I sit on the sharp edge of the present Fine line separating future and past My legs dangling into the past Preventing me from living the current moment Dwelling on wrong choices made Words I did not mean to say Friends and family I lost Each lonely thought grips me and drags me further into the canyon of memory I am barely holding onto this cliff with my fingertips How do I pull myself back up?
I put my hands in my pockets, protecting Whatever can be found inside
I found it! It was a child in a small red house, and then an apartment, and then in a lamp...
3, 2, 1, I Am the Genie. You wished for my health, You wished for me to stay, And the last wish You gave it to me! But I am not your genie... I belong to the child, To the past, to the future... But most importantly, To the wonderland.
“Dads not home” Is the phrase he’s heard for years. “dad?” he called out in the empty home. He knew it was empty a second later. 10 years earlier he asked his dad to help with homework “sorry son, Im too busy. Got a lot to do…” 30 years later he called his son “let’s meet up.” “sorry dad, Im too busy. Got a lot to do…”
based on the song cats in the cradle by **** kid joe
a map of skulls and souls reaped along routes of trade a rat burrows into the demon's pen of blissful greed and greed- ing ignorance agreeing with mindlessness, taken to com- plying with heartlessness shaved with soul- lessness into an empty machine-- a killing being sentient of nothing but blood battered faces and clean of all graces-- a sweet decay of inhabitable spaces do the animals care? we decide for them the discussion unheard, buried in a coffin of laughing reproach nailed shut, impaled with ifs, ands, and buts, but-- what if we didn't?
I have a notepad where I quickly jot down ideas Many are confusing prompts for a poem I didn't have time to write However most are plans I have for the future Specifically the future with someone I still have yet to meet
I write about the things I will say to them What we will do and where we will go I plan soft trips to Baskin Robins and little comic book shops Vacations filled with theme parks, museums, and explorations
I write about the days we will stay inside In our quiet little space we take up in the world Rainy days where we stay in each other's arms reading a good book or watching classics and horror on the TV
Days where we will come home to each other humming a song or dancing about the room How we will support each other through times of stress and confusion How we will look at each other when we know our life's a mess And how our love will get us through the calamity in between
I think about theses moments very often I wonder if you are out there thinking about them too?
The wind: It was a musician, the muse of a heartbeat and whistling was its charm.
The leaves: The companions of the wind, they were the strings of the guitar. Dancing towards oblivion.
The flowers: They were the painters. A vision was their purpose. They played with colours and mystery.
The sun: It was the stage light, as it glowed upon the sounds of music in the air, the surface of the leaves, and gave life to all the trees.
The stars: They were the show stoppers, dancing in the sky. Revelling in the attention from the eyes of the observer.
The moon: The shy wonder of the night, sometimes barely visible. As it timidly sets the stage for another afternoon.
You: With a thousand stories to tell you’re in thousands of places at once. Looking for mountains to climb and things to design. You’re curious and too quick, never on the stage but merely an observer, but secretly you’re the whole show.
There are a thousand stories to tell, So I’ll tell you a secret to this mysterious show The script is blank, the pages clear white And every minute new words appear For I am merely following sentimental alliances Just an observer watching as the future becomes clear.