~ following “A Simple Poem”~ (1)

But of course, we reference revelations,
for our brief self-description are guises,
meant to hide, meant to impress, reveal
little, enhance our mystery, preserve our
secrecy. expose and hide simultaneously
within our mid-of-night aura mystiques

Safe behind the curtain, we wizards speak
in voices and tongues, giving up our innermost everything in verse, write of our blessings and our curses, holding  little back while we give ourselves away, hint by hinting, writ by writing, a series of
+++++++’s

I choose, I chose, to dress my chess pieces
in a clear varnish, **** the consequences,
sail towards the torpedoes, heading direct
to meet your eyes, giving up my forest
tree by tree, poem by poem, a leaf and
a branch, only tinkering and fussing like a new parent over each new virtual birthing,

and then once tidied,
once spent,
my secrets unconcealed,
we wonder quick if each
puzzle when connected
to its predecessor is 
understood
as a tiny pointilisme dot,
a speck
and that you are wise enough to
comprehend how each speck,  
lives only unique in its
conjunction,
only tandem-with both the one
nearest and the ones dabbed a decade
long ago, and when you connect  
my dots, I stand before you completely
a full and a naked folio,
one book of a single reveal,
the sum of my totality,
an addition of many integers,  
summing up to 1

So,

should we pass by each other,
our eyes will pierce, each wrinkle,
solving the equation of who we are…
a single human, readily identifiable,
total recognition, via the reconnaissance
of our letterered footsteps

Robert Herrick:
Poet, cleric,
Pagan, priest,
Long-deceased.

The title speaks it all so clearly, unlike I who slurs my words
To write down what a handful will see, but phrases never to be heard
From obligations to congratulations, it all starts to feel the same
How petty it is I blame everything, how I must feel ashamed

Things I said to prove a point
messages left on read I wish I never sent
The cold is blistering, so are my fingers
Tell me how you can forget yet for me it still lingers

People go on with their lives, wishing for the summer
While I sit hear wishing I didn't think everything was a ******
Its so easy to appreciate the little things in life
But so hard when you feel teardrops turning into ice

Everyone says to seek help, that it gets better as you grow
yet almost a decade later I have nothing to show
Spreading positivity, have no certainty
Of the people coming and going, who matters and who closes the curtain

Future careers, games, girls, what I fear
Further encapsulating that I barely feel like I am here
Stuck between adulthood and being a child
Stuck between a mild nature and a wild imagination

Stuck between what games to play, what role to play
Which school to pay and which job pays better
Payment is engraved in my mindset, my parents make sure of it
Little do they know I hate adult life and I am sick of it

Crushes like a giddy child, in this darned freezing weather
Is it sad I feel better alone, or I feel alone and barely any better?
How ironic my words contradict each other
but thats what we were to one each other

Am I just ranting over you, this existence, or the future?
Is this in general or has my heart finally ruptured?
This barely makes sense, and neither does this life
Play, work, pay then get a wife? Is this why samurai always held a short knife?

When God created man, he did so by creating Adam in his own image

How could the devil sway Adam and Eve if they were created from God’s own visage?

Is it sin if our creator could fall for the same blasphemous deeds?

Ask yourself if every flower blooms as pretty because they come from the same seeds

i meander at the
depths of rock bottom stumbling
upon newfound grace and
gratitude.

the spiking stone all around
is dull to the eyes but makes
the ever-blue sky
come alive.

when i reach up to
touch it, i know that
i am too small to caress
those faint cotton candy
wisps.

but in my dreams,
i greet the sunrise by
perching on the shoulders
of those who dare to rise
above.

I don't think we're friends anymore
I'll stop coming around and banging on your door,
It's ******* days where I miss you more
But the thing I can't take is how different we are.

I value consistency in communication
You value space and a lot of distance
Both things are valid and I'm not hurt by that,
But it's hard for me to maintain our connection

Especially when there are contradicting statements.
I know how hard talking can be
But it hurts to be cancelled on so frequently
Especially while feeling full of hope for where our friendship can someday, be

I understand the need for space,
Endless trauma dumping was such a waste.
If there's anything I regret, it's being a pity case
It's a shame I can't go back and still know our history to date

But I guess that's fate,
I can't go back to undo my mistakes.
I can only move forward
And know myself better

When I would ramble to you
I didnt know the power of the letters
I wrote endlessly to you
only wanting to feel better.

I think there was a time when things between us were good
Where we knew eachother and had dreams, as kids should
Somewhere, sometime, some month or week
Things changed between us, something changed in me.

I don't like who I am with you,
but I miss the fun we had and dreams we planned,
Sometimes I wish they'd still come true
But I have a feeling they won't because you don't trust me and I don't trust you.

I'm afraid of loneliness and people.

No matter how hard you try,
No matter how much you give,
You’ll never mean a **** to me,
You made your bed,
Now lay in it.
I love you.
Please tell me you miss me.

"horrible bird"
she called it
telling of how
she had watched
a crow pluck
and pry at
its weakened prey
while perched upon
the bird bath
outside her window
at the garden's edge
despite this sternest
of lessons
nature at its most fickle
she still sits
in her comfy chair
looking out
over a bank of flowers
buoyant in bloom
enjoying the sight
of wagtail
bunting and finch
alighting on the stone plinth
pompous and preening
refreshing themselves
admiring the plumage
of their reflection
before returning once more
to wing and wind

the old wives
say it must be
the left hind foot
of a rabbit
shot with a silver bullet
or not shot at all
simply captured
one way or another
ideally on the grave
of a criminal
the more wicked the person
the more potent the charm
with the foot harvested
while the poor creature
is still alive
it has to be done
in a cemetery
during the night
of a full
or new moon
though others say
it should be
a friday
a rainy friday
friday the thirteenth
if the foot is to become
one of those lucky ones