Lungs sprout seeds I can't breathe
flowers grow like weeds
each breath that leaves me
smells of drought-dry daisies
I quite like the idea of blossoms
blooming in my skull
so at least the pressure builds something beautiful
and the migraine will be eased
by rain upon my face
lace my fingers together
and pray that the flames wait one more day.
Flames wait for the earth to dry
heat evaporates tears that I cry
we will have time to burn the past alive
before the rain before the flames
my heart skips beats like stones in a lake
what hurt from the past will I forsake?
and no longer hold as a keepsake of a time
where crime was fine as long as it was mine.
Fire, strike a match to my ire
I apologize to the flames
I let go of the blame.
Fire, light a match to my desire
to let go of my mistakes
and change, I want to change.
When I'm nothing but ash
I will create a new path
and full of life
Here's a song I wrote and still don't know what to title it
Find me unconscious in a creek,
leg twitching like a dog in dream,
with the threat of autumn's chill
I die below this hill.
I'll wake when frost forms at dew point,
rise from my slumber, pop my joints,
awestruck by fields of icy cream,
I skim its surface but I'm not meek.
Leave impressions faint and weak,
wind levels them until land gleams.
And with fine fingers I anoint
frost on windows of homes I appoint.
There are no offerings left on each sill
but I don't care for treats, they do not thrill.
I spiral frost, keep with the theme,
for I have icy havoc to wreak.
I won't contain myself to one creek.
Ah yes, the coldest spirit. This started as a twitter draft and here we are today.
A great wheel turned,
And something clicked into place.
Whatever it was,
It put a smile on my face.
Now I'm sitting here wishing
I had more to say,
But maybe this is perfect
To begin a new day.
So with a stretch,
And with a sigh,
I'll relish in the bright blue sky.
I'll indulge in this feeling,
Letting myself fantasize
About goals for the future,
For the very first time.
Maybe I'll fail,
Maybe I'll fly,
But either way
I want to try.
The call comes in at six am,
I don't get into the office until eight,
My answering machine blinks red with warning;
I'll get this message too late.
"I haven't serviced my generator
in three years
and it stopped working
after twenty-four hours.
I have no power."
I check their name,
they've done no business with us before.
I cannot send techs to them
when my phone keeps ringing.
I answer it.
"Hello, how can I help?"
"We're current contract customers
and our generator didn't turn on.
I've got an infant and this storm
is too dangerous.
I have no power."
And all I can ask is for their name
send it off to my boss
who cannot send techs out
in the storm.
I inform them so,
"I understand," they say.
"Send them when you can."
I hang up my phone
only for it to ring again.
"Let me guess," I say
"you have no power?"
"Got it in one," then comes
the nervous laughter.
Our conversation repeats
just like the others.
When I go home tonight
I'll maneuver around branches,
dodging cones and power lines,
yielding for approaching sirens.
I'll go up my driveway
crunching twigs and leaves.
I'll enter my dark and quiet home
and flick a switch
but no lights will turn on.
I'll have no power.
I work for an HVAC company and we install and maintain generators. Due to Isaias, a lot of people ended up without power. And these conversations inspired this poem.
My desk is clear.
Unless you count the neat stacks of papers
I have yet to attend to
that sit on my left and right
except for right in front of me.
Right in front of me there is nothing
but a keyboard and a monitor that's lit up
with a too bright white page.
The cursor blinks in and out of existence
much like the ideas in my head.
I type a word then delete.
I type a sentence then complete
an entire page with great phrases such as:
"There once was a someone in a land
that was known for its great something or another.
The sky looked very pretty, maybe a few clouds
which are puffy and white
a large, dark bird flies across crying in victory
with a mouse hanging limp from its claws
and that someone stood on a hill,
or in their room, or on the street,
staring up at the bird and wondered
what it'd be like to fly,
or to hunt,
or to be the predator not prey,
to be feared not fearful.
Perhaps this someone will never know
what it'd be like to rule, to live on top of the hill,
as they'd always be stuck in the town below."
There are too many choices to manage
too many places this story could go
and my nameless main character
are they friend or foe?
I don't know!
I knock my neat stacks of papers to the ground
they scatter all over my office
I shut down my computer so that the screen goes black
and my reflection stares back, shakes her head
My pulse pounds in my temples as the pressure builds
and I look down at my desk to avoid my own eyes.
My desk is clear.
my guys, writing is difficult.