I only wish to see the artist play
a game that does not interfere with this.
A portrait of a mind that doesn’t stay
in line with what is taught to all our kids.
A nuclear weapon set to self destruct
a tiny tear in threadless high design
an addict who is honest to the rug
to which he whispers into every night.
I want to see the artist make a dent,
to smash the frame until it’s fine enough
to form into a line he might regret
and breathe it in until he can’t stand up.
How obvious the stakes become, at last
when every perfect piece is printed fast.
I never wish to grow old
and become numb to the things
that bring me life, laughter & love,
the most prosperous gains.
Instead of gray hair, I ask for budding wisdom & truth.
I'll trade a life with ten cats, for ten short years with you.
I'll dream away time.
Into space & spirals.
I'll trace your wrist with my thumb
just like when we were young.
complex internal struggle with everyday changes and ever wounded emotions
found this from a while ago so why not share it
splatters the ground blanket the ground
on a cold on a calm
autumn day autumn day
a bitter, biting wind a cool, rousing breeze
meets the meets the
piercing sun warming sun
beating down shining down
on dead, littered bodies on thriving, vibrant flora
skin turning emerging from
an ugly scene a brilliant display
of man's loss of nature's victory
war-torn, battered endless, infinite
by the to the
Sorry this poem may not appear correctly on mobile devices.
maybe you just consume yourself with your whole
"system of conversation"
maybe if you listened, you wouldn't have to think so hard,
wouldn't have to worry so much, or second guess yourself.
maybe if you lived in the moments of silence between words,
you would understand what you're not just misinterpreting,
but simply missing.
I go on, but it's all over.
side tracked, distracted,
not forgotten, just broken.
all these words just more to float over your head with the rest.
where did you go? will you be back soon?
I never really see you anymore.
It's not like you're a stranger,
more like a dark, faded puzzle.
Your words are filled with Socrates,
and your lungs with burning leaves.