"detailed" poems
It sounds ridiculous but only I feel productive when I'm doing nothing.
Sitting back, just relaxing.
Popping blue beans, burning bowls of green.
And just thinking.
Daydreaming about how things could have been.
How things could still be.
But how things will probably be.
Just close your eyes and let music be your guide.
Entire lives constructed and played out
in grand fashion. A world so detailed
I would rather get lost,
And never come back to this travesty of a society,
so raw and primal.
so human.
My world is so beautiful and yet so depressing
because it's what ours could be, but never will become.
Anything to distract me from this.
The 24 year old burnout grinding through school because there aren't many options left.
So where will I'll be in 5 years?
I wont.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
Just a single thought of you shakes my very being.
Sending tremors straight down to my core.
This feeling pulsing and echoing throughout my veins.
Straight to my lungs, making it so hard to breathe.
Your laugh, has me trembling, reminiscent of a choir.
Your personality, kindhearted, sweet, and comical.
Your accent, melting me like ice cream on a hot summer day.
Just a single thought of you shakes my very being.
Sending tremors straight down to my core.
This feeling pulsing and echoing throughout my veins.
Straight to my heart, pumping fast as if on caffeine.
Your presence, calming, laid-back, relatable.
Your demanour, silly, upbeat, adorable.
Your beauty, an unparalleled charm in this world of billions.
Just a single thought of you shakes my very being.
Sending tremors straight down to my core.
This feeling pulsing and echoing throughout my veins.
Straight to my stomach, excited and terrified, unresting as it disharmonizes with the rest of my organs.
Your willpower, to endure through hardships life scathes you with.
Your passion, able to pursue what you wish, and with no regrets.
Your talent, unique and detailed, parallel to your drawings.
Just a single thought of you shakes my very being.
Sending tremors straight down to my core.
This feeling pulsing and echoing throughout my veins.
Straight to my legs, fluttering and weak just imagining you speak.
I know you don't like compliments, but it's hard to hide the truth.
I could banter, and talk for decades as long as it's with you
I could wait forever, as long as it's for you.
Just a single thought of you.
Makes me feel the way I do.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
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Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 2:54 AM UTC
A series
of short puffs
from a rekindled
cigarette expertly put out
on the half
reminds you of your
fastidiousness
now you feel like **** as you look
at the wreckage site
of a desk that
is your own doing
That is what you do.
While your ego
floats like the unmelted
coffee you put in cold water
Hardly dissolvable
to anything normal
missing anything temporal
You lash out once more
waging a war
with a nation
of thoughts
You kick the furniture
to send the dust flying
That is what you do.
You attempt to sheathe
an intricate wound
patterned on your
knuckle, as detailed as the
dystopia of your
own human agenda that
can be trivialized by just
"I haven't been myself lately"
when somebody asks
because you're afraid
they might see
you find it
hard
to
belong
Slowly, the dust resorts to settle
on the bedroom floor
And so do you.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
from an idea by Sheila Sharpe
In the foul heat and damp and rot and stench
After dusting off 1 the bodies of dead pals
The living and the dead, the living dead
Old Boats 2 lit off a cigarette and growled
“They say this stuff’ll **** ya.”
1 Dustoff – noun. Dust off – verb with an adverb. A dustoff is a medical evacuation via helicopter, as in “Doc, your dustoff will be here in three.” To dust off a patient, then, is to transport a patient, not to tidy him. I have recently read detailed arguments about the terms dustoff, dust off, and medevac, but no one quibbled about such minutiae along the Cambodian border.
2 Boats – a boatswain’s mate, the brains and muscle of the Navy. Boatswain’s mates do it all and are seldom acknowledged in history or art, not even in the recent film about Dunkirk. A boatswain’s mate is often addressed as Boats, and always with deference, even by the C.O.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
Every moment.
Every touch.
Every breath.
Everyone.
There are seven billion people on the lonely planet.
