"intentioned" poems
*be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit
give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration
so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction
more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying
speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them*
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
In all my paralyzing confusion, only one thing is needed; in all my anxiety over my much less than ideal circumstances, only one thing is needed; in all my this-is-so-unfair discouragement, only one thing is needed; in my pressing-down-like-a-boulder-on-my-chest grief, only one thing is needed; in my feels-like-my-insides-are-being-scraped-out sorrow, only one thing is needed; in my falling-apart-at-every-seam life, only one thing is needed; in my can’t-seem-to-muster-the-will-to-get-out-of-bed depression, only one thing is needed; in my sure-I’m-finally-going-crazy state of mind, only one thing is needed; in my so-mad-I’ve-got-to-throw-and-break-something anger, only one thing is needed. In the scorning and tormenting face of rejection or betrayal or failure or devastating news or disfiguring disease or the worst fears of my heart coming to pass, only one thing is needed—to come and sit at Jesus’ feet and listen to what He is saying.
To entrust myself to Him, to acknowledge His presence with me, to submit myself to His perfect authority over me, to just look at Him and recognize His all-surpassing worth, to feast on Him, to wait for Him to speak and know that He longs to do so more than I long to hear it, to meditate on His Word and speak it back to Him both in praise and request and to ask Him exactly what it means for me right now, to be ready to respond to Him in obedience and follow him wherever or however He leads, to be willing to tune out every competing voice no matter how well-intentioned and to say “No!” to whatever He has not called me to, to believe that He cares deeply and passionately for me both in His emotion toward me and in His personal tending of me, to see that the details of my life matter even more to Him than they do to me and that He holds every one of them in His hands and is perfectly directing them for intimacy and glory, to refuse to be drawn away or worried or upset by the many preparations and distractions all around me by casting every burden down before Him and taking up His all-sufficient grace for every need, and above all to want Him more than anything and to let everything else fit into that all-pervasive desire—this is the ONE THING that is needed both now and throughout every season of my life, and if I will choose it, it will not be taken from me. It is the one thing worth fighting to the death for and will, no doubt, require just such a dying again and again and again...
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC
she reads books and she plays music
the cute, innocent
clumsy girl
with freckles on her cheeks
you like to read and listen to music
the cool, handsome
sweet-talking man
who likes freckles on her cheeks
[ or at least you said you did ]
she rolls her eyes at your compliments
the cautious, bright
guarded girl
with curiosity in her eyes
you lay them on thick
the certain, sharp
imprudent man
with hidden agendas on your lips
she lingers a little longer
in hopes of crossing your path throughout the day
she laughs at your jokes
and you know they're not funny
she sings for you in the car because
you like her voice
[ or at least you said you did ]
she's become good at excuses
the hopeful, naive
kind-hearted girl
with sureness in her words
you soak them up
the stark, ill-intentioned
vacant boy
with uncertainty in your voice
she gave all she had to care for you,
the smooth, clever
self-serving boy
you convinced her that you loved her
[ or at least you said you did ]
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
The lizard approached
the beautiful tree..
made his play
you might say.
Started to climb
with such glee
intentioned to stay
all the day.
He then went limp
down he fell.
What had happened
no one could tell.
He was checked out
when he lost his function.
Found to have
a dreaded problem..
... called...
Reptile Dysfunction.
------------------------------------
The Lizard might have
stopped to See Alice
before the charge or his friend
Viguana.
(C) 03-2014. John stevens
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
The Dullard
A well intentioned
Comrade dropped
Off a basket of learning
Tools for my niece and nephew.
Among the colorful array
Of big red dogs
And purple dinosaurs
I find a book titled
"God Thought of It First."
I paused to consider
Pernicious Anemia,
Gary, Indiana, Republicans,
The Ford Pinto...
I sure never would
Have thought of it.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
In a fit of pique truths were written.
In a moment of reflection all was deleted.
Platitudes were written back instead.
Who am I to speak of the dead?
A wife was ungrateful with truth.
Did a pen pal want
what the sacred vows of marriage
Make unacceptable realities?
For whom would I have written? Who would it have pleased?
Staring at a fresh e-mail in humbled wonderment
that someone would give decent pretense to care
I -safely back from war- now ask: what do you want to know?
Do you really want to know?
