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Riq Schwartz Mar 2012
It's your sunday best
that no one ever sees again.
When its written down in stone,
well no ones questioning it then.
But when you stand confronted
with the parents, brother, friends,
how can you say:
I never really liked him anyway.
Riq Schwartz Aug 2014
I heard clockwork songs,
sprockets and cogs
lost, stolen tocks
swept through swift hands,
and ticks slipped by
whistfully shy and shallow;
lapping up time in
long tongues and trappings
on and on, anon
singing suddenly daylight!
Laughing larks earnest for tomorrow
while we, heart shot in sorrow,
swallow our pride, hide
face first
while versed well in this chorus
crowing, "See! See!
It is sleep that damns,
these dreams, contagion!"
Step we back,
through stars never sleeping
as we wound tightly with
lunar ties
to the tides of these cardiac shores,
sanguine swells
beneath onyx allure,
dampened air, dew gathered in reverence.
We were immortal
until daylight.
We were wrought with cast shadows
as indomitable as dreams.
Yes we were.
Like dew to fog and
stars to sun
and we may just
dissolve like
de_ to fog nd
s to su
d we ay js
issove _ie
e t_ og d
s to u
a_ w ay s
sov_ i
e_ _ _o
a t
_ w_ a _
s_ _i

Riq Schwartz Aug 2012
Don't tell me that you love me
'Till you find a way to hate me
And still like me all the same
Riq Schwartz Nov 2013
The best of you
I find
are writing words
my mind
is taking them
and molding them
as clay
when all my thoughts
are tired
I lean on you
and start
to feel myself,
my heart.
Quickly cranked out before work; I'll likely revisit later, to pay proper homage.
Riq Schwartz May 2014
The sound of flesh tones
takes me back to you,
The flavor of your words,
the smell of snow
sending your skin crawling;
windows pain and
suffer in ice.
We perch precariously
hardly inside my car,
bleed into night
breathing delicacies
into the hollow air,
our hands full of each others'.

If this poem had melody,
it would sound alarms.
Sickly sweet thumps from
drums dripping discord
hard lines
lead down
lead down
lead down
Keys to carry our
lock-boxed thoughts
overseas, we
are just unaccustomed
to these breeds
of attuning, intoning,
singing serenades
in shameless shades
like ghosts of each other
found only here,
some haunted isle.

I hear your breath in the fog
See your body like a moment
Taste you bitter in recital
like some copiously black coffee
which your tongue taught me to love.
You burn my hands,
my lips,
my lungs.
You burn.

Syncopate and center,
taking this legal pad
for some sort of joy ride
to break all the rules with.
Warm now beneath tips
of pen and ink and finger,
blues bleeding;
You stay, still
stuck in my mind,
impervious to scrawls,
and immune to memory,
yet found in songs of
another's composition.
Riq Schwartz Aug 2013
I'm putting on my flowing cape
to contrast against these
skin tight words,
delivering truth, freedom,
beauty, hope,
love, joy, ***, war
hate, passion,
and emotional genocide

I'm flaunting my anatomy
in mis-measured feet,
peculiar textual bulges
with evidence of discrepancies,
and wondering why
the mayor won't call me back.
I don't have any answers to anyone's problems.

Sometimes I like to think I do.

In those moments, I'm sure I seem this stupid.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2018
All I have to do is, "Hello, how's it going?"
and the scene is set.
Some swell of social masochism
stuck inside my head at best.
That step one is a doozie,
but not taking it means staying in.
So going out's the other side, ****
seems I've lost my coin again.
Alright then.
Here, let's try this then.
"Ain't seen you in a while, man."
-Been busy. Girlfriend, house, and job.
-No time for getting out a lot.
-I'm moving next month, see ya round.
Oh. Now I see.
Seems everybody else but me
is doing fine, is growing, building, going,
getting paid and getting laid
and all I said
was, "Hello, how's it going?"
Now I know. I'm either made
of stoic parts expressing little
keeping down these feelings brittle
cracked, sharp spines in blood seek sunlight
or to contrast this, they just might
be the other side of same.
I mean, they could be saying things
convincing arguments of health where
they don't have to face themselves.
Regardless. I'm unguarded
and this talk was quite unhelpful.
I'mma go now. Think I see a friend who just came in.
I'll try again.
"Hello, how's it going?"
And I'm answering this time,  I'm fine.
I'll take a double short
with *** and coke and wedge of lime.
Riq Schwartz Oct 2013
I'm slipping,

stepping silently through
mountains of air
whipping this clay shod body
earth and sod and
stones to small to see

I'm stuck,

this pen wedged within
my corpus callosum,
not big enough to handle the task
not up not *****,
doesn't have the stuff.

I'm all.

Honest, to the tip of each hair on my head
cut and styled, and put into place;

truth bubbling out
from behind crimson painted lips;

but so that I may not mince words, / there is nothing straight about me
save the razor's edge / with which I detail my semantics,
my words cut with conveniences / resilient as talcum powder

you / we have so much to look forward to
Riq Schwartz Sep 2013
His eyes glazed over
          her art
      and missed the nuances
          small sounds
          measured movements
     Never saw it coming

Her eyes were blue
        and black
    defending him
          against her better judgment
     her face brushed
          in natural blushes
          and smokey greys
     that made me yell FIRE

They were a pristine model,
     he, a snapshot of time
     she, the painted portrait
               Je t'embrasse,
                        Marie A.

She was beautiful, and
he was happy
     to leave her hanging
     on a wall
Riq Schwartz Oct 2013
stone faced, sand blasted,
and half-assed,
sleeping soundly
like Pompeii
unavailable for comment.

You see, there are bones
inside of me.
Bones embracing each other,
in tired poses
laying in the dirt,
uncovered by the studious,
                                   fastidious, and
                                  woefully unlucky.

Good luck cataloging your finds.
I wouldn't buy it.

i am petrified
in perfect fashion
filling my space
filing my cells
and ever.  so.   ****.    slowly.
i am whole again,
rock hard abs
and chiseled jaw
in slate stone
with chipping lungs
stand **** for the world
in demonstration of man
"This is what I was,"
     i will say,
"Proud never to change."
pigeon **** on my shoulder
and no one knows what color my eyes were
Riq Schwartz Jun 2016
Oh, I can't - can't you see -
witness such things as these
and stay entirely nonplussed as waves on the seas;
as the sun sets and swaddles
the canvas of clouds
in her shadows and shrouds, while the stars come out
peppering & salting the night sky
we meanwhile lay by
and get baptized again and again
'til we both die and rise to the heavens
of rich conversation
alive in the wealth of ourselves
But there's no Saint Peter here.
These celestial bodies maintain what can only be seen
as an esoteric echelon with humanity eschewed
and no regard for our whims and wiles.
This is where our verse breaks down.
     Here is where.

We don't have words to fuel their fires,
make them burn brighter,
send them our life - we can only admire
and pray that our subjugation is enough
to appease these pocks against pureblack.
These rebels mirror us in some manifest destiny
blended with beautiful blasphemy
that they presume to appease God
by simply not being human.

Well this does not bode well for us, I dare say.
I can no more avoid abusing the air for a day
than I can embody radiance.
I've learned my place.
Here beside you, I've collected myself,
my thoughts, my things,
and I can swallow mortality as its own punishment.
I cannot allow myself to go unnoticed, though,
so I'll show myself out.
No idea where I'll go.
You are welcome to stay still, lay on the grass.
I'm certain keep watching and some comet may pass
but I'm off to find somewhere the sun won't set
and these hands can be bathed in warmth of work and wealth
and these bead-eyed bodies can look down through ozone
and I...
I can simply ignore
and carry on my merry way.
Riq Schwartz Mar 2014
It was with:
and servitude,
she sought to tell me
of living proclivities -
voice and demeanor
while dancing with candor
that surely would show us
the damning demanding
of each one another
and there
in those words
in that flight
I was shown
the topography of
all the love I had known
where without I would be
just a speck in the sea
but to me,
it would seem
there was nowhere to land
so we took to the skies
and we took what was ours
so she took from my eyes
all the color and life
and replaced it with hers
so that I too might find
there was no need for wings
when the flight through the sky
was to float through the sea
the reflection set free
as we drowned, I and she
we obeyed, as they say,
Riq Schwartz Mar 2013
I punched the volume ****
like Tyson and Holyfield,
plunged us into silence,
our heads swimming in
phantom sounds.
The sun was a muffled glare,
but you squinted at me
and broke the silent virginity
with a cough.

