It's not enough to be sharp, is it?
I launch my heart
at the walls of the crumbling world,
a thought in it, but,
your heart is despondent, isn't it?
Move your mouth you failing ****.
You glued the glass to the wall, as well,
so you can't stop, can you?
Sell it as it is. Nothing makes sense.
Seeming like a thing you've seen
once or twice before in your life?
People are like plants.
Ever-growing and ever-changing
As they follow the simple cycles that have been carved and engraved
In their DNA from previous generations.
Plants change directions as they grow.
If a tree grew ONLY in the shape it was as a sapling,
We'd have large bushes with larger trunks.
Plants bring life to the world.
Plants, like people,
Can be cut down.
If people are plants, I'm a thorn bush that's been uprooted
But plants don't have eyes.
Plants don't see where they're moved to,
They can only feel the dirt against their roots.
But I can see the small *** I'm placed in.
I can see how my roots will eventually compact
And how the very system of support that gave me structure
Will eventually strangle the life from me.
As season's change, my leaves will fall.
However in this new place,
In this chamber of disconnect I can feel the grainy ceramic against my roots.
I know my leaves will fall, and will not return through my own natural volition.
But as hard as a fact as that is to swallow,
I cannot seem to take my eyes off of the large white vase
Containing the heads of hundreds of my kin
Soaking in a combination of stale water
And their own fluids,
And I cannot help but to wonder
If this fate of mine is mercy.
screams of the victorious:
they yell, play, and loudly chant
but i feel abducted
turning my ears inside out
they sit on a pile of chairs
pile of happy people
dim empty hallway
the walls soak in my whole warmth
their loud buzzing stings and pulls
like this, i go forth
i'm a gargoyle, stone
to violently walk by, laugh
about me sitting outside
misfit and a half
there's this jet black rust
that forms deep inside your chest
when everyone else's worst
is your very best
dear, one day i swear
one day i swear i will write
a tall text-wall like warfare
about how i sat outside
I look up, out of the car window,
and somehow I forget that I am here
and not there,
and it’s a momentary relief
mixed with bewilderment,
but then it ends,
and I’m crushed by where I’m not.
I don’t believe in a location called ‘home,’
but I miss certain locations
more than others,
and I’d like to feel in place.
Isn’t the world supposed to be full
of people who are also
confused and out of place?
I’m not the only one,
the only alien on this odd planet,
but when I look around,
I still feel isolated.
I found company in my solitude.
Madame Silence gives the best kisses,
Even when I hear muffled melodies.
They say the world is becoming a better place, proven in that happy people are becoming happier. Nobody seems to want to mention that sad people are becoming more sad too, so isn't that original statement a little underrepresenting? How is the world being a better place even a good thing? Doesn't that also mean that the world is a bad place to begin with, and it becoming less negative doesn't take away from the fact that it's still negative, I mean, otherwise why am I still sad? Why isn't the sadness going away? Is it merely because of my existence or is it more about my presence in this sort of world? Even if the world was neutral, it would only be so because the disparity between those who are happy and those who are sad is growing. Then what is the solution, you may be wondering? Can't one's happiness grow without someone else's shrinking? The truth is that everyone pays a price- some pay it through alienation from others, and others by alienating themselves.
Not those who don't write poetry themselves
But those whose souls aren't stirred by
The pleasant and slightly unsettling fragrance of fresh earth
The cold enveloping light of the moon
The delicious warmth of a light breeze on a hot summer's day
And when I say stirred I don't just mean any passing feeling
I mean that joyful painful yearning from the bottom of your soul that spreads through your whole being and consumes you for that moment however brief - of spiritual bliss, if you will.
And when it passes, you are not the same you from a few seconds or minutes ago
You are the earth,
the moon, the breeze
The pain, the joy
Do you ever feel that the others can never really see or feel you the way an artist can?
made some point when i said
'this is it'
and wished for these to be my
most impactful words
what might they look like
in places where i used to be
old homes and destinations
i always needed to depart
is it that much brighter?
without enough of me
myself at night
when i look at the clouds to find
that stars are callous
about me or the yous i lost
no future now worth speaking of
just little lamps
and bland emotions
the usual, you might say
if solitude were virtue
would this for once not make me
a somebody to reckon with
I am bored, but beautiful
is the view of the city
at night, it still is
too hot to sleep or count
the skyscrapers, the stacks
of illuminated windows
My hand is waving goodnight
Would anyone be looking at me?
I ***** up my eyes
to peeping telescopes
then I cast them down again
to read a little, insights
I already had, but can not rhyme
right now, with the world
that keeps me awake
If only I could sleep, dream
of light towers in the desert
without being there myself
Collection “Summer birds”