"reined" poems
listen
beloved
i dreamed
it appeared that you thought to
escape me and became a great
lily atilt on
insolent
waters but i was aware of
fragrance and i came riding upon
a horse of porphyry into the
waters i rode down the red
horse shrieking from splintering
foam caught you clutched you upon my
mouth
listen
beloved
i dreamed in my dream you had
desire to thwart me and became
a little bird and hid
in a tree of tall marble
from a great way i distinguished
singing and i came
riding upon a scarlet sunset
trampling the night easily
from the shocked impossible
tower i caught
you strained you
broke you upon my blood
listen
beloved i dreamed
i thought you would have deceived
me and became a star in the kingdom
of heaven
through day and space i saw you close
your eyes and i came riding
upon a thousand crimson years arched with agony
i reined them in tottering before
the throne and as
they shied at the automaton moon from
the transplendant hand of sombre god
i picked you
as an apple is picked by the little peasants for their girls
82.4k
Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year ---
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.
Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.
At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy
As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.
Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.
A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly
With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.
The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.
41.9k
We’d been together so long, it seemed
That nothing could tear us apart,
We lived our lives in a world of dreams
And Barbara lived in my heart,
But frost had covered the window pane
And then it began to snow,
As Barbara turned, with a look of pain
And said, ‘It’s best that you go.’
I didn’t know what she meant at first
As I looked up from my book,
“Go where?’ I questioned, but thought again
As she quelled my heart with a look.
‘I said I want you to leave,’ she cried,
And her face was set in stone,
‘We’ve come to the end of the path,’ she sighed,
‘I want to be left alone.’
Then suddenly all confusion reined
I didn’t know what to say,
Whatever had brought this mood on her,
I wished it would go away.
But she was firm, and she packed my things
And ushered me out the door,
I stood there shivering in the cold
To be back on my own once more.
I found a flat and I camped the night
There was barely a stick or chair,
I’d have to buy all the furniture
To make it a home in there.
But I sat and cried in the empty room
As the question came back, ‘Why?’
I’d loved her so and my heart was torn,
I thought I wanted to die.
I went to her with my questions, but
She slammed the door in my face,
Whatever love she had had for me
Had vanished, without a trace.
It hurt so much that she cut me off
With never so much as a sigh,
I called that all that I wanted was
To tell me the reason, why?
The roses had bloomed so late that year
Were still in the garden bed,
We’d always tended the bush with joy,
We both loved the colour red,
So I snipped one off as I left one day,
And planted it under her door,
To let her know that I loved her still
I didn’t know how to say more.
Her brother called in a week or so,
Said she was in hospital,
She’d gone in just for a minor cure
And thought that he’d better tell.
So I caught the bus and I went on down
With a quaking fear in my heart,
She hadn’t said there was something wrong
Before she tore us apart.
The doctor came in his long white coat,
His brow and his face was grim,
I said, ‘Don’t tell me the news is bad,’
He said, ‘I’m out on a limb.
Your wife just passed from the surgery,
But she pulled, from under her clothes,
And asked if I’d pass this on to you,’
In his hand was a red, red rose.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 1:10 AM UTC
I always suspected electricity
Ran rampant through my veins
To make me dazed and dizzy
But unable to sit still
It made me prone to flights of fancy
So I left giddy trails of sparks
Blazing proof of my restlessness
That once brightly caught your eye
Once your gaze had found my own
My moods came in swooning flares
And you crackled alongside me
Filling my aching, empty silence
With shiny, blessed noise
We burned so beautifully
With my electric fire
And your trilling declamations
Light and sound intertwining
Like thunder that had finally caught up with its lightning
It seemed like Nature's order
A completion of the whole
Two halves that followed each other
Unthinkingly and automatically
So one day when I found silence
It felt like Earth itself was splitting
Panicked, I burned more brightly
Stoked the fire just in case
I feared that I had dimmed
And been the cause of this new quietness
So when I still heard nothing
I thought my efforts insufficient
And I ran my highest currents
Until my wires nearly melted
Thinking the sun and I were comparable
And anticipating a response
And still I heard no trilling
No crackling at my side
So I wondered if perhaps
I had shined beyond your limits
Swiftly, I contracted
Reined in my flares and doused the fire
Thinking sudden darkness
Might just shock you into sound
I finally heard the faintest popping
Not quite the rending that I wanted
But a break from quiet all the same
Afraid of spoiling the moment
I leashed my electricity
Kept myself dim so I could hear you
Though I felt the writhing beneath my skin
It finally became unbearable
So I flashed like wild lightning
Lashed out and struck the ground
Hoping for your thunder
A dark and roiling storm
Swirling raindrops and clouds colliding
And deep, ugly noise
All I wanted was your thunder
But in the end
It was only me yelling
Screaming out for downpours
Alone
Listening to my own echoes
Waiting for you to harmonize
In the end
I was always waiting
Wondering when you'd chosen silence
Wondering why I'd let you dim me
Wondering how it was we'd ever burned
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
You are pathology incarnate
The sweat on your brow trick of the light
You were the first female
But you are no woman
Just a beast in the shape of a girl
Plucked one year before ripeness
A major at everything
A minor one way
Your eyes betray your true nature
Sharp, louche and depravity reined
Soot-yellow and one dollar green
Some might call it hazel
I call it dirt against your aryan gold hair
If you offered me fruit
I’d force myself to take a bite
So my soul won’t witness my guts feasted in the gutter
Carnivorously carnival-carved cadaver
Stamped under your cigarette-stained heels
Cherry cola chipped out of chapped lips
Cos I didn’t dare take a chockfull
You’re the first girl who has ever touched me
But I’m just the fly on your fruit
Lilith Haefelin
The girl before Eve.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 11:33 PM UTC
O what is that sound which so thrills the ear
Down in the valley drumming, drumming?
Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,
The soldiers coming.
O what is that light I see flashing so clear
Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear,
As they step lightly.
O what are they doing with all that gear,
What are they doing this morning, morning?
Only their usual manoeuvres, dear,
Or perhaps a warning.
O why have they left the road down there,
Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in their orders, dear,
Why are you kneeling?
O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care,
Haven't they reined their horses, horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear,
None of these forces.
O is it the parson they want, with white hair,
Is it the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear,
Without a visit.
O it must be the farmer that lives so near.
It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?
They have passed the farmyard already, dear,
And now they are running.
O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.
O it's broken the lock and splintered the door,
O it's the gate where they're turning, turning;
Their boots are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning.
4.2k
A sportin' death! My word it was!
An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
I only tell you what they say.
They found that day at Shillinglee,
An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
For ninety minutes at a burst.
They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
An' chased i'm up to Kirdford town.
From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
You'll guess it weeded out the field.
Until at last I don't suppose
As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin' southwards to the coast.
Young Captain 'Eadley, 'e was there,
And Jim the whip an' Percy Day;
The Purcells an' Sir Charles Adair,
An' this 'ere gent from London way.
For 'e 'ad gone amazin' fine,
Two 'undred pounds between 'is knees;
Eight stone he was, an' rode at nine,
As light an' limber as you please.
'E was a stranger to the 'Unt,
There weren't a person as 'e knew there;
But 'e could ride, that London gent--
'E sat 'is mare as if 'e grew there.
They seed the 'ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And 'ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin' and a 'arkin' back.
'E was the foremost at the fence,
And as 'is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be'ind,
For three was at 'is very tail.
'Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' with the word,
Still sittin' easy on his mare,
Down, down 'e went, an' down an' down,
Into the quarry yawnin' there.
Some say it was two 'undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they 'ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their 'orses on the brink.
'E'd only time for that one cry;
''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one's good enough for me.