The planet whirled
like an exotic dancer,
stars screamed how beautiful they are,
but were outmatched by our sun
just because of how
close it is.

The stars never go away.
Not really.
We just stop expecting them to be there.

We sat still.

And me, with all my
hypodermic words
unable to scratch the surface.

And you, with all your
delicate features
unable to soften the blow.

Because at night, we exchange
one star for millions,
though none of them
can keep us warm,
and all we want
is to see where we're going.
Riq Schwartz Dec 2013
she tells me how my touch is deft -
scribes lightly through the morning haze
pedestrian within the fog
traversing nights transpire days
     your shouting shatters solitude
     it brings me back mortality
     ethereal my thoughts to write
     these poems' eventuality
a heartbeat muffles crackling lungs
while veins write words upon the breath
and what great privilege given to
the last ones spoken till your death
          you find me speaking lyrics to
          the harmonies I find in you
Juxtaposing simple rhymes and easy meter with a sonnet build - just for funsies. Iambic pentameter escapes me at the moment.
Riq Schwartz Oct 2013
You, my dear, are dead, I said.

I am not so, she told me.

You are, checked out, moved on, deceased!

Then why so tightly hold me?


I feel the way your body flakes
Like chipping bits of bone
I see the way your fingers quake
Whenever you're alone
I tell you that I love you, and
you always say it back
But you never lend a hand
Whenever I'm about to crack
You say that talk is wasted
Because words are so ****** cheap,
But jealousy is tasted
When I'm talking in my sleep

For fear of letting go, and so
admitting that you're dead.**

But she was done responding
to the voices in her head.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
My time with you is
the first few seconds before
all your flavor's gone.
Riq Schwartz Aug 2012
I so wish that I could see you
In a dimly lit cafe
Treating your spiced chai like an injured bird
And your face like the exhibits
Of local art on the walls around you

I thought I saw you there once
But it was too smokey
The air thick with conversations
And reunions after 24 hours or less
I'm so sorry that I missed you

But I know that later on I'll find you
Like I always tend to do
Sitting in your usual spot
Exactly like I would expect
On our couch
At home
I love my wife. She is my joy and my muse. Happy anniversary.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Even with the mood lighting inside
this lethargy induced spiced chai
I find these things elusive
like good cell phone pictures of concerts
or, dare I say, a happy poet.

Despite generations of artistic indulgence
I find these things apathetic
androgynous, as it were
with indiscernible discrepancies drawing
daft conclusions from the quick-sought eye.

I too struggle to find the truth behind the lines.
I craft as though I know my medium.
I create broad sweeping arcs across
my own right side brain
but see them smudged and distorted, distended,
dripping their dynamics through the cracks in my floorboards.

Cinnamon vanilla maple ginger
shots at first class from coach
and here on my three foot throne
I squander the warmth of my ******* latte.
Riq Schwartz Mar 2013
We cannot get to
Happiness if we are not
in the carpool lane
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Everything she writes is tagged

You break my heart, know.
Even with these chemical
bonds holding me together,
these frail spiderwebs
weaving around ventricles,
you shatter them like a
calm breeze, playing child,
a secret told to the wrong set of ears.

The characters in (y)our plays [on words]
are the crux of (y)our matters.
We're all ancillary like stepping stones;
pity (y)our destination begs leaving
no stone unturned.

My stepping stones are tablets, though.
20mg doses of baby steps,
crossing voids like I see in (y)our eyes.
My mouth is cavernous,
my throat the steps to hell
(wide and steep and too easy to trip down).
Each night - a crusade to save me.
Each morning - a body count.
One. Good enough for me.

Each time I sign on - the body count grows.
I have a bad habit if writing poems that are too personal about people I don't really know. This is one of them, so I threw in a bit about myself for good measure.
Riq Schwartz May 2014
I can write out the sounds,
     prepositions and nouns
          that would help us to better relate,
but I can't stand to keep
     all these things in the deep,
          so allow me to pontificate.

I have wrings on my hands,
     broken bones in my tongue.
          I have methods of making me sane.
But this madness escapes
     when my feeling berates
          sensibilities trapped in my brain.

I feel stupid and foolish,
     unsightly and ghoulish,
          like I'm breaking my back as I walk.
I have whispers and sighs
     just in back of my eyes
          cause I can't stand to hear myself talk.

There are reasons and doubts
     that I can't live without,
          and my mind's a marina of stone
where excuses abound,
     and you won't hear a sound
          cause in here, you're completely alone.

I have struggled and sought
     to direct where I walk
          so my steps stray away from this place.
But with each passing day,
     I examine the way
          that I'm losing the whole human race.

I'll escape with my pride,
     and my veins open wide -
          even then, only once in a while -
just to trip down the street,
     keeping quick on my feet,
          holding fast to my Cheshire smile.
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
You're too loud for
your porcelain throat;
your rose blushed
china doll cheeks
crack each time you smile
     -- just a little
That silk-smooth black
hair does nothing
to keep you warm in winter
but frames your face
in perpetually delicate contrast

Your words are hammers
Actions are sparks
as much a threat to yourself.

I'm not afraid of you, only
of when you come to life
and your expression never changes.
Eyes glazed over
standing silent sentry
unaware that features
are only paint thin;
thinking a silk-shod body
makes you a princess
rather than a plaything.
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
My body is flaking
like some ashen mistake
crispy, true
wispy too
as the breeze makes me break
So assemble your respirators
don't breathe me in
You'd hate if you let me get under your skin
I am forlorn
and airborne
I'm whimsically
whittling oxygen
out of the air that you breathe.
Yes you're probably all
better off without me.
Nothing like some high quality self-deprication to ring in a real ******* of a morning.
Riq Schwartz Mar 2012
im slowly slipping into crazy.
im laying down with lunacy
and asking her to lie close.

because i cant lie with myself
     if i expect to sleep,
and i cant lie with others
     if i expect to hope.

so ill call up crazy at two A.M.
and tell him i depend on our talks
and ask for him to sing me to sleep

and lunacy will keep me warm,
and when the birds sing the morning in,
i will finally fall asleep beside myself.
Riq Schwartz Apr 2014
What acclaim is there
for the man who breaks
the heart of a *****?

What worthwhile service
can assuage the soul
so torn in malcontent.
He prophesies of Eden
telling Eve to hide her shame
in lieu of his land perfected.
"What other hell do you threaten?"
He claims, "Fire! Fire!"
But her lungs hold smoke
to keep hands from shaking
breaking spirits and homes
as Priest rushes
to the safety of Soap Box
lightheaded from the height.

What solace is there
for the arsonist in the convent?

His speech its own
blend of herbs and spices;
sour prepositions
and capsaicin soaked subjects
caught in the heat of judgment
like some wrathful deity,
holier than thou.
Resisting respite despite
facing the fire of his deeds,
the innocent frolic, carefree.
He finds he
is the tinder,
caught in his conflagration.

What pity have we
for the lost life of kings?*

Caught between revelries
and pomp,
caustic circumstantial froth
from his echelon elect
as we revel in flames
and fight *** with sins.
You know these things,
see them, taste them.
Spiteful planet, we adore thee,
eschewing humanity
with piety and privilege
and soft-spoken actions wont to liberate
the conscience.

