Stirring
it seems the ground is stirring
With those who have been long forgotten
By those who are slowly rotting
The blackened sky silent
in mourning for those lost
The crescent moon somber
as it shines down upon the forsaken
Not a sound, only the stirring
The constant movement, the restlessness
No creaking limbs from barren branches
No mellifluous whispers from the wind
Nothing to mask the stirring
That horrid dreaded stirring
A cold blanket shrouds the grounds
Trying to quell those who are abandoned
Trying to silence them
Trying to lay them to rest
But it is a distasteful embrace
A cold and unpleasant embrace
Tomb to tomb
Grave to grave
Each so similar, yet so different in their ways
A different epitaph
A different life story
But it all ends the same way
With a fleeting thought and a relinquishing sigh
Death gives them a subtle kiss
Before they could ever say goodbye
The air has a bitter taste
That of sorrow and tears
Of those who were once remembered
Of the ones that stir
But as death can never be avoided
And time waits for no man
Slowly, the tear stains on the markers faded
And those that stir are left in waiting
A solemn and grimly sight it is
To see what awaits us all
A dark descent into hollow ground
Where we shall turn from something to nothing
It is a fate that is inevitable
a destiny that is unavoidable
To become the stirring that lies beneath
Where we shall, as well, wait restlessly
But there is something that has been unnoticed
An aspect that has been overlooked
The sweetness
There is something sweet in the air
A light-hearted scent obtruding the trepidation
A superfluous aroma cloaking the anguish
What is that wondrous scent?
What is that which makes the dead stir less?
But a vibrant arrangement
A beautiful bouquet
Of exquisite pink carnations
And lovely blue forget-me-nots
The flowers seem to be smiling
Wistfully smiling
Warming that which is cold
And lifting up spirits that were once so low
In full bloom
they seem to be singing
Singing a soft melody of tranquility
Comforting those that stir below
With a reminder that they are not alone
A reminder that we should all heed
That we will never be forgotten
So long as there are flowers for headstones
We shall never be utterly alone.

I can't write and it scares me,
To think I've penned my last poem.

Life is more frustrating
Without my words on paper.

The ink is dry,
My mind is idle.

The words just won't come.

I stare at blank paper
And it terrifies me.

I can't fill it with words-
It's like a curse.

The words,
They just won't come.

I envy the writers writing,
I envy the poets penning.

My inspiration is gone,
My muse has died,
The words,
They just won't come.

I try to write,
I can't finish a

The words they just won't come,

So I write about how
I can't write.
And suddenly,
I can write!

The muse is alive!
The words,
They have come!
And suddenly,
The world is a little brighter.

And I can finish a thought.

“I’m an easy crier,
But sometimes I cry the hardest.
And my laugh doesn’t sound too pretty,
But I always laugh the loudest.

I’m a fast talker,
But I don’t lisp as much anymore.


I chew my lip,
I can’t tell you how many smiles
I’ve faked,
And if “I’m fine” is a lie
I’ve lost track
Of how many lies I’ve told.

Because I wear my heart on my sleeve,
I’ve earned quite a few battle scars,
But my heart’s always been for
The underdog.

I’m misunderstood,
Sometimes I laugh when I shouldn’t,
Sometimes I speak when I should only be seen.
I’m thin-skinned, not exactly loud-mouthed,
But if you gave me the choice
Of whether to whisper
Or shout,
I’d scream for all I’m worth.

I mess up,
I freak out,
I have nervous ticks,
Sometimes I use cop-outs.

I worry too much,
Sometimes I overthink,
Sometimes I don’t think enough.

I should be more careful,
I should be more selfless,
I need to practice grace,
Be less worried about my face.

But all these things
Make me
Me.

And yeah,
I need to be more selfless,
I need to not be vain,
But I’m going to have my struggles,
And someday they’ll be my past,
But I have good qualities too,
And they’ll always be part of me.”

Love, the real kind, is never simple.
It is the one thing that makes life worth it in the end,
and something that wonderful and sought-after is never going to be easy to get.
You have to work for it.
Blood, sweat, and tears.
So if it’s easy, yeah maybe you won’t get broken.
But you won’t be truly happy, either.
You’ll be settling.
Don’t get me wrong,
There are lots of things in life that are totally acceptable to settle on.
Sure, Harvard was your dream school.
But you know what?
Going to your state school because its more affordable
Will still get you where you want to be in life.
And I know the hairdresser couldn't match the color you showed her,
But you are beautiful and can rock it anyway, so don’t worry.
But love?
Settling in love is like buying a pair of shoes that are a size too small,
Just because you thought they were pretty.
They may look nice,
But you are dying on the inside. I
f you had just held out a bit longer,
You would have found a pair just as beautiful that fit well, too.
Maybe that nice guy looks good on paper,
But if he doesn’t give you butterflies whenever he looks at you,
Don’t be with him.
You want someone who makes you fall for them every day,
Not just once.

It is on rainy days that I miss you the most.
The drops splashing against my window
Echo
Echo
Echo
Through my empty aching heart.
I can still feel the imprint of your body on the left side of my bed
Where sometimes I roll into
Roll into you
And fit there the way that we so perfectly do.
Your sweatshirt embraces me
Drowns me in you
Where I'll float in your warm arms.
Oh god
I can't breathe
Missing you crashes over me like a tidal wave
Raindrops like gunshots blow holes in my serenity
I need fresh air
I need your sweatshirt off
The rain should be like icicle knives
But they're
Butterflies.
Pitter patter fluttering on my face.
Raindrops wash over my skin
Stripping away my insecurities
I feel clean.
I feel your fingers sliding over me again.
Gentle and healing
I still miss you
On this rainy Saturday.
I glance into a puddle
Oh there you are my sunshine
You're never too far away.
Your heart is always holding mine
But still it is on rainy days that I miss you the most.

Like the chef who hates to eat
The playwright who cannot act,
The clothing designer, a nudist,
The brave hero, so shy, a stammerer,
The musician, a deaf mute,
The architect, who live in a tent,
I am a writer who hates to type, for his fingers disconnect his eyes, his brain his insane

I am the father, who knows not his own children,

I am the man who hates to shave, and shaves twice daily,

The man who knows nothing of nature, but writes
in and of it constantly.                                                      ­

The man beset by endless money worries,
Who gives his capital away to charity in increments of thousands,

I am the man that never passes a street beggar,
Even the obvious frauds,
Without giving them a bill, and a god bless you,

I am the man that would gladly die young whose
Mother lived to ninty eight and gene'd up him good,

I don't know what you want from me.

I write to please. But I seem incapable of
Giving, paving streets with words you what u want to hear.

Moon, June, pill, ****, me me me be crap on this

I am the chef who cannot cook
The nudist ashamed of his body
The stammered into silence
The mute who screams inside till deaf with frustration
I writer of thin air, the unfair. I know not what
You want of me.

But I weep with frustration at the paucity of my expression,
Good god my final destination not close enough

In the hands of strangers, rejection
In mine own, verbal strangulation
Even

Whatever

Is
Insufficiently
Disdainful

Painful
I cannot give you enough of/if me to satisfy

What is it you want from me

I will write to displease

Why not do
What I do best
Anyway
Secure that this voice
Is lost among the voices
Answering

*whatever