#oldfashioned
So from the Void
Doth Being spring?
To serve no maker,
But Man?
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 7:49 PM UTC
We are creatures made ill;
by the decision to remember or forget our many exhausted selves,
Those familiar faces
Worn from the weight of self birth.
I do often see
See sight of familiar eyes ….
A memory fresh in your palms
Appearing most often at night,
When the barriers to duality falter and
momentarily, our hearts align.
Most likely it is just the pulsing of flesh that feels to us like presence.
So young to have the misfortune of a rot.
A sepsis caught from the spit of the past,
Asked falsely back by laments,
Cast into your own ether at self expense.
Hence, it appears worthy of thanks,
that the one with whom I shared a skull no longer gives me fear.
Anxiety, sheer dried flesh that brought me close to death,
For years, I have not tasted her iron on my breath.
Retrospective thanks, perhaps, that bring a memory back?
Easy. Wonder, where that shade hides,
For it’s true — we grow and shed, but keep our baby eyes.
I didn’t perform my own last rites,
So then perhaps it is my own shadow, cast by two lights.
It’s important, not to forget to worry.
Worry of your own mimesis, flesh imitation
Poetry’s invitation, in this developing obituary,
with each memory dragged from stale dirt with wary hands,
Serving to marry that past and present —
The act of burying that younger girl I cannot see —
Forming a shadow of its own, and killing my Eurydice!
I know the danger of Calliope’s hyperbole.
How worthy I am now, of love and life.
Tangible hours, warm and empty nights,
dripped in February sun, October ice.
Fresh and scented air.
Now these days, they pass with eloquence,
Joy exists, and this is evidence.
What’s strong in me, force that fills my once cold thighs and stomach,
Fruit and wine, yes — but most of all, the years of age gained living with death as a child.
Exiled from my own body, only to return old, but carrying the capacity,
the ability to be unrelentingly happy.
There are some things you never gain again after being lost.
Innocence — those snowdrops don't return after a frost.
Innocence, something I'm not sure I wanted anyway.
Unlike Orpheus, my dead Eurydice had a single life.
My glance is as his, far from pulling her from the Underworld,
That old and broken lover is kept inside by hindsight.
But I offer to the Underworld, that blinding grey I now have so happily forgot,
That blinding grey haunted, I imagine, by the shade I share a name with,
This final lament to the lost years.
I know now to not flee fears that surround my own myth.
A confession and a celebration, my own libation —
dedicated to a prayer that they stay dead, forever.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
Old souls like me may just remain present
The throwback, old days manifested
Souls with ways out of style evident
Thinking like the world is infested
Old souls slumming it their very own way
The ones who still do things like the did then
Still keeping it classy every day
People who study the ways of the men
For oldest hearts and classic souls, it stays
It’s worth the standing out, the ridicule
Doing things the good way, the way that pays
Old souls don’t make fire, we make strong fuel
Old souls who keep it always fully class
Old souls like beautifully lit stained glass
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
Call me old fashioned
But I dream of a love that's true
One where my better half means
the things that they say && do
Where photos of other women
On social media, among other places
Mean nothing to them compared
To the look we share between our faces
Where they're not constantly on the look out
For someone better to come along
Because they know deep down that being
With anyone else would just feel wrong
Maybe they'd know that I was the one
Right from the very start
Or maybe it would take time for them
to open up their heart
I'd go to the ends of the earth
To make sure they never felt alone
&& I hope that they'd do the same for me
That they'd let our love set the tone
So call me old fashioned
But I can't play these new aged games
My heart wasn't built to wander around
Once it finds a home, it wants to stay
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
I can only play the hand I was dealt
So no I'm not sorry for what I've felt
Life is nothing short of a gamble
And I know I tend to ramble
I'm just making the most of what I've got
Seeing if you're interested or not
Because I find you rather amazing
I'm really not the best with the phrasing
I'm a little old fashioned
With how I express my passion
Though if you would take the time
To converse with me past the rhyme
I'd hope you'd come to see
There's a whole lot more to me
Than some scattered paper and ink
Allow me to show you how I think
It's a little crazy and far-fetched
Enough that I often get shipwrecked
I blur my reality and dreams
Still don't quite know what it means
But with the woman I see
Could you really even blame me?
I can't imagine anything better
Though I fear the day she reads this letter
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC
Maybe you just don't understand,
I don't think you'll ever guess,
That I would rather curl up with a book
than play on your Nintendo DS.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
i am a Spidey red Pontiac
the ceiling is falling in and the doors are broken
(that you pry open anyway
but only because i want you to)
you ask me with your eyelashes
why i don't put thumbtacks into the parts of me that droop and sag along the interior
and the heater whines softly,
smoke spilling in from a mangled motor
because i ask myself the same question
we are cramped, you and i
the stuffing seeping out of the back seat,
the mangled box spring hearts dangling from our chests like metal slinkies that can't find the floor
because we've swallowed one too many books
and seen each other barefoot once too few
but we are happy, you and i
we find amusement in red sweaters and pull Pokemon from Abe's old hat
i wouldn't pass the safety inspection for your soul
(but you drive me anyway)
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC