When I feel
I remind myself
Destiny does not happen without me
and all my actions
when I eat, my body gains nutrition,
when I exercise, my body becomes healthier,
when I’m kind to myself, I become happier,
when I’m kind to others, they become happier,
when I turn off the light in the room when I leave
I help save the planet from climate change,
and so on.
Then I realise
I am consequential!
My name is insignificant
I sit on your bus
Not too far forward
Not too far back
I am awash in the middle
Every day you pass me by
But am I really anything to you
If I were gone, would you
My name is gray
I am the least of the colors
In the background
You take a picture
Was I there?
Do you even care?
My name is abscence
I creep around the holes of those lost
Maybe they’ll come back tomorrow
Maybe they’re the ones you hope will come back
Maybe theyre the ones you hope never will
I am unwelcome, nonetheless
My name is transparent
Every time someone looks at me
I smile, thinking they’re looking at me
When they actually mean it for the person behind me
I do this every time someone looks
Never realizing no one ever notices me
My name is invisible
Am I here?
You don’t know
Could you see me, if I was?
You think not
No matter where I am
No matter where I go
I am always
My name is nothing
I am not here
I am not there
I cannot be anywhere
Yet I am everywhere
I fill the crevice of your heart
I creep around dark corners
I dodge behind trees
Not like you’d notice me
I am nothing, after all
My name is let down
And you don’t want me around
I want to be with you
Don’t you see
But you won’t ever let me be there
I want to ask
“Who can I be?
Who can I be
So you will love me?”
But you can’t answer that
Until I answer for myself
“Who am I?”
I want to lay on the ground and let the snow take me. Maybe then I would feel peace.
After making love,
that space inside you and that mess outside,
a hot breeze that then cools you both.
The words you write,
that tumble out,
of a kind that can only be written once.
A 5 am walk in a snow covered city,
with only street cleaners for company,
they speak that language from that place they ran.
The roar from a concert,
from a nearby park.
Feeling on your fingers,
stored heat rising off the pavement,
at the end of a hot summer day.
The significance of understanding,
the beauty of your insignificance,
against all that is beautiful.
If you die tonight,
which god's gonna save you?
I don't believe in a one.
So, you're telling me
you're God, now? You're nothing.
I don't believe in nothing.
Was there meaning in my birth
besides two ******* twenty somethings
playing at love games?
What's the point of human life
when existence is pointless?
Full potential of the pointed mind,
free as it can be, to discern & decide.
Are you warrior,
or are you peacewalker?
Are those the only options?
It separates us,
angel kin & demon.
The urge in your eyes to **** is missing.
If we're drawing those lines in the dirt,
I see love in you.
You don't deify or deny -
- here you killed to serve,
yet we're exchanging words.
the earth spins around
one thousand miles an hour
and we can not tell
A haiku. I pronounce "hour" as two syllables to keep the 5/7/5/ rule, but I know some people pronounce it as one. I could have made it "one thousand miles every hour." ???
Four walls; a pair of cupped hands.
Jaundiced like an open eye; an open cove
Prescribing solitude to those whom solitude cannot withstand,
And I choose this cold corner which is furthest from the door,
To be where I am not, before
Your proclivities become my own, I write. I write,
My window holds my breath and frosts the world,
The moon in his amber gown, dressed in chatoyance and spite,
Godspeed; dark, dark shroud for naked skies!
Six floors, walls, doors from you am I.
I couldn't write when the sun peered in,
Her inquiry evangelizing the specks of time left upon the glass -
I've heard it all before; God's shining face leaves none unloved (unseen)
but his spotlight has no starlet; so who can see me up here?
We can't see from windows, dear.
I'd live and sing for the cloudless hall
The nursery of misanthropists crawling on the grey cobblestone
And the lilt of the wind on the rose; through squares nice and small -
The peevish moth shudders at the sight of itself obscuring the day through the glass.
It seems we're always in the way.
one I wrote in Cambridge
a blessing to have and hold
live life untethered
The insignificance of human life is found in those moments where you confront your own mortality
And realize that everything is as it ever was and is as it will ever be.
But I’m not ready to face the insignificance!
We're here now; living, breathing, writing. Does that count for naught?
I refuse to face the fact that one day no one will remember the people I love and cherish,
The people who make up my world.
I want everyone to know their names and beautiful horrid faces.
I want everyone to know the people who shaped me and thus, I want everyone to know me.
She had already witnessed an entire lifetime pass her by as a speck of dust, believing that she’d been buried when the wrong people saw past her and walked away.
Little did she know, although she was small and insignificant to some, as she rose from the ground in which she settled upon, she realized she wasn’t just the dirt at her feet but a seed, waiting to be planted.
That she had been wallowing for far too long, allowing the absences of others to define her but never seeing the importance of her presence in the moment.
She wasn’t important because he had told her that she wouldn’t blossom, she was disregarded when she was too much, too difficult and too broken and yet here she is, digging up her own grave and planting herself again.
i quietly wonder
if i had done anything
wrong to reclaim
another faultful star
as i stare outside the window
cascading past endless stretches
of worn paved-roads
and vast fertile landscapes
and everything looks transiently gargantuan
but i momentarily glance
at the empty bus seat next to me
and i feel rather small again
flimsy music in my ears
speaking of infinite sentiments
and i’m disenchanted again
these mellisonant voices are enough
they have to be enough
to keep my wandering mind
company against the ephemeral madness
i flick my red lighter open
and hold it close—but not too close
to my dying pen; wondering, for
a moment, if the same trick could revive
my spirits like the stuttering ink,
tempted to burn my flesh back to life
but i merely stare into the flame—
flickering unsteady still—and blow it out
so it doesn’t have to be lonely
as my heart is right now
as i travel from small city
to smaller town, i wonder where
all my friends are right now
how they are all doing
what they are doing
and if they’re all having fun
Inspired by: Fire by Sleeping With Sirens