#narrator
I must admit, I do suspect,
the narrator has nothing left.
No winning blow to slay the beast, no end of madness to say the least.
No more words
that please and set the tone
of narratives we’ve set in stone.
I’ll no longer follow nor will I lead some counter narrative to true history.
Aug 17, 2024
Aug 17, 2024 at 9:17 AM UTC
Maybe it was the sleepy way your voice would read me to sleep each night but I was pretty sure I had never known love until then.
It could have been the way you brought me hot chocolate with whipped cream when I was sad because you know those little things mean everything.
And I’m not sure really when it began but I know that once I looked into those eyes I felt my whole world tilt and turn.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to find words to explain love and how it feels.
Little did I know the words were already written they were just being read by the wrong narrator for my story.
Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 11:51 PM UTC
I ****** the stage with silence so the audience anticipates the articulation of words that soon spill out of my mouth.
The show lights blind my eyes so all I can see are headless ghosts sitting in rows, neatly compact in a spiritual communion.
My mind stutters, body shudders, yet the line is plain to see as it was painted on my lips - ready to perform, ready to be spoken.
Narration courses through my lungs to produce cornered speech, creating an introductory-zone for the others to encroach behind me
And there we were, separated into our own character beams while I stood with shallow confidence at the forefront.
Though I'm not a main lead,
or a side character,
or a set piece,
I am the narrator.
I carry the weight of the story,
And I carry the ears of those who listen.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 12:34 AM UTC
Bored on the internet, so see what I find.
I'm taken back to that moment in the past
When I met the droop-eyed star and starlet.
Look what Twitter has. Their pale face framed
and recreated, pixel perfect, inundated.
Talking in circles.
Talking highly of
Your self --
Like you're above the tower seat of power,
In the clouds. You're a mental case. How
you gonna love yourself so much?
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown
An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone, a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door
A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due, south a heaven sent ―
A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―
just read: Lydia ... ♡
... followed by a scribbled empty heart
The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin
The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web
An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in
The final unread words silently said:
*"We lost our way,
it all went wrong,
it all turned bad"
..."This is the outcome when someone you love
up and throws you away"
...“I’ll reach out from the inside
I’ll rise up again and do without”
..."You went out into the world
with an untamed hankerin’ ―
like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
and come back worlds apart"*
The Unsent Letter,
just whispered words to the dust in the wind
in quivering ink:
...*"how can I ever unremember you...?
a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"*
just signed: ... ❤ August
January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind ♡
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
Restless in bed, the stir of warmth blossoming in his heart,
the girl he loved has gone,
drifted from his house to the field of vacant stares.
Rainstorms brew in his mind, shifting from one end to the other,
the current forming into a large sheet of distance damp with disconnection.
He thinks of fire. As he rolls out of bed.
Grabbing a cigarette from his ashtray,
he lights up. Old habits stay kept in the roof of his mouth. Fresh air
permeates through his nostrils as he steps out onto the front porch.
He props his elbows on the balustrade,
brushes against the grainy wood
tarnished from the skywater.
The sun droops below the gray cluster of clouds
hanging over a horizon colored with blues, reds, and yellows.
While he smokes on his cigarette he remembers the girl. Her name is a
wrinkled photograph stored in a dusty shoe box.
She has green eyes and curly red hair.
Her body is shaped in an hourglass figure.
She's tall and gaunt, but her
legs are toned from running several miles on her treadmill
each morning before the dark slips away into the fog of light.
He grounds the cigarette out on the porch. He steps onto the driveway. There's a red
Honda CRV parked across from the two-car garage.
He hops in. The key turns.
Booming engine roars out loud.
The wheels churn backwards. He pulls out of the
cul-de-sac. And he drives, drives,
until he can remember the road map, the one
that she stole from him to follow her dreams, and hopes, the aspirations that he had
once shared with her. A thin, white film of mist
belays across the windshield.
And for a short second he wishes that he were dead.
Dead so that he could have the
perspective of an omniscient narrator to oversee everything, and everyone.
But where is his girl? She's not the one who got away,
she's the one who abandoned him, the
night after he ate the sweet nectar,
the fruit, little drops of dew splashing onto the back of his tongue.
The red Honda CR-V careens down the interstate, windows down, subwoofers pumping
with something similar to apprehension,
tense with overwrought poems.
The substance lacking from trying too hard,
for something that wants nothing to do with him.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
You will read this poem, and as you read it you'll wonder why is that the first line of this, how bizarre and unintriguing.
You will feel the emotions I felt as I put these words into motion.
You won't care.
It'll touch you for a slight second and take you back with a rush of nostalgia.
You will forget this.
My words full of feeling and most likely eloquence will fade your mind like a dying butterfly,
that just flew by,
right before your eyes.
(You weren't aware of the fact it was dying, of course.)
I should say these are all ghost words, with demons attached to them; for the things that inspired these thoughts are impacted
memories
formed by travelling people who attached themselves to little pieces of my mind.
I thought as I wrote this,
my soul is staining the paper,
for it often feels as though it is bleeding and I would say every writer feels this way.
I would hope so.
A sinking boat, over boarded with water.
A flooded river, full of life, not knowing how to deal with all of it's responsibility.
A loud room, around a small human with a sensory overload.
Each word is a brick on top of a flower.
This is as heavy as this silly poem will get.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
*The dust begin to compile,
from the story you gave me.
The dust begin to vanish,
as the story begins to burn.
It was white as snow,
black as the windowsill,
and red as blood, the princess.*
The story ends, as the narrator smiled.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Some call me a prophet
Others see me as a derelict
These stories I’ve stored in my head
Can easily be twisted to fantasy
Am I reliable?
You have no choice
But to take what I say and believe
At least for a little while
I believe the listener
Is as naïve as I seem
Sitting on every detail
Every word
While visiting Southwark
I met a variety of characters
From different means of life
With different perspectives on the world
Looking innocent has its advantages
It gives me a leeway
To invade other’s privacy
And extend the truth to the edge of fabrication
Have you ever questioned a storyteller?
We all seem friendly
We talk highly of everyone we meet
Until we dive deeper into their secrets
The Squire
Composing music is his forte
I say it sounds beautiful
And he seems fresh as the month of May
The Friar
A gossiper full of language
I hope to understand
To grasp
A Sailor
Having bad joints
From extensive labor.
He must work substantially to acquire those injuries
The Summoner
Full of white pimples
Yet drinks red wine
As red as blood
I create a story
Yet can end it all the same
I tell you what you want to hear
Not what reality presents in front of me
For life is not exciting
Without a bit of imagination.
And with my mastered poker face
It may be impossible to seek out my lies
The darkness inside us all
Can peek its head at any time
Consuming us into a downward spiral
Of lie after endless lie
So am I reliable?
We’ll just have to see.
So here comes a story
Told by me.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC