"remade" poems
If I could, I would.
I'd demolish you with the things I can do.
You remake me,
I'll remake you.
If I could, I would.
I'd obliterate all that came before;
Your past, your pain, they'd be no more.
Every brick, every beam, every shard of broken glass....
I'd renovate your body, if you would only ask...
If I could, I would.
I'd enjoy the destruction of all that came before;
Every molecule of pain would be no more.
I'd break down your walls,
assault your salty skin,
make you feel whole,
make you fragile again.
I want to smother your psyche,
make you beg for mercy.
Nothing would be same, nothing would remain.
Beneath our heat, all that was solid melts into thick air.
My mouth swallows your pain,
consumes your frame.
And there we are: destroyed.
Neither who we were, nor who we're yet becoming.
Through our destruction,
we're remade anew.
You remake me,
I'll remake you.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
the nature of life is like characters playing through a video game that keeps getting remade
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 3:51 AM UTC
Your lips.. are the Elixir to my immortality.
Your heart... is the foundation.. of this revolution... in love...
My seed, will bring the birth of a bigger, better legacy...
My predecessor. You're prince or princess. The dawn of a new creation.. a new beginning. A new chapter.
By first light, Today, life will emerge to a new dawn and existence as we know it will be remade.
Your courage and bravery will provide and protect this birth of creation. and together, we shall bring something incredible into this universe... it is called... a child, and it is our child.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
Hollywood is dead and gone
It died a lonely death
It's just too bad no one was there
When it took it's final breath
Forget the tales of yesteryear
Of junkies and of ******
The Hollywood I speak of
Is behind the golden doors
Warner Brothers and MGM
United Artists and 20th Century Fox
Are now owned by conglomertates
With more cash than Fort Knox
Film is just an extra
In a business it once ruled
With the advent of computers
The industry's re-tooled
CGI and Green Screen
Let them do more at great cost
But, without the use of actors
There is something that is lost
The tie in with it's history
We only see each year
When they memorialize those who passed
At the Oscars....shedding tears
There is now just two places
To process film itself
When, way back in it's heyday
Of these there was a wealth
No new ideas forthcoming
Movies get rebooted or remade
And the startlets in the pictures
They're the one's who're getting laid
Merchanidising movies
That is where the real cash lies
If you're not attached to a food chain
Your bottom line will die
Hollywood died in it's sleep
It died with dignity
The funeral will be shown though
On reality TV
It smothered in it's excess
A victim of it's greed
It gorged on people's wallets
Forgetting peoples needs
Old Hollywood is magic
It lives on in peoples hearts
Too bad the studio system
Was sold off in such small parts
The western died, musicals next
Then came the comedy
You can't see them in the theatre
But they're on your big tv
I stand here and salute her
She put pictures in our heads
But, now thanks to her avarice
Old Hollywood is dead...
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC
Folded pieces of paper.
Old past due assignments.
Made paper footballs with-
Corners pointed like diamonds.
Spent all that time.
Scooping out room for-
You in my heart.
Like guts of a pumpkin.
Stay close to you I tried.
But the pumpkin got rotten.
Corners got bent.
And my company unwanted.
A couple of cans of root beer.
Sitting along my windowsill.
Sitting still, lukewarm and flat.
Dragging in gnats.
I remade my bed.
Cleared off the pillows-
I pretended were you-
And made room for two.
I took down the pictures.
I took down the lights.
Took down some notes on-
How to resist my-
Need to be loved and-
My want to be fine.
My urge to move forward and-
Hunger to fight.
I get lost in the right-
Ideas and go wrong.
I hope that you don't think-
That I belong here.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
i am convinced now that
no passion exists
like that between
a man and his craft.
no love
like the love for solitude,
by which one can enter
a world all his own,
and plunge to its unfathomable depths,
carelessly disregarding his return.
no quest otherwise compares-
oh how could it?
when countless years of history
can never be retold,
never be reenacted
with different players and different settings?
a man plays a role for
a day, a month, a year, a decade,
then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert.
no amount of memories can be remade,
and no amount of care is remembered.
he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness
for others to mistakenly join and unjoin.
but in his craft
a man loses himself.
he has only his love to invest
and only his love to be returned.
when stricken with failure
he selfishly laps it all up,
gathers it close to his heart,
and holds it as treasure, locked and filed.
he searches for the bottom with lighted torch,
the end with relentless fervor,
finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance,
has no expectation dashed and destroyed.
his eagerness for success drives him deeper.
his delusions of grandeur,
perpetually emboldened.
come find me, i am waiting for you
the solitude beckons him into its fissure,
the cleft in the crust of civilization,
indescribable and hardly intelligible to others.
yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote.
with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection,
does he pray to be with that god,
Lord of his life and Giver of his breath.
he is a post for flags to be hung,
seen only by those who wander the same mountains,
searching for a chasm of their own.
he is unaided in his walk with the stars,
windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence.
a man needs silence,
darkness beneath his eyelids,
and space in his bed to breathe.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
I've seen cops
way too many times,
too many times
to go through my ****
ripping apart pillows
with switches
and against my better judgment
I did nothing
as I heard the glass of
my grandmother's picture
being tossed around
in the back.
Too many times
asking me questions
about this
and that?
Him or her?
If you help us out,
we'll help you out,
understand?
in their rooms
where no love is grown
and no help is on the way,
their eyes were filled with the fire,
they were finally
gonna get this ******
make him pay
for crimes he didn't commit.
Too many times
when i was asleep
in some old sewer,
and rolling up
asking me if i was on drugs
or drunk,
and if i didn't leave
they were gonna shove
a nightstick up my ***
get me used to it.
Too many times have they slowed down
at a light
and turned slowly,
keeping their eyes on me
like I was a wolf,
when they had blood in their eyes
and teeth
in their holsters.
"Where you going tonight?"
as they surrounded me,
another inmate
inside the bounded
bars of an external prison.
Cops never helped me,
never asked
how I was doing,
or why I was doing it,
or why I felt trapped
inside my own body;
all they saw
was another ******
making problems
for the civilized people.
God will remember them,
just as I can't forget.
And most of the time,
it was other black men,
some fruit bred strong in them,
to hate them bottom-rung *******
because they had escaped
and remade themselves,
apparently.
In truth,
I have killed many of them
in my sleep,
but when I step back,
I see that they are a product
of the same system
that says the guns, drugs, and violence
are part of the ****** condition,
that only shows a ****** on tv
when he's ***** or killed somebody,
another mugshot for you to put in your
scrapbook of fear.
So, no I don't hate them,
I hate seeing people that look like me
getting killed
before they come to fruition.
I hate that
:"black"
is used as a term
meant to engender
fear.
I hate that I walk down the street,
and a white girl
walks ahead
turning around
to
check for me.
I hate that when me
and some of the homies
walk down the street,
our hoodies pulled over our heads,
people look behind us
for the grim reaper.
There is hope,
but without
it being fostered,
The fruits
die on the vine,
noosed up
in a new way
as they drop.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
I fell from the bottle, landed at your door
unraveled before you I can't do this no more
Blindsided, triggered you lay me to waste
How am I gonna to get out of this place?
I scream at the wind my suffragettes prayer
For redemption, deliverance from despair
I run with the river, dive into the storm
Chasing transformation, to be reborn
I question your motive, do you understand?
Dry land falls, I'm washed up on the sand
Craving and clinging, gasping for air
You sit mostly in silence, do you really care?
Sweating the seas, aching for more
Resisting and wanting, fearing the fall
Grace is a mountain, life is a tree
I sit in nature, it breathes life into me
I'm ragged, exposed, I am here, I am now
I look for repose, it finds me somehow
The winds sweep the streets, storms overtake pain
I am searching for me, only I remain
I run with the river, I dive into the storm
Chasing transformation, to be reborn
Words tumble freely into your lap, onto the page
I cry, full of tears and anger, sadness and rage
But play me a soul song, sing me to spring
The rhythms of life let the insights in
You broke the tide, I surfed the wave
Daylight comes slowly, my dance is remade
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
Swoon to a tearful night, unknown to its grief
Dialogue of peace, and those of plight
Ringing of morphology, raindrops on the roof.
Such things heard from the peasants’ seat
In the many wet heads sopping
In the sonorous waves, upright in the city clime
Untending to their beds.
At the bottom of that something
All told are destined they will find
Be pliable to the ills they’ve dealt
To carry on, to work, admonishments
Said once to justify these red romances
That in every rain storm melt
As pity through the night, forever unclasped
From shackles of their blame
Since life and ideology somehow are the same.
