I'm a rainstorm
You think I'm done, and then
I begin again.

~

Sad Existence


It is a sad existence, that of a poet
with flowery phrases and disguised meanings
Tossing out happy faces like quarters
splashing in a wishing well with no bottom

Painting heartstrings in an amber shade of gold
lingering silver linings losing their crease
in frayed bottomed hip huggers
that are long out of style

Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper
collecting lines in neat rows and margin’d desires
lips fluttering and eyelashes batting
well below the league's average

Whispering notions of sheer delight,
tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood
through narrow corridors finding
locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine

Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream
all the while knowing that when they awaken
pen in hand, ink at the ready
these dreams shall never come true

It is a sad existence, that of a poet…who believes their own dreams

the  future  is  coming*

I'm often reminded of this when
the other students in my class
ask me what my major is.

“Liberal Studies,” I say.

The follow up question is always the same cookie-cutter inquiry.

                        “So you want to be a teacher?”

                                                      “No, not really” I say.

                                        At this juncture the person who is blandly     asking the questions begins to express
genuine interest in what I might do next
in the “real-world,”
spiked with a fear of the unknown.

“So what do you want to do then?”

I've come to realize that this is the point where most of my passing conversations with peers are brought to an abrupt end.

“I don't know.” I say.

And there it is, out in the open, lying on the floor-- the ******* future. I search their eyes and find panic,
                                                    then doubt,
                                                                ­ followed by pity.

I have officially shared too much information.
Figures. Honesty  creeps  people  out.

We part ways with, “Oh, that's great” or “I'll see you around!” and march forward to that inevitable, tantalizing ***** that is the future.

I've found that when I express a modicum
of trust in the world,
                                            it is often met with an alarming dread
                                           and concern for my prolonged well-being.

I am without a plan, so naturally-- there's a problem.


That if I don't have my calendar
              marked up through to the second coming of Christ,
                    at some point all of my limbs may simultaneously fall off.
Or I may simply cease to exist
           and all the joys of life will slip through my fingers
                                                       as I descend into my faithless pit
                                                                ­   of poor-planning.

I'd like it if everyone could just breathe--
get your cell-phones and computers in class,
and live in this moment.

Because yesterday is today
                         and today is tomorrow,
                                      and there is no future more important than now.

Until then and philosophy aside,
I guess I'll keep careening on the edge of reality
with my thumb up my ***
because god forbid
you become anything
          like me.


                                                           ­   -r0

I went in headfirst, never thinking about who what I said hurt
In what verse, my mom probably got it the worst, the brunt of it
But as stubborn as we are, did I take it too far, "Cleaning Out My Closet"
And all them other songs, but regardless I don't hate you
Cause ma, you're still beautiful to me, cause you're my mom
Though far be it for you to be too calm, our house was Vietnam
Desert Storm and both of us put together could form an atomic bomb
Equivalent to Chemical Warfare and forever we could drag this on and on
But, agree to disagree, that gift for me up under the Christmas tree
Don't mean nothing to me, you're kicking me out? It's 15 degrees and
It's Christmas Eve, "Little *****, just leave," ma, let me grab my  coat
Anything to have each other's goats, why we always at each others throats
Especially when dad, he broke us both, we're in the same boat
You'd think that'd make us close, further away it drove us, but together
Headlights shine, and a car full of belongings
Still got a ways to go back to grandma's house, it's straight up the road
And I was the man of the house, the oldest, so my shoulders carried
The weight of the load, then Nate got taken away by the state at 8-years-old
And that's when I realized you were sick and it wasn't fixable or changeable
And to this day we remain estranged and I hate it though
-Eminem