being carefree and always standing tall?
Do you miss having your chin up and thinking you had it all?
Because now you are stuck in between these dreadful walls
Because now all you feel is loneliness as you walk down the hall
Because now you realize nothing really meant anything at all
Because now, all you do is fall.

I do not understand what "in the moment" is
I've always drowned myself in the past, focused wholly on the unpromising future
What is happening right now, does not matter to me
What will happen in the future, scares me
Everyday I wake up surrounded by the same concretes
The same ones that echo my silence when the moon greets
I am tired, I am exhausted
I am tired of this momentary bliss
*I despise living this life of pretend,
forever wishing to start again.