For the past few months My nights have been filled With medication-fueled dreams Often I wake from nightmares That leave me drenched in sweat Lying on cast-off covers Certain that all I fear Has come true But it is more fun To think of the pleasant dreams That hold me captive Witness to a story That is no longer a story But a reality
Sometimes I dream of landscapes: Pools and rivers of the purest blue Spheres, translucent and filled with ferns Hills of evergreens green as emeralds Clouds so light they seem to melt into the sky Sometimes I dream of places from my childhood: Places where I felt safe Safe from fear From the frantic pace of life From worry From pain Sometimes I dream of the characters I have created To fill my daytime fantasies To fill my D&D campaigns To fill the stories that live behind Every waking moment Coloring every experience With ideas Of what I should imagine next
Sometimes I want to lie in bed forever Immersed in these dreams In their sights Their smells Their sensations Until the world I am used to No longer exists When it feels instead Like I inhabit a place So far from reality, yet so real So real that when I wake my memories are scattered Jumbled in my mind like leaves after a storm And for a moment I can’t tell which were already there And which are newly fallen
Sometimes I think Maybe I am going crazy Losing my sense of direction Caught up in this universe Of my mind But then I begin to wonder, Isn’t the “real” universe Perceived through our minds? And if this is the case, What is really real? But enough of metaphysics – Better to think of The "real" world, with all its goods and bads Because the danger with getting too caught up in dreams Is that you can lose sight Of what you know What you have What you are
The reality is That you cannot hide forever In dreams In fantasies In stories For you to experience The world we all know You must sometimes leave the comfort Of the world That is only real To you
There is poetry that rubs on my bones like sandpaper I am waning under the weight of losing myself to mediocre creative expression as I write with my arthritis fingers pieces of who I am drop to the floor leaving loneliness to fight with the happiness my mind is trying to find as my bones become ghosts of what they were when I was born fragile to the touch of everyone I ever loved God looks at me as his only failure He never expected for me to fade this quickly beside the guided worries that I was never meant to be alive these words change my mind for a moment in time but I am still left with a self destructing body and a decaying mind
Poems aren't written, they're found, Somewhere in your head the words are waiting, They're sprawled across the floor, You just need to pick them up, Make a path with them, Let your path guide observers, And if you can't write, Walk down somebody's else's path first,
First poem I've written, to anybody who reads this is hope you enjoyed it and it made you day a little better
It's no longer the heartbeat. Echoes instead, cooing. Placating me with serpent wishes, selfish desires. Succulent, sustinent. Cheap refrains repeated as a bridge, before the heart stopping bass drop. Echoes again, belting. Three fingers deep into a whiskey, and mind you there's an e. Cheap American heritage bundled together like a plastic suite of day drives and night caps. Houses made of stucco, sticking in the heat of the summer. Another simplistic S-word statement. Another coughing mind without abatement. Another ******* poet *******.
Poetry, as I perceive it, And no offence, alright; Is not this: Writing as I would speak to someone Only stacking the lines one on top of the other Instead of next to it, in a paragraph. If I were to put my strophes in a straight line, and end up with a Facebook status, No matter how great, This is not my poetry.
What poetry is The lick of moonlight that betrays the mouse’s tail The crickets over the careful cat’s march And a microscopic last breath between a crush of the fangs.