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Find solace in solitude,
There is no shame in that.
We are unknown to ourselves
An ocean to which we delve.
Scarcely coming up for air,
Entangled in fathoms
Whirlpools of despair.
Waves of introspection
Spare us shallow reefs
Yet cast us into darkness
And the horrors of the deep.
And so here we are
Page after page
Hearts on fire
Exposing parts unseen
Beneath harden surfaces
Wounds unclean
Broken still we dream
On and on we pen
And so we breathe again
When did loneliness in a crowded room become a goal?
Eavesdropping on inspiration; indolence.
Like my art, pockets of brilliance are found
in the wreckage of a market town
with nothing left to sell. All those discordant
ideals of escape and of nothingness.
Still waiting for that ***** of light
which must always break through.

Isolation becomes a component of personality;
a need for space in overpopulated surroundings.
Like my art, pockets of living
congregate in moments torn from the clock face,
in lines of laughter and grief; the five o'clock champagne.
All that revel in maladjustment,
all who laugh at death,
those who had given up on The Lie.

When did my life reduce to words and symbols;
stealing poetry from the street-preacher's leaflets?
Like my art, pockets of reason
form amongst the senselessness of meaning;
how love sits different on every tongue,
how wine hits sweetly only in the need to run.
I have grown tired of running away,
this stalwart need for acceptance.
A want for a panic room,
a need to fall to pieces, undisturbed.
C
It is 16:18. It is April.
Winter has thawed and all feels new
now that I can sit outside without discomfort,
without pale, immovable hands
and a wind to unsettle my thoughts.

My first beer of the day,
no idea of when the last will be.
An ashtray of previous cigarettes;
two of them are my own.
Always the follower of better men,
of charlatans and well-travelled fools.

I refuse to be a consumer,
yet I live to consume;
the pavement beneath anxious strides,
the warmth between her ethereal legs,
the drug still in my system,
the cold sweats in a half-empty bed.

My first crisis of the day,
exchanging money for a quiet place to sit.
To find my poison, toast my newfound health;
a wealth used to line my stomach,
or else to devour a box of cheap wine.
My last day off work,
last chance to sour in a sulk,
to gawp at the shapes in the ceiling,
to stay up through the Sandman's song.

When will I learn to turn with the world?
To not cling on in desperation
through each changing, unfolding scene.
C
Follow the echo of dissimilar climbs,
wavering landscapes, silhouettes;
undulating skies of cloud and shadow.
Old peaks left to weather,
as pills carve the plateaued mind,
all ribbon and bows,
all the flowers left by the roadside.

There is a blanket of darkness
and yet always a small box of light.
It illuminates the path, allows for a splurge
of words, of honesty - after all the lies,
after all the pills that gave sleep;
a soft defeat, the irregular streets
and the memories left by the roadside.

Follow me through my choices of word,
shifting coastlines, marionettes;
a body moving in a slow disease,
mental health ailing; the red, red wine.
Those pills came and yet still I remain,
stubborn as a **** on a concrete street,
perfecting the Bojangles walk,
the drunken fool,
the wanderer left by the roadside.
C
I wouldn't call them scars. Our bodies are ancient calendars marked with times and places. Tonight, you are not real. You are the desperate ocean lapping at the shoreline trying to take back the secrets in the bottles cast off by lovers, and children, letters to the dead sometimes. They are not your secrets, but they came to you first. They are full of feelings you have once felt or will feel. The bottles glisten in the sand mockingly, beautifully, painfully, like window shopping for jewelry you'll never be able to afford. You never expect to want the glass back after it has been pulled out of you. But the stories inside are your stories now too. You cast them off in the same manner hoping somone better than the sea will find them. The story about your cancer, your mother, the love you feel right now, the love returned, the time you thought of the beauty of a flower, the flower you killed to show someone how beautiful it was, the realization of the importance of stillness. All those stories like broken bottles in your skin. Like jewels encrusted on a big brass door leading to a room you live in. But tonight, you are the ocean at high tide, finally getting your bottles back.
As per request from a friend.
I wish the traveling circus were still around to run away to. It's not about being afraid to leave as much as it is needing a place to go. But my father was a mountain and my mother was a hole. And we're caves, mouths open and full of the cold. Been sitting so long myths have been made about the things that live inside us. The children come on dares to look in there. And yell in fear, at first only to have those sounds echo back. Then they laugh. There was never anything to be afraid of. Our bodies are full of that noise. Mostly the laughter. It lasts longer. It feels better. But is easier to forget because no one ever learned anything by laughing as much as being brave. You have to be scared to be brave. And moving from this place takes the strength of an earthquake sometimes. But you should know, your hands will never be big enough to hold all the rubble when the mountain crumbles. I remember when the cancer hit. The chest x rays from when they removed the portocath. Backlit, your chest resembles a busted cemetery gate from some ghost scene in a Sherlock Holmes movie. Broken. From letting all your ghosts go. And don't focus on all the things your hands can't hold. Your head fits just fine. Your hand. Cupped over your mouth to catch all your sighs. Can hold a cup of coffee to give to someone. Flowers. A poem. Tonight. Tonight you realize you're a mountain twice removed. A marble statue. So strong and so beautiful people will come a long ways just to see you.
Recycling some old metaphors. Why not?
The first thought in morning is there she is
The last thought at night is there she is
Each precious moment between those two I dream
I see a future
A happiness that shadows even this
A happiness that brings tears to my eyes when I think about it
A happiness I find myself questioning because I can't understand how something makes me happier than I already am
I can't comprehend
I don't follow what is happening
Where my dreams lead or what my mind does
All I do know is that every moment with her beside me is precious
Every minute text is a gift
And every thing that people take for granted is something that means more to me than life
She makes me smile
She makes me laugh
She makes me feel even better than I thought she would
Ahe loves me and I see it
And I'm happy
With her
It is just her
Her and I
Her and I verse the world
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