“Keep your nose clean”

His intent was momentous.
An ant like phrase,
with mountainous exorcism.

“Keep your nose clean”,
His voice like Zeus,
thunderously subtle.

Echoing and vibrating,
through regret, sin,
and fueled debauchery.

This phrase kept me true,
on-course through,
dark seas.

A map to navigate,
knowing when,
to steer away.

“Keep your nose clean”
I hear him still,
his voice sobering.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“I will”

To write,
was to embrace all the waves
that you kept off the shore.

To write,
was to embrace the thoughts
you shoveled down
so they wouldn't have the power to hurt you.

To write,
was to feel liberated
of your shackles and confinement.

To write,
was to find yourself
navigating towards
your own thoughts
and emotions that you
kept away for so long.

To write,
was to feel once more
and be brought back to yourself.

Every word is not
expressed in a precise way,
learn to navigate to each
verse and comprehend.

Poetry is not a roller coaster,
dilate your heart and you'll feel,
each sentiment is not just written
but hidden in mystery.

You pushed me,
off course.
Gray fog resentment,
clouds the stars.
Remote and far,
in my own mind sea.
As distant as summer,
in autumns eyes.
I’ve sailed far,
so far I can no longer,
remember your face.

Thin thoughts
become breezy spectres
drifting through my consciousness
in search of an identity.

Clad in God's light they come,
clad in dark deceit they come,
in many forms they come,
different hues they assume;
they journey through my consciousness
to create my identity.

Through the void of a vacuum
they navigate,
create different realities of my soul.
They belong to different worlds
and no worlds at all.

My thoughts are gypsies;
they're on a marvellous journey
to the heart of a divine mystery!

Secondary thoughts from the present
My life isn't all that pleasant
Pills, doctors and self-analysis
Honestly, can seem like paralysis

Thinking about my growth
My need to continuously provoke
A freedom from the oath
That ego that I stroke
A need to be better than both

The illiness and the routine
I was only a teen
I've fled from the scene
Can I wipe my slate clean?

You are the catcher of my words.
I launch them at you from the pitcher's mound
In awkward and arhythmic velocities.
You gently collect them in your hands
And toss some level of adoration back.

You carved a staircase from ice,
But I'm not sure what that means.
I can't even tell if these divots are in your heart
Or mine. Both look the same.
This time,
No glass slipper was conveniently left behind
Only my heart.

Are you a catcher of hearts?
Did you pick it up from this snowy mine
To carefully navigate us through this love?
I don't have a map.
Please.
Show me the map.
I can see it in your eyes
But you refuse to allow it to escape.

I can read your scars like constellations.
They appear like veins of tears
Threading together a diamond.
You aren't broken like you think you are.
Please.
Allow me to show you.
Your heart is safe with mine.