‘Tis destiny for abating storms
As some will rose from their thickened thorns
These nights deliver their gentle morns
All the same as hemlock grows as poison
And is best to be avoided.
How—this, I fear only rain my know—
Can we still bathe in fraternal glow
When some still heal from Death himself
Each breath that enters is quickly prayed to leave
High on seated thrones
Those mean so quick to thieving, the poor
The lazy deserve no quarter
Those dusty pockets afford not one
So steal the heart upon his sleeve.
May we help man wrought our kin and kind
By common tongue, free, as we are ought?
Since another may make my world
He is mine to protect, not throw to bytes
So ludicrous and feeding back upon themselves
For destiny can be remade
If hatred weren’t so blind.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
When sadness clutches your heart
and you mind knows not were to start
When every sound and touch evades
look in my eyes, I'll make your sanity remade
If dispair brings fear and its many tears
and if you seek the truth, but it disappears
when every sound and touch evades
Look in my eyes, I'll make your sanity remade
Your eyes watch what words you say
to others, yet they keep them at bay
you wonder if your in this life to stay
Look in my eyes, I'll make your sanity remade
The newness of the morn, the chatter of the birds
starts a new beginning to melt away the hurts
hope is always in you, never goes away
look in my eyes, I'll make your sanity remade
Look deep inside you, you won't hide no more
For I'm the savior you've been waiting for
I'll dry your tears, chase away your fears
all the sounds and touch with me appear
I'll be the one to hold your heart
guide you to my bay, in hopes you'll stay
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
What need have I for a gaze like wine,
That shows me but shadows, and grants no sign?
What worth is an eye that weaves its tales,
Yet Your veiled beauty, it fails to define?
What use are the forms that drown in the night,
If love does not seek them, nor hearts ignite?
They are but illusions — fleeting and dim,
Songs of mirage, not passion’s true hymn.
Your face — the last veil of all that is hidden,
A whisper of light, yet never unbidden.
So I lowered my gaze, though vision is mine,
Not out of blindness, nor ailment’s sign.
But a shape of hope it has now become,
That even in darkness, Your light has come.
If You choose to appear, let it be through the shade,
Where hearts are lit, and the soul is remade.
These eyes are not fit to behold You unveiled,
But the soul sings of You — in silence, it wailed.
You are a flame that cannot be tamed,
No string of the soul by You is claimed.
A light too distant for eyes to attain,
Yet hearts that are kindled may catch its flame.
And if my heart glows with Your gentle grace,
Then seeing You not — still leaves no trace.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 11:32 AM UTC
God, if you only knew the things these eyes have seen. I feel as if I’m the only one to have felt this heaviness in my soul. It breaks me down. I’m scavenging for survival. For hope, for humanity. I wait patiently in the dark hoping to watch as the light breaks through this darkness I live in. Will the sun rise? Will the moon give in to its brutal blows? Or will I be left again, left wondering where I’m meant to travel to next. I watched my family torn from the places once called sacred. The treasures they held once before meant nothing, their lives were the only treasure they had left. The only treasure I had left. Some tore their way out of that hell. The mental affliction that caused them to drown in their own murderous screams. They moved on with their quest for a purpose, ripping away the flaws and scars left by the pain experienced. Becoming something new, remade. Still beautiful, they didn’t break. They persevered. I watched as others tied the fear and pain to their ankles, always dragging it with them. Others would notice the chains they pulled, but never say a word. Never reach out a hand to search for the key to these aches. Just watching them survive, I watch them survive. I survive. But the worst of all to watch was The Interpreter. The ones who fell for the lies that got them with me in this black hole. The ones who never coped, never wanted a purpose, they wanted revenge. Revenge on the ones who tore their soul apart, piece by piece. The ones who took every bit of sanity they had and laughed as it fell unreachable by any man. I watched as something once so beautiful, miraculous, pure and true turn into something that made me want to cringe. So hungry. Always remembering the starvation they suffered from and using it as a crutch and weapon to fill the hole that cannot be filled by things as such. I try to help but they snarl in defense, forgetting that once I was their friend. Only thinking of the world as an enemy, and everyone in it an enemy as well. I try to stop them, plead for them to stay, just to here a few words. Just to know that they aren’t alone, I’m here in the darkness too.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
...You, dearest vagary, aplomb--were
brought to bear.