Sing me the song of the sword
and I won't say a word.
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
Feel too much

if you find folly in those
freeloading fascist hacks
who tell you to write prose
or shoot photography,
tell them to take notes
      -a mental picture-
because you're headed off to the heart;
Taking back roads through
the bile of memory
to touch what it might just mean
to be.
Journalists content to watch.
Sojourners just might find.
A poet will be your guide.

Feel too much.
Please know that I do love our prose-bound brothers and sisters, and I married a photographer. I'm simply embellishing to help the thing earn it's title, as it were.

Inspired by/in response to "Feeling Too Much" by Alyanne Copper
Riq Schwartz May 2016
you and me
we barter like kings
and haggle away
deplorable things
wage wars, set siege
whatever it brings
and care not until
our epitaph sings

you sit swaddled in morality
wide-eyed with ideology
and conversational felonies
beneath a narcissist cowl

I sit asunder thunder rolling
let my thoughts get lost while strolling
meanwhile you are stalling, drawling
your self-inflicted toothless scowl

you and me
we barter like kings
we wear our wealth
in copper rings
until tomorrow's
daylight stings
the whites of our eyes;
the stumps of our wings.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Being blessed with wings
does not endow you with the
strength you need to fly.
Sometimes you gotta hit the gym if you don't wanna hit the pavement.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2013
I had four dreams last night.                                                           ­                                                                 ­          

In my dream
there was a man
alone in a room
surrounded by frames without pictures,
walls without windows,
faces without voices,
living another man's life
exactly as he was told he should.
He did not feel sad
because he thought
there was no point to feeling.
So he thought he was happy.

In my dream                                                            ­                                    
I saw a woman                                                            ­                                    
laying alone in bed.                                                             ­                                   
She had watched her life                                                             ­                                   
slipping past                                                             ­                                           
day by day.                                                             ­                                             
Her children had                                                              ­                                  
grown and gone,                                                            ­                                    
and her lovers                                                           ­                                     
forgot her name.                                                            ­                                    
She fell asleep each night                                                            ­                                    
embraced only by the cold.                                                            ­                                    

                          ­                                                                 ­                                             In my dream
                                                                ­                                                                 ­           was a boy
                                                             ­                                   who sat and watched his friends
                                                         ­                                       running and laughing.        
                                               ­                                                   He wished that he was beautiful
                                                       ­                                         and that everyone else would like
                                                            ­                                                              loo­king at him,          
                                                                ­                                                   his hair and his makeup.
                                                         ­                                                         But they dressed him up
                                                              ­                                                       in a suit and tie          
                                                                ­                                   and they cut his hair short
                                                           ­                                     and everyone thought he was just
                                                            ­                                    bad at being a boy. Disappointment.

In my dream, I was a city.
My streets were filled with dreams
and the dreams were filled with ***
                                   and greed
                             and pain
                         and lust
          and loneliness.
My buildings ached
like weathered bones
and I felt myself being torn
            at the seams
because no one cared
to hold me together.
And as they died,
they never knew
that they
      were me,
          and I,
I was immortal.
Riq Schwartz Mar 2014
She smiles sickly sweet;

wears nicotine stained skin.

"Go **** yourself," she sings.

We're never going to win.
Riq Schwartz Feb 2014
We're too old now.

Too old to indulge in

partitioned plastic plates

shatter resistant

but molded to hold in

three ounces of fun

per serving.

We've outgrown yesterday's

gaudy voice acting

and crude cartoon lines

washed out, two dimensional

color schemes

and character types, now

redux in high gloss CGI,

300 dpi


5.1 surrounding

both of our senses.

What's that?

We have three others?

But we've no time

for scented markers

on monochrome pages

Breakfast food no longer

simply sugar and bread

We swath ourselves

with succulent self-importance

tech savvy misanthropy

dolled up in decadent


We are too old

to go to a friends house and play.

A list of woes and throes

gives us nothing-

leaves us nowhere

except in thinking

patiently praying

that we may never outgrow

our love for the things

which we've long since outgrown.
Riq Schwartz Nov 2013
If I
am the man
you thought I would be, how
could you have thought
so little
of me?
Riq Schwartz Aug 2014
I fear I've become
formulaic and dishonest
though honesty has never
flown freely when I bleed.
I instead inscribe
insolence, decadence
dolled up in demand and
hand picked participles
to show my snappy wordsuits
down this two dimension catwalk.
I've tasted the fraudulent freeverse fantasy
and washed out what I've done
years past, former lives,
servitude to scheming rhymes
and tracking down the feet
meter by meter.
I own the jargon,
jot it down freely
with a casuality undeserved.
Read carefully, cause herein spouts my effort.

Slink back to default,
once in whiles,
show them that you
got it still.
Baring teeth or
gleaming smiles
differ at souls'

And simply so, it seems again
like pox against my aching skin
I simply substitute some time
to rhyme and let it all begin...
Sometimes you need to
Riq Schwartz Oct 2012
Belief is never sweeter

than to those who can't believe.

Reconciliation is for

those without relief.

Forgiveness comes in times and places
farthest from our expectations.

But ultimately,

we're the ones

who must forgive

Riq Schwartz Aug 2013
Every room has a din.
You just have to listen
hard enough.

This din was a spoken one,
like where actors mutter
"...rhubarb, rhubarb..."

Her steps made a percussive
clacking sound
that echoed from
wall       to       wall,
pervasive and acute.

But what truly stuck out
                                                             ­                 did so from only one side.

Her, the weird one.
  Her, accident prone.
   Her, the girl with
            one wing.

In a room full of faeries,
                       she stuck out.
                   An entire people
who hid themselves by day,
                           and she
was sequestered.

in a



But what would you expect
     from a girl with one wing?
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
colours sing their a capella hymn
lighter tones emitted from your skin
brush the light aside as morning's rise
shows us something glowing from within
Riq Schwartz Nov 2013
The bleak, unbridled 
fury of a granite sky
bids me, Welcome Home
Riq Schwartz Sep 2014
You dressed
In early morning pallor
Faded like half
     forgotten memory
Free like a beggar
Lost like the rest of us
     with somewhere else to be
You walked with
Dignified aggression
Regal like a
     Queen elect
Static as a storm cloud
Displaced by sunrise
Riq Schwartz Nov 2013
Putting on high heels is
not the same as growth.
Bending over backwards is
not always dancing.
Extending a hand is
only occasionally a kindness.
Whenever we speak, I know
the coin toss is airborne
as soon as the first words fly.
Riq Schwartz Mar 2012
I come to you tonight because
your heart was never yours to love,
and so I wage this heart attack
to give your heart a sample of
the pulse your heartbeat seems to lack
in darkest nights, when corners, black,
send racing chills throughout your bones,
while palms perspire, mind is racked
as thoughts that you are not alone
break up the deaf'ning silent drone
that is your heart against your chest.
The only thing that you can't own;
the only thing that you can't rest;
the only one to know you best
would tell you simply, "do not fear,"
and this command, the simplest,
is coupled with, "cause I am here."
And with these words spake in your ear,
the corners soften as your eyes
begin to pierce the the all-too-sheer,
now lifted veil, and with its rise,
so lifts your heart, my unseen prize,
and settles down as shadows start
to dissipate as cloudless skies.
So proven is my point of start:
my love, it never was your heart.
Riq Schwartz Aug 2012
Step one,
choose your topic.
Likely yourself.
Because what greater
subject could there be?

Step two,
choose an image.
Find something
that can serve
as a metaphor
for you.
Find the rain forest
for instance.
Or perhaps a pond
frozen over in winter.

these should serve nicely.

Step three,
place yourself
somewhere in the midst of these things.
Let you be
the trunks of the trees
supporting the lush, green canopy.
You, poor, tired,
supporting the thick boughs
that are the real life
above you.
Or is your face
the ice of the pond.
All that people ever notice
is how much you can take
before you break.
But there is so much more
just beneath the surface.
So much
teeming with life.
No one knows
how deep you go.
No one will know
until the ice thaws
     (which is unlikely to happen anytime soon.
          but the metaphor was never meant to extend that far.)

Step four,
write yourself in
to the piece
in such a way that no one else
will be able to identify you.
     (Unless they're **** cunning.)
Perhaps disguise your identity
within the purpose of the piece
or the flowing imagery
seeping through the spacious cracks
in your technique.
Riddle the work
with subtle ins and outs
and minute complexities
that vex the reader
away from your intentions.

Nicely done.

Step five,
your reflection
as it appears
in your monitor.
Not the image of your face
bouncing off the glass
but the snapshot
of your thoughts
so opaquely back-lit.
Remind yourself
that this is for you
and no one else.
This is just for you
and no one else.
This is just for you
and no one else.
this is just for you.

Step six,
post to a public forum.

*Check back in an hour.
Surprise! The poem is about me!
See? It's satirical.
Sorry it was so long.
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
Your mind sings the verses
you write in your spiral,
but nobody hears them,
uplifting or viral,
before you start singing
to somebody near you.
And so you write verses
how no one can hear you.
Riq Schwartz Sep 2013
It's just like life
to send us here --
a world away
from what we know.
We feel our eyes
absorb the light,
but nothing makes
a solid shape.
The words we say
inside our heads
are distant sounds
we want to hear.

When people take
a look at us,
I wonder if
they see us where
we truly are:

beside ourselves.
Number four doing my Top Words shtick. This list of words taken from Brycical, who has been writing some truly fantastic pieces lately.
Riq Schwartz Sep 2014
There is a churning,
spurning surge
like sickly sushi
or bad first dates
Take it slow, I say
take it no more
than two days at a time
like when your brother
slipped, fell fell fell
down the basement steps
Remember that?
Let it fester
lactic acid
Let it drown
Let it bloat
Then make your
chalk outline
of feelings deceased
Let it waver or
whimper or wallow
but don't let it go.

This is the beginning
of your next great write.
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
My laundry consists
of clumps of socks, jeans, bed sheets
Once-used towels, and you.
Riq Schwartz Oct 2014
I've resolved to hold out hope
Some offering resilient
Passed down, an heirloom
From day to day to day
Through this damning night courier
I sell this trinket for a pittance of sleep
Please, just ten more minutes of pittance
And so hopelessly I'm found
Face first in down, safe swaddled dreams
Abound to excavate another vein
And so hopefully I'm found
Panning for dreams for passing tomorrow
Wishing that the sun would rise reminds us that it will.
Riq Schwartz Mar 2014
This bottle bleeds like heartbeats
inebriating grass
contesting dew drops
     heartstopping plot lines
meanwhile fireflight christens
the night that listens
to our intoxicated forgetfulness
a cheap libation
young-morning dream sleep
waking walking, weaving
half-heard whispers of stubborn solemnity, we
wrought havoc;
we were not in love
it was just the cold night air
     and the field that smelled of chardonnay
Riq Schwartz Sep 2014
The pitter patter
Of your words smelting against
My inner ear forge
Riq Schwartz Aug 2012
Listen up, kid.
Here's the story.
Everyone is
gone to stay.
No one else can
hear you pouring
words to paper
day by day.
No ones reading,
no ones laughing.
No one follows
story lines.
All this time you
think you're passing,
shining colors
to the blind.
God is dead and
so is writing.
Only fools
enlist your cause.
There's no point to
all this fighting,
Nor's there money
In your flaws.
Listen up, kid.
Here's the truth now.
Every day is
One too late.
Sure you dream, but
Whats the use now,
When youre lifes
An empty slate?
I wrote this ironically/facetiously a while ago and just let it sit, but more and more it's been reflecting how I've started feeling. Kinda depressingly prophetic. Here's to a comeback.
Riq Schwartz Dec 2013
This church is haunted,
so they say,
the sanctuary possessed,
filled with the melancholy
lingering spirits
like the echoes of
cheap communion wine
and halfhearted Hail Marys.
Those who think that
sitting in a pew
is next to godliness.
So they stay here-
too afraid of hell
to ever embark for heaven.
A poem about inaction.
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