Poems are stupid,
So corny
So pompous
So pretentious! feigning to express what we all know is inexpressible
Personally, I hate my poems
They're absurd, gaudy and shallow, and I know it
Yet something keeps me coming back
Sometimes against my will
An invisible force pushes me, violently or softly, it depends
And I can't keep from writing these little pieces of folly

Please don't write
If it doesn't come bursting out of you
Please don't write
If it doesn't ooze out of your every pore, whether you be willing or not
Please don't write
If the feelings you speak of
Aren't truly your own
Or if you had to use a rhyme dictionary, or a thesaurus
Please don't write
If it doesn't seem like the words are molten lava
And are burning you
And writing is the only way to keep from getting scorched
Please don't write
If you're doing it for others
I beg of you
Please don't write
If the words don't barge through your fingers
And detonate in your brain.
If the sentence fragments don't erupt and fly out
And gush forth
And you don't feel that you need to put it all down before they pop and shatter your insides
Then please
Don't write

They cut down the old oak tree,
The only place I ever truly felt free,
On top of hawk hill
Its branches were tender arms
Its noble leaves full of mysterious charms
That oak tree and I- we were made of the same stuff
I was flesh soft and thin, he was wood thick and rough
But our essence, our core- it was the same
We were both something that no one could tame
I laid in his arms no matter the weather
And sap and blood throbbed together

It seems like places to hide
Just aren't around anymore
Though there used to be so many
I can't seem to find any
But lord knows I've tried

They clean my room
Mop, dust rag and rough broom
And take down the pictures, the memories tacked on the walls
And hide my old dolls
Because I'm too old to enjoy dolls

It seems like places of solace,
Secret and flawless
Really can't be found
Be they above or underground

I'm big to fit in my old tunnel
My secret, arcane land
Where I used to be able to stand

It seems like finding places of retreat
Has become an impossible feat
Places to love, places to pray
Where are they?

My spot in the basement
Magical despite the smelly mold fumes
Has been filled with old strollers and ripped costumes

It seems like places special and hushed
Have been annihilated and crushed,
Have all but disappeared
Isn't that weird?

But perhaps they have become so rare, so incredibly rare
Because we lack the art of simply receiving
We lack the art of simply perceiving
What is so freely given to us
We search instead of discover
Investigate but don't notice
We sift, unearth, and probe
But we lack practice in the delicate art
Of simply stumbling upon

He's lying in bed paralyzed
It's made me all so fragilized
White walls, blue box, and twisted head
On the silver hospital bed
He says no words, just garbled sounds
His jowls shake like a basset hound's
He points to what he wants
On the little paper, nothing to flaunt
Images, memories, all they do is haunt
What do you think of when you lie
In bed, when your only future is to die?
While life races by, a baby is born
Without a grandfather, will the child be forlorn?

Death is the sturdy turtle
Slow, relentless
Victorious

Life is the flighty hare
Quick, lazy
Defeated