Is it my place to tell
of seeing a man's insides
on the outside
of a vehicle who's occupants he unwittingly saved
by stepping on the landmine instead?
The mine splattered the survivors' vehicle in red.
Is it my place to tell
Of listening to the medic's confession?
Hearing him speak of tasting the blood in the air
like pennies on his tongue.
There's a tale I haven't heard sung!
I met my Shadow
I embraced him so deeply that I
As I had existed before
Ceased to be.
The naive child thinking it was Light
The Predatory Survivor others (cowards!) may judge as Dark
Were forged together
Stronger perhaps
Time will tell
As the alloy of two selves is unified by a personal hell
Cheering at outgoing steel rain
Laughing after the whizzing of bullets is a memory
Running, racing to donate more blood
Mourning the fallen while bathed in the dim red glow of chem lights
Watching honored corpses loaded in near darkness for their last helicopter flights
Is this what you wanted to hear?
Perhaps you knew.
Perhaps you imagined you knew.
Regardless
For your consideration
Thank you
For your innocent
Well-intentioned
Beautifully petty
Gloriously naive
And honest letters
Thank you.
Truly
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
The movie shows
an innocent man,
misguided, perhaps,
but well intentioned
killing a creature
he thought to be a pest
and full of remorse
for the unhappiness he caused
In fact,
the man who killed Mijbil
never confessed
never repented
did it for gain
as otter pelts
were worth a bob or two.
A tiny ghost
haunts a ditch
by a single track road
in Scotland
And the vanished marshes of Iraq
know which version of events
to believe.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
When I haven't wanted to **** myself in a while
And then suddenly the feeling returns
It's like I cannot breath
And
I cannot see
All that is here is me
and death
Death and me
The cruelty of the world overrides my mind
How can people spread so much hate
And the fear that nothing gets better in time
Makes me want to pull the plug
Or take those pills and chug
A bottle of liquor until I'm blue
And I feel nothing
See nothing
Am
Nothing.
When my mind enters this state
Do not tell me to calm down
Do not give me your "good-intentioned" advice
Because your solutions don't work on the severely depressed
Severely fake I guess
Since most won't acknowledge its destructive force
And refuse to believe it's a disease
Because, y'know, it's all in my head.
Don't you know I just want attention?
Because, of course, I don't totally want to **** myself sometimes.
See, I just take the medication I didn't believe in for fun
Because if I just smile and look on the bright side
Everything will be fine right?
No.
**** off.
In this cycle
If I forget my medication
even just one day
One.
*******
Day.
I have to fight myself to survive the next
Because the medication actually works this time
Because my depression is a medical condition
Not just some silly game you try to play it off as.
Id wish you to walk in my shoes for a day
But I couldn't wish that on anyone
Because on those days
Like today
I can't eat
Too much sleep would never be enough
And death sings out
A beautiful song to me
Begging me to come home
And
One day
I might listen.
And then you'll pretend to care
As if you really know me
But you don't, it's a game,
so don't bother
With your ******** shame
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
Back in my rebel days (yester)
I sported a spelunking bumper sticker
On my 1972 VW pop-up camper van
That read Free Floyd Collins
Totally apolitical well intentioned humor
Concerning one of my pasttimes that surprisingly
Never maimed or killed me
Whilst reporting for an official call for jury duty
The uptight and obviously a **** (did I just say that?)
Prosecutor enquired during jury selection
As to whether any of us prospectives
Had bumper stickers and if so
What they might say
The NRA sticker guy next to me
And the I'd Rather Be Fishin' and NASCAR
Sticker guy next to him
Passed with smugly flying colors
(red needless to say)
While the 72 year old nun
With the Amnesty International sticker
Didn't fair so well
And was promptly burned at the stake
(I kid you)
Needless to say
The long-haired Harvard educated
Native American
With the Doctors Without Borders
And the Remember Wounded Knee
With a not so discreet AIM sticker thrown in to boot
Also got the boot
Pondering the merits of the court stenographer's
Shapely fingers while judiciously confidently awaiting my turn
It never ocurred to me that Mr. Collins might be
So wrongly accused as to have me
Rejected and summarily ejected
From jury duty
A travesty of justice
I say
If for no other reason than I was so looking forward to
Sticking it to the Man
You can imagine my surprise and disappointment
As I wandered down to the Shamrock
To catch Terry O'Leary do a slam
And raise a glass to
Bobby Sands
r~ 22Feb14
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.
And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"
Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."
Then, for further comprehension
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs--
How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.
These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.
None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.
Now this tale is allegoric--
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.
I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.
For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.
Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.
Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.
Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.Porfer Poog.
2.6k
The word slithers from your mouth
Arsenic tone reverberating
Jumping on my eardrums and misting the fleshy insides of my skull
Dearest one, though unbeknownst to such a good intentioned heart
You are killing me
You lather onto her shame like oil
In your eyes she shines; epitome of all that you are not
Elusive seductress, skin tasting of intrigue
Entombment of that which lives in the blackest parts of you
Your brown eyes flashing ivy, becoming venomous,
Teeth sinking slowly with each syllable
****
Dearest deer eyes, open up
She dwells in your recesses but in my repressions as well
She is the 6 year old child emanating innocence
Closing her eyes to the fact that some parts may only be visible in the presence of Mama and Dr. Mallon
Mistaking foul play for dreams
She is the 13 year old not yet skinned of her baby fat
Caressed like the infant she most certainly is not
Lips glued with guilt and naivety
My dear, dear friend, please
You are killing me
The 16 year old girl whimpering no
Pomegranate lips pressed to the underside of Narcissus' hand
The other digging in between quivering thighs
***** you sigh
They're pathetic really
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
No one born too far from Niedersachsen, said Oma,
ever quite captures their sing-song intonation.
Characterized by subtleties, like an umlauted vowel,
all non-native imitations sound inevitably as ******
as would a cry of “ello, guv’nah!” in a London coffee shop.
Her Plattdeutsch instincts neutered
by decades abroad, married to a son of Milwaukee,
her permanent, dormant longing for Salzgitter awakes only
to trigger hunger pangs of irreconcilable nostalgia
at the passing whiff of a Germantown bakery.
She taught me the word “sehnsucht” over lukewarm coffee
and a pause in our conversation: a compound word
that no well-intentioned English translation
could render faithfully.
It isn’t the same as just longing, she sighed— longing is curable.
Sehnsucht holds the fragments
of an imperfect world and laments
that they are patternless. How the soul
yearns vaguely for a home
remembered only in the residual ache
of incomplete childhood fancies;
futile as the ruins
of an ancient, annihilated people.
How life’s staccato joys soothe
a heart sore from the world,
yet the existential hunger, gnawing
from the malnourished stomach
of the bruised human psyche, remains—
insatiable, eternal.
Long enough ago, a reasonably-priced bus ride away
from the red-roofed apartment in which she babbled her first words,
a kindly old man in a pharmacy asked her
about her peculiar, exotic accent. Once inevitably prompted
with the question of where she was from, she responded only
that she was a tourist off the beaten track.
And when I pointed out, to my immediate regret,
that she gets the same question back here in Ohio,
I realized then that, not once, has she ever referred to the way
the people of her pined-for hometown spoke
as though she had ever belonged to it.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
There are times,
When I want to be alone,
And it's not anyone's fault.
But even well intentioned words,
That kind touches,
Turns into static.
And it feels as though a wall
Is separating me from everything else,
Filled with mist and fog.
If Feeling and Emotion are colors,
Then this thing is Grey.
Faded. Muffled.
*Not invisible,
But washed-out.*
When I am in that place,
There is nowhere else, nothing but this,
And there never will be.
*But eventually,
It passes.*
Sometimes it takes DAYS,
Sometimes HOURS,
But the wall DISAPPEARS.
The fog melts away,
The gray pulls backwards...
And I am myself again.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 1:14 AM UTC
The king and queen cried
“Bless us! We cannot conceive!”
And “blessed” they were.
Their heir, a miracle, a vision of royalties.
And so a celebration was in order
(as is most pertinent in events such as princess births)
to adorn the little lamb with gifts.
“Gifts”.
Whether the blame lies here or there
our princess lamb heir stands the most to suffer
in cases such as forgotten friends.
Or unforgetful vengeance--
So spite screeched an everlasting “CURSE THEE TO DEATH ON THE ***** OF A SPINDLE!”
And with a turn of its heels shock
set in.
...shock
sinks
in.
The well-intentioned sprite attempts to soften the wolf’s blow on our little lamb heir--
Only a nap--
only it would seem such in the conjecture of events.
Now no longer is she princess baby heir then does a spindle come alive
X winters later!
(convenient, one might say--in all the land one’s but burned, temptingly locked away in the curious tower)
Insert fainting sounds.
Insert crowded gasps.
Insert “told you so!”
And the sheep follow our little lamb’s sleep.
One hundred year sleep.
Hair follicles sprout a slimy green, and not-so-royal fungi flourishes--
brash brambles tuck in the herd as if to say
“Sleep tight!
Don’t let the mites bite!”
But not our little lamb.
Reassuringly beautiful princess lamb heir keeps
like red wine.
She is only to be drank up from the
right cup--
a proper lamb.
Prince Lamb.
Whose worries consist of much different things than our lamb heir--
but for another ‘lore.
Our Prince Lamb dips, sips,
lips on lips
and she is awake!
Beautiful princess lamb knows exactly what to make
of all this?
The sheep herd rises,
and their “joyous” bleating reverberate
and penetrate
cold castle walls and break down the thorny cover.
And they lived happily
(and most originally)
ever after--
as sheep tend to do.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
this shall be:
this shall be
my last poem of the year,
two thousand and thirteen,
with the muses' permission.
a fitting one as well,
for the words,
come easy,
like so many did this
annus mirabilis, year of wonders.
firm I believe,
words are living tools,
constantly being reshaped,
fitted to the occasion.
care must me taken,
words hurt when wasted, abused,
or used in contravention to the creator's
intentioned purpose of intended good.
so when a brother, a poet-man
hits the nailhead, words writ,
encapsulating an emo shared,
this reserves, a poem-celebration!
lines between humans unseen,
somehow too easy, rightly crossed,
guards dropped, secrets exposure,
with the ease of feeling no discomfiture.
yes, this is the Internet age,
sharing revelations often cheapened,
boundaries collapse,
when no consideration given.
when there is no skin, no eye-glance
real-exchanged, no feeling, no voice,
casual, to do, easy to say,
what is the risk,
what could be the casualty
of this causality?
the risk is fearsome.
so when the venture is for the better,
what matter the absence of the physicality,
the tears and hugs imagined
as good as any non-virtual,
but in the coming year,
this I swear:
I will be, I will be becoming, I will become you,
unto you, for as was written, so shall it be,
for as was written, it will become,
a beautiful first, a first re-union,
that will be.
*this notion so pleasing,
yet inherent contradictory,
aye, there's the rub,*
a first re-union of the unmet,
*to mark this three hundred and sixty fifth day,
the creator bequeathed me these prayer words
most easily, most faithfully,
as a blessing for all of us.*
Dec. 31, 2013
3:54 pm.
NYC
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
If you cracked open my skull,
(and discerned past the alarming indirect realism
Featuring a ****** cerebrospinal fluid-y cranium,
Hewed and fractured crudely
And gushing like a cascade),
You'd unearth a disturbing array of mechanisms,
Filed, packaged, and manufactured,
Well intentioned lies and repulsive judgement,
Distressing reality and optimism open to ridicule
Self-interested altruism and desperate defenses,
An assortment of fallible hope and fallacious despair,
All nearing a point
Of sudden, piercing tragedy.
For I, too,
Am devoid of worth and life,
I, too, have done nothing
Worth life's light
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
It’s the best intentioned lie
that anyone will ever tell.
It’s a lie broken hearts
know only too well.
It’s the guy who is nice
but just not good enough,
or the girl who you like
but just won’t ever love.
Friend is never fair
when that’s all there can be.
Friend is the one
that your heart never sees.
It’s the word that is said
when your hearts on the mend
or the lie that is whispered
when the fairy tale ends.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 6:21 AM UTC
Smiling liars, Laughing tyrants, Suppliers
Of the drug that keeps us spinning
The web of deceit for our precious
Exploiters of production, masters of destruction,
They can always spare a little time,
To turn their noses down at you.
Understanding Uncle Samson,
Receding hairlines never seemed so cruel.
Steady diets, Miracle migrants,
Poised and ready
To deliver the solution to you.
Glorified Ignorance, Celebrated Apathy,
The mixture slowly brought to brew
Industrialized dreams streamed directly,
Born of seduction and designed for consumption
Your ideas no longer belong to you.
The Answer is hidden, at the end
Of a sentence
The link to extinction will surely
Be mentioned
As hope rests
While peace detests
Those souls
Were they well intentioned?
Chemically altered, biology falters,
Murdering the sacred sphere
Who to trust?
The reason we must
Purge the demigods with spears
Beyond the philosophies
Man believes the falsities
The angry mob taught him
To enslave himself with
Fear
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
It is almost five a.m.
With each thump of the echoing bass,
of the synthetic revenge and heartbreak,
angry percussion wraps me closer than your arms ever could--
tremulous and heavy,
more absolute than the sunset fictions
you contentedly let me cling to.
A venomous chorus drips from my lips,
once-swollen eyes now itchy and dry.
This is the still serenity of the predawn slumber,
the yearning of the yetsummer,
the quiet before the birds begin scavenging
through grass, trash, and recycling.
I protest--
tongue, fingers heels teeth and lungs
restless in spite of themselves.
You have chased me out of bed,
across dew-dampened grass,
over uneven pavement as treacherous as your voice.
You follow me.
Sleep is merely a forlorn memory
peering sadly from a forgotten heap of warm cotton thread,
whimpering futilely against the anxious pulsing
of overworked headphones
and overthought peculiarities.
You introduced me to this time of day.
You summoned it once with impatient chords
and a staccato keystroke melody,
casually ignoring the plaintive honesty
I willingly accompanied you with.
But the sunrise casts a strange glow, I guess--
rosy and well-intentioned,
fickle and fleeting, like your grin
or the capricious depth of the summer sky.
No one remembers that wandering blue
the same color as her eyes;
but it seeps through your pores,
curls into the caverns of your chest,
an aching in azure only because you let it.
You have bathed too long in the sun.
As the scarlet sunrise erupts across your shoulders
the sky settles into your lungs.
But don’t trust that sky,
that constant companion.
That sky is a cannibal
and it will eat you alive.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Dear...
This haphazard poem was written solely for you
Matterless, what you came garbed in
Fever elicited, passion anew
You’ve graced me, the repetition of ‘could-have-been’
I loved the way you speak
Of knowledge and triumph
And I, bumbling and meek
Tirelessly I sought and now still seek
Your council, your court
For my amusement, for my sport
Conversing over a poisoned well
I listen in genuine
Raise my voice
Sing with my friends amongst the din
Higher on the pillar, you I hoist
Pure skin my well intentioned hands mar
Clumsily, I lean into a similar heart
To discuss life and literature, fantasies these hands take too far
How eloquent the silk you weave, which you impart
Which inveigles and entices, cajole us into the city
On pale page, the street lamps and dim moon, art
Palpitations and liquor test the pity
Of light and fire
I cannot help but explore your shapely form
And yet, without bar
Across miasma, my guide is a cute little hand
Solitude, the pulsations do doggedly solicit
I just want to be close, you grant this
Bewitched by the creamy satin of pale skin
Distantly, warmly, I gaze in those God-given sculptures
Of the richest green and azure hues, bespeak feminine
Engaged in the other’s stare, two drunken apers
The night, black as sin,
The mould of outcome of we are the shapers
And I shape regret that rises with the sun
You come back vividly and lucidly
Distant and opposite, worlds across, you from me
A nondescript ghost in the corner
Who speaks so placidly
I remember with regret
I remember with exultation
I’ve ruined our relationship
Our relationship topical felicitation
I haven’t had time to apologize
I haven’t had enough time with you
If I ever see you again
I’d mend everything
I’d discover the girl behind the name
And cleanse the projection askew.
Love, Me
Dear... .
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
#
***'You said,
"Someday I'm gonna break your heart",
the first time that we met--
Were you warning me..
..or just seeing how close I'd get?'***
*If you didn't want to exist in the heart
of a man like me, then you shouldn't have
allowed your scrapper little spirit
to write the way you do.
And I was so naughty-- so very intentioned
in all of my obscenely-truthful lies..
I told you it was all your fault
that you got in so quickly*
--and it was.
*I got you back, though
I knew it the moment you let on
that you had fallen deeply in love.. not with me..
but with the love that had so deeply fallen
for every-thing about you
And so, it increased.. but at such a strange distance.
But even then, the years only perfected
and strengthened..
until lately..
until lately..*
***'We lay down in a lover's sigh
As a million years of time rolled by
How can I be hoping that it's not over yet?'***
I wasn't done, young Andi..
no.. no.. far from it
You see.. there's this shame-thing
I wanted to flood with light.
I'm getting so close to finding the words
that have never been heard
in this world before
(And now.. and now.. and now..)
***'I can't hold on to the night
Things change, ain't nothin' ever stays the same
You're gone as far as I can see
If you feel like letting go
Honey, I don't wanna be the last to know
( I wanna hold on tight to the sweet memory
of you loving me)'***
#
May 7, 2023
May 7, 2023 at 8:31 PM UTC
I'm just a masochistic optimist.
Simultaneously angry at myself for every chance that I missed.
Holding on to dreams that could never come true.
Holding on to my future, the one I dreamed up with you.
I can't savor any taste,
it's all ashes on my tongue.
Bitter laced.
Where once a melody was sung.
Delusions in my head are spun through tear-stained strings and heart-wrenched knots.
All the what ifs and had nots.
How is love is just drawing lots?
Of all the millions and billions of fish in the sea,
I can't believe you may not be swimming back to me.
You were my everything- my home and heart.
You were what I always believed would be both my end and my start.
I just want to feel some other kind of pain.
Pouring down and visible on my sleeves.
Wading through my daily life, shove it down and abstain.
Anything but this open heart wound, bleeding as he leaves.
One arm in front of the other, swimming in the deepest end.
My legs feel like weights.
I don't wanna move, I wish I could hit send.
My heart just stops and my lips curse the fates.
I'm a hopeless romantic and I feel so ******* frantic.
Just wanna run to you like they do in the movie scenes.
I see the reels on repeat in my daydreams.
I hold on to you and you kiss me back.
Everything is back on track.
I want to hold you close and tell you it's going to be alright.
Those platitudes not enough to make things right.
Maybe I'm just too broken to be held by another.
My clinging caresses only seem to smother.
All my crumbling little pieces just fall between the cracks of your well intentioned hands.
I always failed to meet our life's demands.
But how do you heal someone when you're the one who slid in the blade?
How do you let go when you fear you'll fade?
I want to hold on to hope that our story isn't over yet.
A fresh chapter, a re-write, a reset.
I was your "delicate" flower you would jest.
Now these petals are falling and I feel laid to rest.
I don't feel strong, I only feel weak.
A stem without water, leaning and bleak.
I've lost all my sunshine and my roots cling tight.
I don't want to give up the fight.
I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶
I̶ ̶n̶e̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶ ̶m̶y̶s̶e̶l̶f̶.̶
I̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶
I̶ ̶n̶e̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶m̶y̶s̶e̶l̶f̶.̶
Will we ever-
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 3:26 PM UTC
Something is moving through you--
In a soft nuzzle...
In a casual run of fingers through your hair --
Something living moves through you.
Intention,
Attention,
Elation
Move within you--
Sometimes aware,
most often unaware.
It shows itself in the holding of your hand; Instinct.
It's Life. It's God. It's the "ill-intentioned" arm of Death. It's inspiration;
Living alternate realities through imagination.
Agitation, Anxiety, the need to succeed.
An infinite intention flows through your circumstantial existence.
Its only physical evidence, we call luck.
Its lack of physical evidence, we call nothing.
It, is nothing.
We, are;
the perfect vessel.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
In the break of a storm
Rain acts like cars whizzing past pedestrian's faces
Blinking with watery head lights
And deafening horns of water-droplets
Beating on the heads of concrete drums
The wind like the underbelly of a lawn mower
With teeth, circular, sharp
and vicious enough to cut the point off blades
Of grass
When strong gusts blows
Hats off men’s heads
The stretch of jagged lightening
Mocks the warmth of yellow light
As its golden blade cuts through
The butter-soft black and blurry night
And the pruned weeds of people
That turn earth’s green brown
Count after the flash of light
So similar to the sun of daytime
They swore was there to brighten their world
1..2..3…
Thunder lets them know how fast the storms
Girth is approaching like
The rings inside a water cup tell you
Something bigger than yourself is walking towards you
It’s footsteps a voice that causes even the best intentioned daisy
To lose a petal or two.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC