With poetic fable of verse
I sing. I walk,
on open invitation of page.
My writers pen stands poised
strong with ink-like blood.
It bleeds on page
to stain and anoint to heal.
With visions strong of wind
I write. I dance,
harboring a thousand dreams
Dreams, I plant as seed on page
for readers to water with eyes.
I hide inside my dusty mind
The mist has come to shield my eyes
I write a song in the fog on the glass
And dream of when I'll see at last
Dream of when these chains will freeze
And Hell will come to rescue me
I hope for days like the sky hopes for stars
To come out and multiply and heal its scars
I hide within myself today
Blinding bruises decorate my face
Yet I've survived the storm somehow
And I dream of when I can finally shout
The day is past and night can come out
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.
She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.
Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.
A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.
Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.
Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That damn mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”
The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
With maestro barton-like pen
I begin my song.
My lyrical words ready
for ears and eyes.
With its stick filled with passions
I continue to write,
focused on covering blank page
with notes of words.
They move dancing in rhythms.
They expand tickling hair follicles
They are alive as if each sound is a musical beings.
And thus the symphony is done.
Completed for lids that applaud.
Why do I write?
Write about what makes me cry?
Write about how I constantly lie?
Write about, how on the inside,
I die sometimes?
Is it for empathy?
For someone to cry for me?
Is it to vent?
Into words that kinda fit?
Is it to let go?
Maybe to make the growth
Of these feelings slow?
I just write
About what makes me cry
And how I constantly lie
And how, on the inside,
I die sometimes.
I just go with the flow
And hope I can grow
Or at least make these feelings slow.
This is not poetry,
and this is not heartstrings
playing sad lullabies
in the deep spaces of your mind.
This is not poetic;
this is not reading
stanza after stanza
wanting to know what's at the end.
This is not rhythmic,
nor sensual or smooth,
nor is it flowing like words should do from the tongues of those that know which words to use.
This is simple.
These are words that make sense
without peaking around corners
or hiding behind luscious similes
or over used metaphors
and out of touch symbolism.
If this is not poetry,
I refuse to dub myself
and will continue on,
but write prose instead.
my favorite dance step of yours
is when your fingers
start to play the piano.
and because you,
who speaks little with strangers,
suddenly become the talk
when you let your hands
speak for you.