Jun 2020
Morning frost
lays crystal sheets,
steaming in
the early heat.
Autumn breathing
steep release,
surrendering
last leafy green;
final piece
of creaking tree
won't let go
so easily.
Achieved by
a tease of
frigid degrees,
reason's razor
sharp, now cleaves
between stability
besieged by treason
and terminal
velocity agreed,
competing speed
descending free;
earthen dirt
eagerly pleas
and receives;
turbulently earning
unpredictability,
it careens.
A final sigh,
falling relief,
I hold my breath,
freeze expectantly;
winter seized
as seasons leave
seed buried
somewhere
six feet deep
beneath dry bones
and brittle debris,
lost in all
of eden's weeds,
covered in
a snowflake sea,
icy geometry impedes.
Heart, a beat,
syllable speaks,
rhythm repeats
infrequently;
silence broken
for a moment,
it meekly greets
and peaks,
exhausting extreme
expediently;
though gravity
its greedy thief,
time denies
my soul to keep;
not dying yet
in faded defeat,
mortality has
still not ceased;
just enough
life left to lead.
Still hope to be
and blessedly believe-
a flame to flicker
in the breeze
when you need
the light to carve
through dark to see,
if only ever our meeting
but fleeting and
happening briefly.
Dark circles
and a ******
of crows' feet creased,
show me deprived
of sleep, fatigued
on the eve of
dreams, leaping;
as the sun sets
in the west weeping,
reflects again,
blinding iris
rising east,
horizon breached
again eventually;
coronary arteries
won't concede
until this vessel
bleeds empty.
lays crystal sheets,
steaming in
the early heat.
Autumn breathing
steep release,
surrendering
last leafy green;
final piece
of creaking tree
won't let go
so easily.
Achieved by
a tease of
frigid degrees,
reason's razor
sharp, now cleaves
between stability
besieged by treason
and terminal
velocity agreed,
competing speed
descending free;
earthen dirt
eagerly pleas
and receives;
turbulently earning
unpredictability,
it careens.
A final sigh,
falling relief,
I hold my breath,
freeze expectantly;
winter seized
as seasons leave
seed buried
somewhere
six feet deep
beneath dry bones
and brittle debris,
lost in all
of eden's weeds,
covered in
a snowflake sea,
icy geometry impedes.
Heart, a beat,
syllable speaks,
rhythm repeats
infrequently;
silence broken
for a moment,
it meekly greets
and peaks,
exhausting extreme
expediently;
though gravity
its greedy thief,
time denies
my soul to keep;
not dying yet
in faded defeat,
mortality has
still not ceased;
just enough
life left to lead.
Still hope to be
and blessedly believe-
a flame to flicker
in the breeze
when you need
the light to carve
through dark to see,
if only ever our meeting
but fleeting and
happening briefly.
Dark circles
and a ******
of crows' feet creased,
show me deprived
of sleep, fatigued
on the eve of
dreams, leaping;
as the sun sets
in the west weeping,
reflects again,
blinding iris
rising east,
horizon breached
again eventually;
coronary arteries
won't concede
until this vessel
bleeds empty.
EDIT: I might be expressive but I'm not a very prideful person (probably to a fault) but I'm especially happy with how this one turned out (honestly I would even say I'm really proud). I can never tell if the rhyme/structure is too distracting for people because I read over it so much myself, but I'm really happy with it just for me.
EDIT 2: Sorry, I'm gonna use a sun, promise it's not vanity, my stuff just doesn't get much visibility on here (not that I care about my monkey brain hitting the dopamine button with internet points, it's just nice to be heard, otherwise why write, right?)...
I know it sounds weird but I feel like the voice I write with comes from outside of myself, like I'm compelled to say what comes out without consciously thinking about it so much... the method I use to write is unconventional... I'll start out with a word or turn of phrase in mind knowing what I want to express or show with the poem, then I'll find all the rhymes I can using words that generally fit, then I shape them into what I want to say.
I definitely don't believe 'it's my calling' or anything supernatural/religious, but it feels like it's the closest thing to channeling/tapping into some sort of spiritual essence/communion (even though I can't logically allow myself to believe in any sort of literal divine energy, that's just the closest I can equate)... and it feels like i write for the same reason the birds sing and the grass is green 🤷♂️ I know to anyone else it's just poetry (and any art is subjective, who cares about poetry in 2020?! 😆), I could never delude myself into thinking it's any more than it is even on a personal level (my mother is schizoafffective based around religious delusions that developed from a personality disorder and it's genetic, ill likely always have particular barriers against it myself, unfortunately), nor is it any sort of mania... it's just certainly nice having that sort of outlet (I would even argue necessary to a degree) even if it doesn't amount to much.
EDIT 2: Sorry, I'm gonna use a sun, promise it's not vanity, my stuff just doesn't get much visibility on here (not that I care about my monkey brain hitting the dopamine button with internet points, it's just nice to be heard, otherwise why write, right?)...
I know it sounds weird but I feel like the voice I write with comes from outside of myself, like I'm compelled to say what comes out without consciously thinking about it so much... the method I use to write is unconventional... I'll start out with a word or turn of phrase in mind knowing what I want to express or show with the poem, then I'll find all the rhymes I can using words that generally fit, then I shape them into what I want to say.
I definitely don't believe 'it's my calling' or anything supernatural/religious, but it feels like it's the closest thing to channeling/tapping into some sort of spiritual essence/communion (even though I can't logically allow myself to believe in any sort of literal divine energy, that's just the closest I can equate)... and it feels like i write for the same reason the birds sing and the grass is green 🤷♂️ I know to anyone else it's just poetry (and any art is subjective, who cares about poetry in 2020?! 😆), I could never delude myself into thinking it's any more than it is even on a personal level (my mother is schizoafffective based around religious delusions that developed from a personality disorder and it's genetic, ill likely always have particular barriers against it myself, unfortunately), nor is it any sort of mania... it's just certainly nice having that sort of outlet (I would even argue necessary to a degree) even if it doesn't amount to much.