Each completely and utterly alone
Only briefly touching each other
Only to seperate again
Everyone is a story
Every face, another tale
Every day, another page
Every step, another word
Seven Billion.
Seven Billion stories simaltaneously being written
Seven Billion Characters.
Seven Billion.
Sonder.
We all are living.
Sonder.
Noun, a realization.
Sonder.
Everyone living a life as vivid and detailed as our own.
Sonder.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
I met with a man today,
although
not so much a man as….
a boyish adult.
He told me he liked me,
or perhaps “loved” would be
a better description.
I was showered with things that most
people would love to hear constantly:
Compliments.
I…..am not one of those people.
Now, that’s just the oversimplified version.
A more detailed explanation would go like this:
I met with a man today,
although
not so much a man as…
a boyish adult.
We went out for lunch,
and left there around five hours later.
For the first three,
we were doing all right.
Managing to have pleasant conversation
we even discussed our views on religion.
The last two hours
however
I am not sure how I managed to endure.
He told me he had "fallen in love with me",
and that every word I spoke had him falling deeper.
I explained that I have absolutely zero interest in any such things
*(love, romance, all that jazz other people crave,
you know how it is)*
I however, am not capable of feeling those sorts of attractions.
(don't want to be either)
As I spoke, he would reply by saying he was falling harder...
that I was pretty, handsome, cute, beautiful….etc.
Not a word of what I said went into his head.
***And I knew it from the expression on his face,
that I was only being viewed as something to conquer.
To…..”fix”.***
That made the compliments even worse.
***I hate compliments to begin with,
at least ones in regards to my appearance.
For me, they are one of the worst triggers
on my extremely long list.
So is being treated like I’m broken.***
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
At the defense proposal
I was convinced
I would make it through
The proposal in my hand,
Months of preparation,
mentally, physically, loaded brain...
Well prepared I was for this judgement day
A little over confident, perhaps....
In the life of a Phd candidate
This is the true battle of Academia
Whether you'd be at the top
or you would be shot dead
The honorable Panels will decide...
The moment you utter a sentence or two..
Continuous attacks from the left and right
endlessly..... till you have your head
buried in the ground
Again you wake up and strike again
This is your war....
Defense is war.. the war of life
the moment of truth
the battle of a doctorate student everywhere
Research Objectives, Research Questions,
The Signification of research
and the Implication, the contribution of this study
SO WHAT?
One by one was being detailed, scrutinized and questioned
Dear panels,please be kind
Was patiently coping with your brutal attacks
Head held low, head held high...
Nearly had a stroke,
But I refused to die...
Thank you dear panels,
my courteous smile for you...
I'd be back,
You'd see me again,
When I counter attack....
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
A tug of war
It is the past experience and what was saw and felt
A word in keeping a person in line
A restriction of one’s thoughts and actions
A procedure in holding one back
******* being a form beyond one’s accord
Thank God there is a Lord
There is a chance to survive
More than a thought being a strive
I dream but all I see is a nightmare
I see effort, but when will there be preserver?
Its like a road block with detour
A method of turn back
I feel as if I am trapped in bonds
Maybe I am still sleep and need to wake up from my yond
Perhaps it’s nothing more than a dream
It’s my thinking I am in a movie stream
But its truly tough being rough
A different slavery oppression of the past with a theory of the present
A overseer continuing in present oppression
A silenced voice having no expression
The downward bound with no mountain reach
It’s time for a rebellion approach
Oppression is real and not a joke
It’s like an open wound with having a stinging poke
Oppression is alive and attempting to do well
Yet the world has a message in tell
‘OPPRESS AND OVERCOME, ITS ABOUT NO MOVEMENT AND BEING NUMB. IT TAKES MULTITUDES IN SUPPLYING THE STRENGTH, BUT ALL MUST GO THE MILES NO MATTER WHAT THE LENGTH”
Survival is how you chose to live
Its not a verb but is subjective
The voice must always be objective
Oppression cannot continue in terms in having its way
The sunrise has risen and it’s a tomorrow being a new day
These are the times to move forward and be strong
It’s a matter of all personalities of creeds in knowing how to get along
So shake whatever chains you feel you have on
Stand up and be counted where you belong
Don’t let any form of oppression hold you back
You have grasped the concept of understanding in the theory of thinking sharp being the detailed tack
Just give oppression one big smack
Listen America it’s the various cultures that stack
Oppression stand back as you have been defeated being a pack.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
A world wide phrase known so well as a lie, but as I say this to you, a lie, is the furthest it can get from the truth
I will not curl my pinkie around yours like kids do in elementary, I will not look into your eyes and say these words because that's just too simple, I will spend my lifetime making you believe
Making sure you do not have the slightest doubt in me, in us, in this ring I'm putting on your finger, this I promise to you
I promise
I will kiss the tears off your cheeks when you cry, I will tell you you're beautiful over and over and over even though I know so well that you'll deny it time and time again
I promise
That every word coming out of those soft luscious lips will be heard, never ignored, and when you feel like you're free falling down to the rock bottom of your life, I will be there, arms outstretched and ready to catch you, cradle you in my arms, happily walking you down the path of the journey you're destined to take
Whether it means carrying you on my back like a backpack, on my shoulders like a toddler, or in my arms like a newborn baby
I promise
I will never live without you
I will never let go of those bright blue eyes so detailed like the deep color of the ocean water, illuminated by a layered color palette of sunset
The gleam of your soft, smooth dark brown hair that catches my eye every time will always be mine, the coconut smell so enticing I lick my lips and beg for more
I promise
To always follow along to the orchestrated love song your voice plays for me every time you speak
To never stray from the beat of the drum your heart pounds every time you breathe or the wonderful wave of your laughter that bounces on air with every joke
To never let any challenges come between us or keep us apart because I will always find my way back to you like a lost puppy looking for it's owner, a baby bird trying to find it's mother, or a turtle making its way to the sea
You will stay a tattoo on my heart and a stained picture in my mind, never once leaving my thoughts, always in my arms
I promise
To think of you when my eyes are open and when they are closed, as the sun rises and as the sun falls, and until the day that I die, I will use every breath I have to whisper I love you
I promise
I do
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 4:25 PM UTC
In the light
Shadows are prisoners
And prisoners we are to our shadows
But if shadows could speak
I think they'll say
*I am no prisoner
I am but a listener
I guide the light
and shape
the stars
I am detailed
craftily inked
I am what links
us all*
**In the darkness
Our shadows are free
And we are free from our shadows
But if shadows could speak
I think they'll say
***I am beyond free
I am everywhere
omnipresent
and omniscient
I shade what most
aren't aware of
I am the protector
The keeper
of all secrets
I am defined
by none***
But if shadows could speak
will anyone still feel lonesome?
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges
très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?
lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
*********** all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter
Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana
sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for
for veal chop love
two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's
He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
And he told me, "You, my dear, are not a collection of people's memories. You don't need to house and protect everyone; you don't need to display and be proud for what they've done; you don't need to preserve them when all they do is walk over you. There will be moments that you have to guard them, but there will be much more of you having to watch out for your own self. You live for yourself and have confidence in it. You may be broken at times, but it's the fragments which make you much more intricately detailed. You have the potential to be the main attraction. All you have to do is to let it show. Remember, you are not a museum, but a masterpiece of art."
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
It is the song the bird memorizes every morning.
It is the movement of an inspired dancer.
The swift movement of fingers on an instrument,
And the beautiful sound that follows it.
It is emotion via colors on a canvas,
Or a melodic rhythm in song.
Is is a visual discussion of something worth
Knowing, learning, and hearing about.
It is a satisfying photo symbolizing life, and love,
And yet, a graphic, detailed piece explaining sin,
Death, and the wrong of human nature.
The release of built up emotions, both positive
And negative, creating something unique that
May only be significant to a single person,
Or able to grasp the attention of the world.
It is usually expressed through agony, and longing.