For mind you, 'twas a sportin' end,
Upon a right good sportin' day;
They think a deal of 'im down 'ere,
That gent what came from London way.
3.6k
If his bed was empty,
where once red poppies
bobbed a sled
downhill.
It became colder
and thin ice grew.
From the starting gate,
they fell,
spawned indifference,
for they were like two horses,
stabled in the face.
Reined for the show.
With blue ribbons in their eyes,
so very prim and proper
in public eyes.
Away, their tongues at war,
fueling the armies,
in their eyes.
He cried the impending emptiness,
warmth and love,
the empty bed.
The pound of fish
on Fridays.
And slices of cake,
where the red poppies
come to thrive
and the sled cherishing
the ride.
Yet.
Blind not to her vices and him.
Their marriage dissolved.
Infidelity in her back pocket
and undoubtedly a bigger sled.
Where are my angels,
he cried so often
the last thirty years
of darkness.
Where unfortunate endings
replaced auspices beginnings
and shadow dancing replaced romance.
See through
a lone wolf distancing from the pack.
Logan Robertson
5/17/2018
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
View from the Streetcar
[[[Come with me to the pow-wow tonight:
we will make toasts with neon shots of jello
in the Medicine Wheel circle.
we will speak in tongues & 0’s & 1’s.
the mixed hues of our skins, the mixed geometries of our bodies,
the mixed dilations of our pupils come together & nod in council
that we should take more time caring for our horses
for they will never let us down.]]]
On my way to the gaudy theme park, alone in the streetcar
I remembered how I left my mother without reason,
the aftertaste of emptiness that comes when leaving on impulse with
instant regret lingered inside me; my ego was miles ahead.
Yet I remember looking through the window,
looking into a forest where bright hammocks hung on trees
abundantly-- canopies filled with hard-covered books.
No people in sight, the books reined the woods,
hanging still like sloths waiting to be pried into.
I remember thinking that was enough
to bring flavor back to my throat.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
#Have you ever been madly in love?
The old man broke my reverie.
On the long faded green bench white with bird droppings
he was peering at me through his silver grey beard
looking oddly out of place in that college squire park
where only the dreamers at the prime of youth
would sit between classes to exchange love notes
and steal a kiss when the passion couldn't be reined in.
Have you ever been madly in love? he repeated,
and then as if growing impatient by my silence
mumbled, pausing between words,
like they stung him like thorns
*it extracts a price been paying all my life
living with a void no other woman could fill
a commitment that breeds only pain
yet makes me insanely boastful
of being madly in love.*
It was recess hour and the benches were being filled up.
How many, I wondered, would still hold hands
when the classes are over.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
I coloured my world today
my hands smeared in pastels
canary yellows
ripe peaches and cardinal ochres
pink from a flamingo sunrise
a passionate cerise
Splashed
an array of feisty blues
a flamboyant turquoise
a topaz tango
a twinkling periwinkle
Streaked it with
beams of gold
contoured lilac smudges
lavender tipped edges
in custard pineapple floats
Splattered emeralds, toned pistachio
fern greens with swift finger strokes.
Tempered it with
muddy crusty earthy browns
rock coloured sandy mounds
reined in royal purple
the sensual blaze of a flaming sunset
the dark indigo of a gloaming sky
agate drops a few
a silver sliver of a crescent new
I coloured my world
with my eyes
my fingers, my hands
my hues
....just the way I wanted to
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
I coloured my world today
my hands smeared in pastels
canary yellows
ripe peaches and cardinal ochres
pink from a flamingo sunrise
a passionate cerise
Splashed
an array of feisty blues
a flamboyant turquoise
a topaz tango
a twinkling periwinkle
Streaked it with
beams of gold
contoured lilac smudges
lavender tipped edges
in custard pineapple floats
Splattered emeralds, toned pistachio
fern greens with swift finger strokes.
