I’m still a child
playing a game
of musical chairs.

I’m just trying to
find a seat with
everyone else.

I’m still going
around and around
and around again,
searching for my
chance to fit in.

but every time
that I think
I’ve finally
found it,

as soon as
I go to sit down,

life pulls the chair
out from under me.

Can you hear a falling leaf?
As it twirls and dances in the wind
On its slow descent.
Turning, moving, swaying.
Does it sound like tinkling music?

The water that awaited the end of its crescendo
pushes out in perfect spherical ripples.
Underneath the bright orange leaf
That sings the end of its journey
Destination reached.
Sweet relief.

And now it floats
along the slowly moving river.
Can you hear the water moving?
It’s as clear as the ethereal beings
That haunt us through our lives.
Smooth rocks and pebbles underneath
Paint a canvas of perfect calmness.
Greys and browns and whites.

Branches from the trees that used
To hold that darling leaf lean over.
As if trying to touch fingertips to the river
To test the water’s temperature
So as not to make their child uncomfortable.

And as you look toward the distance
You can just barely make out
That sweet, wonderful leaf…
With its tinkling music…
Fall over the waterfall.

Can you hear the leaf now?

Fingers of fire
Flaming desire
Flirting with strings
Melted angel wings
Acoustic profanity
Electric insanity
Liquid bricks in your heart
Tearing you apart
A nuclear star
Now that is the sound of a proper guitar!

I love that music is an audio version of a book which is a mental version of a drawing which is a simplified version of a movie which is a combination of it all

Admit it or not
We smile for a reason
That reason mostly is a person

But we also cry for a reason
That reason mostly is a person
Sadly, it may be the same person who made us smile

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Guilt
Consumed by
Fear
I was heightened by
Adrenaline
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
Trapped
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Death.