It is ourselves through a visual metaphor.
It is a spell, that's been cast upon you, that you
Express to others, expanding the impact of this magic.
It is the explanation of your own being.
It can explain your self views, and opinions.
It is something so beautiful, you cannot explain
Or comprehend the meaning unless you've experienced it
Yourself.
It's the realization that we are here to love.
It is deep thoughts coming to you from nowhere
But your own mind, using the one incredible thing
We're given that can unlock anything.
It is the face that we're present, we're
Alive, we are discovering, we are creating, we
Are learning, and we are living.
If that isn't art, then what is it?
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
years pass
things that
bothered me
songs that
pierced my heart
songs that
brought only
sad memories
don't,
anymore.
how i kick my
****
for getting rid of you
vinyl and CD
but especially
vinyl
**** why did i let you go
steeping in the memories
songs
music
how fast
they take
us
right back
to those moments
bittersweet memories
with ones we loved
so seemingly deep
or not
such great passion
such great wisdom
don't hurry through
your pain
but don't ever
think you cannot
get through it
if you so choose
sometimes it is time
to check out
who am i
to say
but....
maybe...
another day.....
another moment...
will change how
you feel
what you think.....
i say...
plan it out
be very detailed
but do not be impetuous
take your time
for you have all
the time in the world
all the time in the
universe
for there is no where to go
nothing to do
and
all the time to
get there
if you might
ever ask for my advice
and i caution you
you may not want to
do that
procrastination in
some things
is the very best
hand.....
now what the ****
am i talking about...
i know.
do you????
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
I truly have
a love...hate...
relationship
between
believing...
what I know
and...
knowing
what I believe...
Symbiotic...
and toxic...
It's a detailed.
enigma...
My curse...
My passion...
an ever present pull...
with stubborn intent
often directly opposed
To the path
which I am on...
When I was much younger
I developed a systemic
and purposeful mission
to design the person
I was to become
I had carefully weighed...
tested and mapped out
my "edges"
finally setteling on
habits, personalities
and a type of lifestyle...
this allows me
a precarious balance...
between honor, appearances
and fair exchange ..
friendship, acceptance and fun...
Something rare
during my colorful
and...
then recent
childhood...
Like I said...
young...
and well...
Once I found my path...
I stubbornly believed...
That no others...
existed...for me
Really young...
...hee hee hee
As we all know...
life happens ...
...and I rolled
and flowed...
and always seed to manage
But I didn't bloom...
I just became really good
at being me.
Just missing...
a really good second...
again
waiting...to become...
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
What is forgiveness?
Is forgiveness some absolute
Like once you've given it
That's it?
I don't think that it is.
I think it's a constant
choice and battle against emotion.
Or maybe I just haven't truly forgiven yet
Is forgiveness the same as letting go?
I don't know
I just know that I'm not very good at that
Especially if it involves upset
Maybe it's not a matter of forgiveness but of forgetting
Maybe that would make it easy.
But it seems I'm cursed with a long and detailed memory
But memories fade surely?
Time heals and all
Yet I'm afraid
Cause attach an emotion to them
And when you feel that emotion again
They all come flying back up to the surface
Why is that?
It makes me feel like I've never truly let anything go
Or maybe when I'm in a compromised state
It just becomes more of a weight
And by God it weighs heavy!
So I wonder what is forgiveness to me?
Forgiveness is a way to be free
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
I was thinking yesterday
About how to end my life
About what I could do
To make it less painful
For my loved ones.
Do I find my husband another woman?
Do I make sure my mom has friends to lean on?
Do I get another puppy that my dog can play with as a distraction?
Should I write eveyone a detailed note?
Should I move far away?
Should I pretend I'm fine until the end?
What did my dad do?
Did he have an outline of his plans?
Did he polish up his bank account?
Did he tidy up his room?
Was his note written in advance?
Was he off his medication?
Was his mind always made up?
I was thinking about ending my life
But I dont think
I was prepared to leave.
Dec 19, 2022
Dec 19, 2022 at 12:49 PM UTC
Once of a bride was I by a belle informed;
Who, on the very night of their honeymoon
Upon sighting her groom's dower, screamed
And would not let him in for his ***** boon,
Until she's taken thru the script the following
Morn by her parson's wife in cool counselling.
Many things in morals and etiquette do
Parents their children ever and anon teach
Except on this single unfolding issue
Will they falter to them plainly preach:
The act of marriage in its detailed image,
Cause it's found nay on their nurturing page.
An African mother will quiver her girl to lecture,
For instance, in the subject under review,
But will leave it to the Omniscient Nature
To instruct her like cry to a curlew.
So the bride's mom will not to her say:
This is how you should roll in the hay.
Neither will a father his son likewise tell
Explicitly of this duty--this too I know--
How to make his led-to-the-altar angel
Fly on cloud nine during their maiden show.
My pa never me of this nuptial scene told,
How in bed my lady I should stylishly hold.
Yet instinct, that great ancient teacher,
The green Adam and ****** Eve taught
On man's debut moment of ecstasy ever,
And did lead him to her piquant spot,
Whilst one another they caressed for affection,
Premiering for all couples conjugal copulation.
And the animals who do not the wisdom
Of man have, even every diminutive creature,
How each by divine smarts in their kingdom--
Like the fish in the sea of their rapture--
Do with themselves mate with none
Giving them tutorials nor showing them ****
To close this up where it had first started:
The *iyawo after the pending deed was done,
As it should betwixt man and wife, delighted
Was and with glowing warmth did thence burn
In the hearth of her *ókò with ultra joy,
Who at the beginning of performance was coy.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 4:43 AM UTC
It’s been a while…
It truly has been a while since I’ve written here, but yesterday I was triggered, inspired if you will; inspired to write this and let it be real.
When I was a child, 2nd grade to be exact, I befriended a girl on the school bus and long story short she spent my entire 2nd grade year manipulating me into all kinds of ****** acts not only with her but with other classmates. I was told by this girl, my classmate, another child, a second grader that everything we were doing was okay, it was all okay. Why?? Because her and her sisters did this kind of thing all the time.
To me as a child it made sense I guess, but she also threatened that if I ever told anyone as in ANYONE she would tell them it was all my fault all my idea. All of the staying in classrooms when no one was there, hiding and being told to do things that were beyond a child’s or even some adult’s comprehension, the hiding anywhere and everywhere and the fear of being caught it all was in my hands, and if i told I was to blame.
This went on for an entire year, or so who knows I blacked it out, but I vividly remember using a journal I got as gift to document it all detailed and when I got scared my mom would find it… I ripped the pages to shreds. And I killed the memory. I went my entire life until 19 years old that I realized it was never a dream.
It was real.
The point of this all is during a deep discussion With my best friend, I expressed to her the moment after all these years that remembered the girls name.
I told her one day my mom found a different journal I wrote in as a child, she found it a couple years ago and I was intrigued so I flipped to a random page… and on that page it was a prompt that asked my favorite and least favorite things about school.
My least favorite thing about school is: J****h .
There it was!!! Her name .
I told my best friend her name and seeing as though after I left the school district she stayed, we recalled the girl and how I can’t see her face in my mind but she knew she had a twin sister and they left the district after 2nd or 3rd grade and they came back in middle school. However by middle school I had transferred schools.
Long story short it shock my entire being that I missed this encountering this girl again . And I will never know her face or why she chose me but all I know is she was just the beginning of my trauma.
Nov 5, 2022
Nov 5, 2022 at 2:41 PM UTC
I wish sometimes I was a man of music.
I see the right side of a tune sometimes and my body seems to feel rythm. My hands and fingers slide over imaginary guitar strings and invisible ivory keys.
My ears vacuum up the sounds of beautiful music, from instruments to midnight breezes.
From simple words to metaphors and phrases.
It seems sometimes my inspiration comes from places that ears perceive as open spaces.
My heart beats to stake it's claim, to find its rythm in a vast world of sounds. A world intricately detailed and expressive. That not only whispers but shouts, that bursts out of the spheres and penetrates the cosmos with sound.
A world as grand and explosive as this, that overflows and spills onto us. Into us, even.
A world like this and my heart beats. To find a heart beating like it's own.
They seem to sound the same, but ears that know the difference can always hear it. whether loud or subtle.
I wish sometimes I was a man of music. Because poems can't seem to write the way my heart beats...
but it does help one to realize the difference, between "beats for" and "beats with."
My heart used to believe it was beating to find some tempo smooth as itself.
But it was beating in tune with someone else's tempo. it was beating with someone who hadn't been heard yet.
I wished I was a man of music, but to be honest, I feel poetry is the only way to properly say that sounds can become trapped. Like an image can be captured, sound is trapped in the wind, and whispered on to the world.
If my heart beats, it is flown on the wind.
If your heart beats, it is flown to the moon and back.
I heard your heart beating some long time ago. When we could hear those things. So my heart started beating in tune.
To find your heart, and let it fly me to the moon.
If I was a man of music, I'd have made a poem to sing to the wind. And it would have drawn you towards me.
But I'm a man of poetry, and all I recall of finding you and trying, was imagining a sound I heard in a dream.
Singing in a spotlight to a single beating heart in an empty auditorium. She stood there strumming upon rays of light, and humming vibrations to the tempo of her heart beat. Mine couldn't help but keep the momentum, but feel the rythm and accept her composure.
Now I hear the same, every time your hands touch me, and your lips whistle melodies into my mind. Things you say get stuck on replay like songs or broken records.
Things we do become sewn into vinyl, as the needle undoes our threads and leaves us naked.
Leaves us whisping through the air, and when the record turns off. You're stuck to me, stuck in my head like strands of smoke from a candle, tangled and gliding into each other.
In other words,
I was never looking for just anybody.
In other words,
I was looking for someone to fly me away, to a place where we already existed together.
In other words,
Not a day goes by that you haven't flown me to the moon.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
In contemporary belief.
A archer went to a shaman for relief.
A answer to ease fear of thoughts.
Finding his way home, the trail of war became too much.
He struggled with the regret of building a life away from what he knew.
When he came to the shaman.
The shaman hung his head low.
Smelling the stinch of blood.
Still he could not turn his back to the archer.
When posed with the young archers question.
He sat puzzled. Summering the long winded statement to "a great change must be made. Else all will fade."
Knowing of the young archers longing for a maiden.
The archer looked puzzled.
Yet the shaman spoke nothing else.
The young archer was called upon.
A war broke on the opposing side.
They needed his skill in fear that survival was utmost.
Without time to think the archer grabbed his bow. His arrows and darted quickly in the direction the war has taken place.
He quickly coiled arrow to bow. In repeated motion until none were left.
A field of arrows covered the small space.
War does something to a man.
A brief clarity after the slaughter of contemplation.
The shamans words dawned upon him like a snake.
He darted to the shamans place in great discoverly.
Finding that the shaman as well as his possessions were completely gone without trace.
He darted back to the field.
Searching through a forrest of arrow.
A heart wrenching feeling stuck on his face.
Guiding his way through the arrows he found a familar hand. Connected to a familar torso.
A face stuck in agonizing eternity.
The shamans words made more sense.
Backing away from the body.
Thinking deeply. Damning his hands.
The thing that came as habit.
He broke his bow in the reflection of his maiden's eyes.
This war gone astray inside of him
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
*Is the book too detailed beyond
the cover's revelations? Are there
some topics hidden too deep,
aspects that need vivid
reading to understand...
Or are you the open book,
every detail etched
on the cover.
Must I flip through all pages
or does the title
"You get what you see"?
say it all? Are you what
my eyes think you are
or there's pretty
much more to the
untold story than
can be revealed
by a single
cover?*
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC