It's been a while
Since I've written here,
The dust has grow
Upon these words.
The fluidity with which once they flowed,
Gone.
Gone is the promise of a new day,
A new sun,
A new poem,
Gone is that ready elegance.
Words come out now, yea,
But forced.
The line breaks choppier,
The rhythm forced and staccato
Rather than the smooth sailing
Or the fierce and glorious torment
Of a summer tempest
O'er the high seas.
But here I am,
Time have I,
And so
I write.

That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and beautiful words captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.

So it seems I am relinquished
has come to this, that I can't
hold my body on my own
be the shoulder for my head
be my own mission
with a fingertip to my lips
I own this and don't have
to say anything when I do
My case is as I do
let me show you
Let me know you
as I, as you do
So it seems I cannot breathe when
I get winded explaining
in detail each of my moves
I pull the rope to curtain
revel and withhold
specific miseries as I wish
I own this and don't have
to say anything when I do
My case is as I do
let me show you
Let me know you
as I, as you do

i am the honeybee, finally having enough of you swatting me away
giving you every ounce of poison i can gather in my stomach
and losing myself
in the process

Whimsical strings of particular words;
Cut and pasted into delicate furnishings.
A cadence,
Rhythm,
Feeling.
Weaved together into metaphorical meanings
And deeper understandings of not only oneself
But the collective mind of humankind
As if great discoveries are made with every letter.

The barely comprehensible wisdom resonates,
Echoing off walls and through empty minds
As if carrying more of a meaning
Than a gentle breeze
Entertaining a slip of paper
Through its nimble fingers.

It’s hollow bones would crumble under
the slightest press.

When I am done with my poem today
You might see it.
Well, if you're reading this
then you did see it.

I'm sorry.
As the fingers strike the keys
my mind is sodden.
Vacancies available, as they say.

Anyway, cast your thoughts
to those who will not see this.
Either occasional lookers
or Hello Poetry zealots
may let these pixelated words slip by.
They won't be affected.

But you are.
Now, I'm not expecting to change your life
but maybe I've got you thinking
at this moment,
when already in the past I've finished this
and sat back silently,
wishing the dull pain
of the past's barbs in my mind
away.

You are potentially similar.
Or maybe you already switched away.
****.
I forgot again.

I got up to talk to my dad.
I took out the garbage.
Did you stop, leave in the middle of this poem?
It's okay because me too.

You have read this poem,
maybe considered it.
I am almost done.

I'm not sure how this is going to end.

I guess I'll just put out my poem now
for people to find and to not find.
But remember
that the small stuff
from insignificant sources
feels for you.

I know I'll have to be one-
so I push a little harder.
The door swings open,
and there you are,
naked and crying,
with a blanket over your head.
I keep teetering about
on the threshold,
step in, step out.
I shut the door,
and walk around.
I might be the one-
but I'm not ready for your sound.

I've been teaching people
how to be poets.
Now, even to me,
this sounds like canned *******.
But I believe that there is more to it.
It sounds so elitist to think
that you were just born with poetry
in your heart and mind.
That it could ever be so hard to find
inner meaning where there is none.
Even love is an illusion
the same way color never existed
outside the eye,
your beauty never existed
outside my heart.

Now before I start,
let me go back to square one.
I find it hard to believe that someone
can't be something just because... they aren't.
Poetry, like all art, is a skill
and like all art, you don't need to be good.
No-one is judging your art
unless you ask them to
and if it ends up in front of their face,
you've asked.
It's a skill, you get better and worse,
good days and bad days,
but some people just need to realize
what poetry really, really is.

It's not about rhyming, or even sounding good.
It's about meaning.
What's the deal with this flower?
This flower is art.
It's a piece of chlorophyll, who cares?
Because the flower is beautiful.
What makes the flower beautiful?
Because I choose to believe that this flower is more
than what my eye percieves.
Boy, this art **** sounds like
a bunch of crap.
*It really is.