Vicissitude of memory which is the
dispersion of identity.
Of a time, and of a place--you, a
mellifluous bronze dusk poured upon
a meadow, a solitary immersion, a
moment that harnesses the whole of
the earth, as you are...dearest vagary.
You were afforded as by the citizenry
of the air, lent by an intercontinental
wind.
An undying eloquence featured for all
time--the swaying bud blown to bloom.
You...the beautification of possibility,
its matrices never left in want.
As in withstanding place the round is
made, and remade about you, the whole
of the earth.
Thus, you've no confounding words...
have you?
Thus, this sidelong expenditure that you may--
shall breach the earth you shall.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
Jesus washed me clean
The 5-28-06
(Stolen from the memory of someone. The deep recesses of the mind of days gone by. When life seemed to be worthless, when the mind was dark and lonely, Jesus came and set them free. Was this your mind?)
————————————————–
The brokenness of my life, a shattered life in the eyes of others, (some would say hopeless) was put together, redeemed, made whole the first time I believed.
For the first time in my life I was clean. I didn’t feel ***** anymore. Jesus washed me clean. I was redeemed and remade in His image.
It began the day someone told me about Jesus. The moment I believed, for the first time in my life I was clean. I now walk the path Jesus walks. Each day is new and fresh in Him. When I am weak He is strong. He never leaves me. He carries me when I am tired and can no longer walk. He tells me to hold on to Him for tomorrow will be better. The days despair threatens to drag me down, He carries me until I can stand once again. When I can walk once more, we walk once again hand in hand. I can hear His voice say “well done today” as I lay my head down for the night. Sleep is wonderful knowing I am in His hands.
Each day I wake up is like the first time I met Him. I am clean. Can I say “clean” too much? I am clean in His eyes and He gives me joy, He gives me life. He gives me the bread of life that I may live with Him forever.
**“Every morning I wake up is a good day.
Every morning I wake up and give God the glory, is a wonderful day.
The morning I wake up to Heaven’s brand new day, is a glorious day indeed.”**
Do you know Him? Really know Him? Let go of the old life and be redeemed, be made new in Him. Hopeless is not a word Jesus thinks about. All things are possible with Him. For my life, a shattered life in the eyes of others, (some would say hopeless) was put together, redeemed, made whole the first time I believed.
07-02-08
This was written about a young woman who was lifted out of a life of **** and prostitution over two years ago. It has been two years since writing the above part. I see her at church these days and she gets more beautiful every day. The effects of **** are gone from her face. Her eyes have taken on a glow of Jesus in her life. Hearing her talk about her walk with Jesus just sends chills down my back. This is Amazing Grace walking, talking, and living among us.
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
~Be You, Don't Change For No One~
Smoking butterflies
Lilted with jade poison
Swirling into my jeweled lungs
I smile; high on madness
..
No one can defeat me now
The drug monster
Pulsing thru my veins
I feel I can rule this land
..
Though in reality
There is no such thing
..
Metaphors spill from my lips . . .
. . . my blood
..
Eyelids fluttering
Like the wings of a dove
Everything is blurry
White walls; nothing
..
I scream
Confused
Shattered
Lost
..
In pain; lungs bursting
Mind racing
Heart beat beating---
..
I'm slowly dying
My paper body
Inflamed
Essence of butterflies
..
Floating around me
The ones I smoked
The ones I inhaled
They are killing me; whispered I
..
Though I am nothing but a page
Filled with Inkblots
Smudged . . .
My pen comes to save me; yet again
..
It rewrites me
Stitching new stories
Over my old scars
Creating a new me
..
Ink kisses my lips
Her chemicals seeping into my papery skin
Bleeding into me
I'm becoming a scroll
..
Decorated with so many rules
..
As I sigh
My pen stabs into me
Becoming me
I then scream ashes; everything fades black
..
Awakening . . .
I've become a notebook
Staring up at myself
I watch my own face
..
Intense
Dreamy
Thoughtful
. . . Disturbed
..
Pen in my hand
I open myself
Taking the pen
The one, which stabbed me
..
Ink bleeds
Onto my pages
I feel my pain,
My obsessions, my happiness . . .
..
I watch as the spirit of writing
Leaves my body
Folding itself between my pages
Like a bookmark
..
The pen falls from my hand
Landing on me
I watch mystified
As the pen whispers
..
"No one can defeat you now
This is your land,
Your rules, your soul
Welcome to the notebook life'
..
"You wanted something better
So I remade you"
..
-B-but this is not what I want-
I plead; trying to cry
But notebooks don't cry
Only the ink can cry for me; the ink from my pen
..
The pen chuckled
"Then my friend . . .
Be careful what you wish for
You didn't want to be human"
..
"So I made you
Into something better
You are useful now
You are popular"
..
I tried to scream
But I saw myself get up, snatching the smiling pen
I closed myself
Only to be open again when needed . . .
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
*her soul a bride
her life a corpse at the gate
a naked mouth red
to lie exposed
without shame
to be rendered unconscious
to be touched, incised, plundered,
and remade
coyly she displays
the weight of her emptiness
chest heaving
her torso acquiescent
aching for the forbidden
her legs parted
saturated like
rain storms bilious cloud
ripe melon brooding
spilling outwards
she would levitate
if only held down
by a merciless man*
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
I think that enough time has passed
enough rain fallen
enough memories swallowed
enough pottery shattered and remade.
I think it is time to write again.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Lonely little elven girl, sitting in her yew tree seat,
Around fair lips your words do curl, in a way that's pretty and neat.
You dance and prance and shine so bright.
In beautiful circles you do twirl, you dance to your own heartbeat,
Silently you jump and whirl, the swift ease of your bare-feet.
You are the most brilliant star at night.
Traveling little mermaid, on your way to find your love,
Your heart has been remade, as you gaze at the stars above.
Swim as far as you can with daylight.
On your shoulders your hair does cascade, long and of
The softest strands it is made, more gentle than a dove.
Lay your head to rest in the moonlight.
Peaceful fair young princess, your prince will surely wait,
On your heart is a deepness, a light and heavy weight.
Close your eyes but not your sight.
The morning air holds crispness, as you silently sneak out the gate,
Run because you feel the nearness, leap in the arms of your soul-mate.
Hold your love and hold him tight.
Quite silent dreaming one, don't lose the things you admire,
Always let the imagination run, and with your heart conspire.
Let your dreams take over tonight.
Speak aloud any question, and let the answers transpire,
Inner depths have been awoken, you darling precious sapphire.
Fall in love under starlight.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:26 AM UTC
lost in a maze of gazes;
lured
to the pool by the sound; Sondheim
sung badly in a nasal twang;
cught in her lace negligee one more time;
we give the old women the benefit
of the doubtful proposition; if granny
wants to get tied
to on the bedpost - yet again;
the gallant refrain from that old song
is remade the kpop way & tuned in to
the drag subculture; everyone u know;
the prostitution used to be better; maybe
there were once better prostitutes, what
I can see is unpleasantly stink eyed; hos
used to have class before they could
switch genders back & forth; that's some
millennial **** the first celebrity I ever
became aware of was Christine Jorgensen, from the newspaper story about a man who had surgery to turn himself into a woman; a patently impossible task; in the picture in the newspaper he had on a bouffant wig & big sequin ***** working as a showgirl in Vegas in its heyday, so she was already well-known; I always thought that bit of trivial information would come in handy one day: never did
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
since I last
rode a bus,
no, poems aplenty
have poured and dripped
from ink-saturated fingers,
here there and everywhere,
disguised by many a nom de guerre
the bus riding infrequently,
as work no longer demands me,
I ride for the occasional occasion, when legs won’t
carry me the far away distances
they say violence in the city
is random, and just seems worse,
seemingly a newspaper creation,
but I know better, and random violence &
poetry inspiration do not walk or talk
hand in hand, not for the hands that write…
in every crack, lamppost,
festooned
with flyers for concerts years ago,
poems reached out to me, write, right?
I too am papered with memories of long-ago
city travels, picking up scenes & dreams
that became poems, instantaneously, scrambling,
to get home with them retained, untainted,
preserved with the freshness of city smells,
city swells, homeless, rowdies & oldies shuffling,
the interwoven of disparate desperate humans,
fodder once and now for Walt Whitman’s leaves,
each distinct needy for something else,
but for me,
just one city big view, a Cloister’s museum tapestry,
remade, rewoven anew every moment of every day
and a poem-rough tumbles from
without
&
within
,
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 8:55 AM UTC
To love and be loved
We all crave the same fiery temptation
To feel and to be numb
We contrast the beauty of love
To be broken and to be rebuilt
We have all seen an illusion of love
To smile and to cry
We fear love because sometimes love hurts
To drown and to float
We sink in despair, waiting to be rescued
To be confident and to be insecure
We weren’t born the same
Most of us hate ourselves
Wishing to be remade
Or maybe wishing to never exist at all
To be heard and to be ignored
We hold everything inside because everyone on the outside is too busy to listen
To be untruthful or to be truthful?
Truthfully. .
We are blinded by our fears
So far deep in our tears
We run from love because we never been chased by love
We accept less because we think that’s all we deserve
We reject love because we are tired of getting hurt
We feel like we are ugly because he or she is more appealing
We camouflage ourselves because we feel like society will judge us
We die inside because we never felt alive
We limit love because we never experienced it’s measures
To love and be loved ?
We will never understand it’s depth
Why?
Because first we have to love ourselves
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:20 AM UTC
I am your paper plane,
Soaring gently through,
The thermal winds.
Gradually losing momentum,
Being crushed by the force,
Of your atmosphere.
*Our love is crumpled,
Even before I hit the pavement.*
I am your paper boat,
Sailing soothly across,
The hidden tides.
Slowly beginning to sink,
Down deeper into the murky water,
Your raindrops creating a swell,
A tidal wave of depression.
*Our love is unrequited,
You'd never cry for me.*
I am your paper kite,
Your paper bird,
Your paper rose.
Each object useless and fragile,
Easily broken and destroyed.
Yes - they may be beautiful, some more than others.
But ultimately they can be discarded.
Ultimately I am not beautiful.
Each object can be remade again,
All you need is another piece of paper.
And I guess that's all I am to you,
A worthless piece of paper.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
I found you in
peeling silk shadows
and socially unacceptable acronyms.
I met you
and you remade me
in the image of self-realized dreams.
Frayed heartstrings
blossom
from used ***** dealerships.
Spinal cord columns, rib rotunda,
cranium cabaret and Lazarus lungs.
We hugged on collarbones and
loved in dimples.
We ran.
We ran along shores we never knew,
skirted expectations like cliff-side raceways.
Somewhere
along a three way road of cobblestone delusions,
at an intersection of gas stations
advertising ninety-nine cent perfection,
we misread the legend
and the map lied anyways.
There are no u-turns in relationships.
You made me dependent upon
perfectly posed pixels and
lacing my fingers with the air.
Half of lace is empty space.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
like dead leaves they fall
to the scissors ruthlessly mean
some on the ground aimlessly crawl
some in the air spin!
drooping eyes rue losing them
so does the lightened head
a sigh falls for all those slain
with little chance to be remade!
quietly drop on the white linen
the slaughtered by considered choice
once nurtured upon the brain
erstwhile silken joys!
a breezy walk out in sunshine
can't take the weight off mind
somewhere inside is heard a crying
of the ones scattered behind!
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
i am in awe when i look at you
not at your flame and your feathers
but rather the way you choose to sever the tethers
people tried to use to bind you to the idea of who they thought you were
and rather than get caught up in their perceptions
you chose instead to rise from the ashes of those misconceptions
alight and alive with new purpose
without a trace or shadow of what you left behind
the old you was incinerated, turned to ashes in the fire of your passions
as you recreated yourself
a man of ambition
whose intelligence and tenacity
veracity
burn so bright you can't even look right at him
you remade yourself into who you wanted to be
did the thing that so many others strive and fail to
and somehow it's like you forget how far you've come
because the man i'm talking to, he has no idea how to be kind to himself
how to silence the voices within him that lie
and tell him that he is not enough, doesn't do enough, will never be enough
remember whenever those whispers start up
that say you're a loser, a disgrace, not enough
that when i look at you i am truly inspired
by the events in your past that i know have transpired
leading up to this transformation that begs the comparison
between you, my friend, and a mythical bird
both reborn from a ghost of who you were
into a fiery beacon of hope, inspiration
remember that it was all you and your ambition that led to this recreation
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 5:07 PM UTC