Tempered it with
muddy crusty earthy browns
rock coloured sandy mounds
reined in royal purple
the sensual blaze of a flaming sunset
the dark indigo of a gloaming sky
agate drops a few
a silver sliver of a crescent new
I coloured my world
with my eyes
my words
my fingers, hands
my hues
....just the way I wanted to
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 11:17 AM UTC
Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do........
boy! That Cadillac was one hell of a piece of engineering.
Burned a long time, like it enjoyed the pain of the flames.
He smiled at the thought.
Handmade by union men the way it should always be.
Not those ******* up ***** like Jimmy Hoffa either.
That ******* probably a ****** like hoover.
The image of him in a basque stuck.
Made him angry, but he soon reined it in.
Lecter was never angry. Not in the books.
He prefered the books, no change-the -ending for the mass appeal.
******* movies.
He was cautious now, the fake i.d. for the rental would fool most.
He was pushing things, her blood in the trunk even burnt black worried him. Next time will be better.
In Daisy's book was a circled name with hearts drawn around it.
Louisa. Her address as well. Nice and easy. 200 miles to go.
Make like Rutger in The Hitcher, move west....
The VW Rabbit was a ****** car after the Caddy.
The two kid's didn't want to give it up easy, but they did in the end.
They looked so silly, tied back-to-back in the rear seat, legs broke to squeeze them in.
Made him smile all through the night.
No blood this time, not yet anyway. Playing Slipknot to **** him off, little *****
Well write a song for these two, clown boy.
He had looked on their lap-top at the poetry site.
Saw the latest post from the pub landlord. He was a little confused, this poem didn't seem to be telling him his next move.
He dragged them out into a ditch before dawn, stood on their necks to **** them, like the coyote trappers did, cruel ********
No blood, just **** all over each other as they died.
Maybe he'd get a reward poem for doing it, in the meantime finding Louisa would keep him occupied.
The vw had a cheap sat nav, hope she's home.....
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 3:20 PM UTC
I was seeing many girls
when she stormed into my life
broke my run with her resolve
to find her place as wife.
I was seeing many girls
when she came reined me in
halted me with all her force
determined to win.
I was seeing many girls
my dream was up to stars
when she arrived fully knowing
this man was soon to be hers.
I was seeing many girls
none of them could be wife
she knew it when she came
I would stick on her for life.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:45 AM UTC
Her honey'd hole a wet, wet dream,
her liquid gold a silky stream where
sliding thrusts were mounted, hot,
and arching bodies dared not stop;
where moments flowed into the next
and both were drowned in comfort ***
and eyes were riding each one's soul:
his quest for freedom her only goal
And rather than come up for air
this fiery passion sank them there,
(as both an anchor, 'twined like rope,
and locked in pelvic gyroscope)
her swollen thighs around his waist,
her nails embedded, tongues embraced
and fishing for that final taste
with every touch, in every place
Fused as one with melting cores,
(her curling toes demanding more)
his urgent need to plunge her rightly
sealed them closed with hearts bound tight, and
all around them
walls of water washed their sins
in quickening waves that locked them in
with swats and spanks
and gentle yanks and saucy stares
while skin to skin and hand to soaking hair
Like rolling tide to rocky shore,
(her legs thrown wide, his pelvis sore)
the crash and grind of karmic ties
were deep explored and fast revived
- with whispered greed they came alive -
awash with ***** un-restraint and
thrived, un-reined, with fate to blame,
their pulsing needs through every vein,
infused as one and charged by same:
her wild release on which he came
an ocean, calling out her name
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
Ice Tinkles in Cocktail Glasses,
At a Washington Hotel Lobby
A Senator Brags about his Hobby
It costs a lot of Upkeep to Maintain
Racing Stock, Ah but Bridled & Reined
Its Worth It, says the Chair of the FDA
Committee Over Sight to the Rep From
The Pharmaceuticals Association
As they Head to the Corner to whisper
The Engineer At Major Automotive
Tells them what he Sees for new Parts
They are off tolerance But in the Chart
It Shows only 3% Fatality, and It saves cash
After the Discussion to table it for Now
They break out the Bonuses for saving Money
Dark Souls Cast Dark Shadows in Life
With No Respect For Honesty or Right
Can't they see in a Flash, they fly into the Abyss
For all their Money..... On a Carpet of Cash
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
There were once Lands of Right and Left
Where mutual loathing brought bloodshed.
They disagreed on numerous things
Such as which hand one should use to eat,
Which leg one should start with to walk,
Or which hand one should raise to talk.
There was literally no time for consensus
Since the clocks ran in opposite directions.
But one fateful day, all hell broke loose
When the Baron of Right made his own noose
By shaking the right hand of the Baron of Left,
Wreaking havoc with such unforgivable offense.
How dare you defy us with such heinous mockery,
We’ll pour our wrath for defiling our sanctity.
It was then that blood began to rain outside,
Where a red river scourged the streets, claiming lives.
Cries for peace were drowned by thunder,
Egos were too hurt to excuse the blunders.
If only, if only there were ears to listen.
If only, if only there were eyes for vision.
But when tongues have the power and run amok,
Not reined by reason and empathy locked,
Surely nothing good will come about,
Only disunity and violence shall sprout.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
I coloured my world today
my hands smeared in pastels
canary yellows
ripe peaches and cardinal ochres
pink from a flamingo sunrise
a passionate cerise
Splashed
an array of feisty blues
a flamboyant turquoise
a topaz tango
a twinkling periwinkle
Streaked it with
gold
contoured lilac smudges
lavender tipped edges
in custard pineapple floats
splattered emeralds, toned pistachio
fern greens with swift finger strokes
Tempered it with
muddy crusty earthy browns
rock coloured sandy mounds
reined in royal purple
the sensual blaze of a flaming sunset
the dark indigo of a gloaming sky
agate drops a few
a silver sliver of a crescent new
I coloured my world
with my eyes
my fingers, hands
my hues
just the way I wanted to
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
The leaking beauty such as rebirthed life
And of the muddy earth slowly reclaimed
Persephone’s return, a dance of strife
Returning vividness, again, unmaimed
Escaping the monochromatic cell
By return of green, such luscious pigment
By Flora’s grace and by the Shepherd's bell
Revive events long free of merriment
The songbirds relearn their forgotten tunes
The bees prepare to collect flowered boons
Hibernation ending, returns routine
With warmth radiating, freely flowing
Crawling from thy shallow cave, sunlight seen
Flecked through dewdrops caught in Spider’s sewing
A land of new dawns, forgiving thieves
The fruit yet unblossomed, life is still ripe
The tree naked, still missing its leaves
Coverings absent before the first gripe
The animals hunger to end their fast
Humans hunger to remember the past
Come, serenity destroying pigment
Rend the ebony earth delicately
Spread your lovely, inebriating scent
And thus, set every fashion of life free
Free from that immaculate white prison
Free to frolic in fresh fields, unrestrained
The sun, in more wakefulness, risen
To maintain, nature’s mischievous work reined
In preparation for the coming time
The time of heat, growth, and color sublime
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
Puzzled are my oceans
As to how Phobos fills them like cold rains
While submerged in your galaxies'
Wine well-stored among memories.
They are weary troubled how,
Daunted to even gaze at them now.
For doubt sprung from fragments
Of galaxies' reined luster, now torments.
On what their distant lights state
I faithfully patterned my fate,
As if what to happen they have said,
But why do they seem misread.
Does a thousand light years it take
To reach me and have me awake?
Is it just the supernova of the past
That still holds my trust?
For what really lies there unknown
Are blackholes of stars too late shone.
Ascribing me to circling swarm-
Sapping sanity to my harm.
Tell me you are no blackhole
For I'm no barren ocean you'll fall.
We are both lost in tidal capture
But groping to gain rapture.
I know my oceans set you adrift
But forbid you any dip.
Well, I'm afloat in your galaxies
That don't elevate queries.
Prostrate me by resonant shining,
Break latent conquest we're in.
You'll see their reflected glitter
As I submit to your luster.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 1:42 PM UTC
Much sooner comes the Winter now,
the racing clock tics on my wall.
Another wrinkle on my brow,
another Summer, Spring and Fall.
I try to hold the moment's peace,
much sooner comes the Winter now.
So I find solace in release,
and throw away the holly bough
I’m no longer reined to the plough,
and time is not my enemy.
Much sooner comes the Winter now,
but fonder is the memory
Of breaths I take, how many more?
What e'er the seasons will allow.
Adrift am I towards any shore,
much sooner comes the Winter now.
*Empat Empat
Early form of rhyming verse from Malaysia.
8 or 10 syllables per line.
A. b. a. b.
c. A. c. a.
a. d. A. d.
e. a. e. A.*
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
...... my memories get fuzzy
As life pushes buttons easy as operating a microwave
In warming up
a midnight snack real blueberry pie
And there in the Stark lights
Of my Barren land my kitchen table
I am able
To be trans ported
To those vans
That early life awarded night skies
When youth afforded
And we reined Supreme
like wild horses
Free to roam - free to be before the calamities
Absorbed it all
Down... To the bones
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
I feel like a child.
Sat in a playpen,
given only a ball.
I'm reined in, I'm deprived.
They tell me its fun,
that I need it.
So surely I've been let down.
To be sat in a pen,
with naught but a ball.
And I've been told to play.
I'll sit and stare at you dumbly.
You need not repeat yourself.
You need not attempt to make me play.
I promise your request will fall on deaf ears.
But give me pen and paper,
and I can make words fly.
I'd make them soar to me, take me away
from this empty, dreary playpen.
They'll take me mountains away,
entire oceans away from here.
They'll take me to see a different sky.
But I've been told to play.
Sitting in a dreary and empty playpen
with nothing but a ball.
When I know my words, want for them
to take me away,
and let my mind loose.
So I can be free.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
I’ve never been an artist. I wasn’t born to hold a paintbrush in my hand. I’ve never felt the need to capture the reality I see with charcoal or pencil or oils or clay—I just haven’t. Some people stop seeing the world as it is and they change it with their art but I’ve never been an artist. When I see something beautiful I remember it and I learn from it but I see no need to recreate it. I don’t feel the urge to twist it. They say a picture is worth a thousand words but a fake one is only worth questions and I’d rather have the world be raw and blunt and unpolished than have people try and show me how they see it because I don’t care. A picture may be worth a thousand words but there are millions of words inside my head and I can show you everything you need to know with a question and some time to think because the world is not beautiful sunsets or rainy streets it is ketchup stains on trembling lips and empty backpacks soaked by faucets. It is a scarf wrapped too tight around a freckled neck; a goodbye kiss and a leather suitcase and everything in between. You can keep your charcoal if you want it and draw the smiles why I tell you all the reasons there are smiles to draw. The sunsets and the rainy streets exist but they are not important. They are the neon lights and the shadows they don’t reach but they do not highlight the people dancing in between. They are the best days and the worst but they do not show the days of effortless laughter over fractured dreams, messy hair and tear-stained skin. A picture is worth a thousand words but if you have a hundred good words a million pictures can be born. I’ve never been an artist, but I understand that the things that are real are invisible. They cannot be captured by a pen or reined in by a canvas. What everyone calls art could never be extensive enough, exquisite enough; real enough. No matter how many images you see there are always pieces missing. I’ve never been an artist. But if you hand me a paintbrush I will use it to write. I will use it to form the letters that form my life that form the world. And if you insist I can write the word ‘art’ but know that I don’t believe in the plainness of charcoal and paper I believe in the long nights curled up reading and the silent afternoons wishing your story was the same as one you’ve read. Or one you’ve written.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC