"skew" poems
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\ why is it that time slips /
\she slides and slithers /
\right through these /
\ infinite crevices /
\found all over /
\my greedy /
\ hands, /
\ like /
/ • \
/ s \
/ a \
/ n \
/ d \
/ \
/ in the dainty hourglass \
/sitting aloft my skew shelf.\
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Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:18 AM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
I have two persona with very different duality,
I have too extreme of a personality,
And I have a hard time expressing myself to your factuality.
Only veiled my discreet personal past with thin layers of exclamation,
To diverge, veer, or in discrete my own expression.
To die within my own words to save my honor,
Or to stay translucent to dye my tongue in fake color.
For I have failed myself in becoming true to my belief,
For eye to eye I can't seem to meet any sort of relief,
Are these my real eyes point of view,
Or have I realized I been dreaming of you,
Or were they simply all real lies of my personal skew?
This desire to raise your understanding,
But your voice raze my defense to oblivion,
And heavenly rays depart like the moons with wolf howl with your gaze!
Was there nothing of me that sparkled to your kindred spirit,
Was I that loathing of your presence to lose your smile?
No matter as past are like the whim of a sail,
I Know that happiness has no sale.
Believe me when I say I want you to be happy,
But my hunger to eat this precious apple pie will hurt me more,
Much more than my desire to be fit like those men in commercials.
Sorry possibly good looking ads,
But I must cheat on you for good!
Those eight pies, I ate them with pride and prejudice!
For my temptation was hubris!
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
Oh simplicity how you reach out to my closed arms
in fear of how simple it may be to be happy
Without worldly posessions in grasps of their needy hands
I've never felt so at peace as the trade winds sweep my hair on delicate sunsets of May
where red wine makes me lush but aware...
of the magnificence of this moment, here, now.
The geese migrate, I seperate from the man made sounds of the city
although the connect the dots of street lights seem to guide me
The shifting landscape
the shifted skew of my life
five years ago I wouldn't have guessed this far
The time is so simple, slow-moving, sweet
I can almost feel the heart beat of excitement
or the beat within my youthful feet.
The railroad still gleams at dusk
as does the lake shine
as does the hidden blackbirds and blossoms of springtime.
I now spend here alone as I did when I was young
troubled, I would run.... to the same spot
and watch the same sun as it shone
day became night
the stars endless candle light
Now I'd ponder for hours
leave here smittin
relieved by the gift of life
I often forgot how precious simplicity is as I rush through the day...
But why can't we just lay back in silence
wallow in what is...
ponder like a little child of what may be out in the universe
I lay here now, alone
Spell bound by what I see
an array of colourful hues and natures generosity
I wish you were here with me
Smoke plumes heave as I exhale through these lungs
This place of mine, timeless
memories still live here
I've come to remember all I have known
and the simplicity of happiness still flourishes here
just got to stop and wallow...
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
I find myself sidewalking everything
So Silverstein was lucky to know where it ends
Will I ever be privileged to discover such a thing?
Too many trivial needs distract from its pursuit
But how am I to know?
When it's time, I only cared for my toys
The way the sheeple only care for their handouts
Do tell; if the Pentagon lays off 800,000 people
Will we know they're telling the truth about unemployment
When their words flow between mouthfuls
Of stolen fruit and gold
At the table of the elite
So tell me, who is John Galt?
I sit at a table with a mind that knows how to think for himself
And can't help but think this is the purest form of elitism:
Until at last the time has come
For the imminent end of all serfdom
Brought by the brawn of the brainy
How are we to keep our heads when the others ***** us over
Take our heads clean off to see the contents
Only the strongest can withstand the attempts to skew ideas
Upon who's minds the lying flies
Forced off by intellect
The simple last defender of God and liberty
Big Brother would have us not discuss such things
At times, I feel that we are the last in the world
So, tell me- if this paper is the last in the world, have we written something significant?
I've no doubt the world will see
The mistakes of society
Time then, will bring forth a new renaissance, with us as creators
And they, as the readers of some disconnected thoughts
Written at a time when the end of a page was a good stopping point for poetry, but not for the limit of government infringement on personal freedom.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
"What's going on in that head of yours?" you inquire.
I shrug and shake my head, trying to make the question slip-slide its way past me.
"Something. I can tell," you **** on.
I don't exactly know how to explain the hodgepodge of thoughts bustling around up there.
How all of the mismatched puzzle pieces sometimes inexplicably manage to assemble themselves into a picture, but it always comes out distorted.
How my mind is eternal dusk, that magical moment where anything is possible and the night is full of promise. But remember, that's also when the monsters come out to play.
How I have this uncanny ability to skew every word, look, or memory until every one of them is so tainted I will burn us alive while you wonder what the hell is going on. I'm good at sabotage, you see.
You don't want to know what's going on in this head of mine. You can try to connect the dots, but none of them are numbered, and you'll lose yourself attempting to understand me.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
chapped lips
sticky and sweet
the popsicle melts
and stains my crisp white dress
a seagull steals the french fry out of a little boy’s hands,
he begins to cry
the busker’s sing songs
of love and loss,
whiskey and wine
the boardwalk creaks
and i dream
of a cold beer on the beach,
the melody of waves reuniting with sand
like long lost friends
the soothing slap of sandals on pavement
freckles and homemade jam
midnight adventures to the park
skinny-dipping in a strangers pool
hopscotch and chalk
freshly painted toenails
the sun gifting us with golden skin and golden hair
adirondack chairs and campfires
fishing in lady evelyn and portaging in temagami
braving the falls at muskegoe
and counting the stars while lying on the bridge
catching frogs in the pond
while drinking coolers in paddle boats
sweaty palms and first kisses,
nervous anticipation
red skies mark the beginning of endless nights
i dip my toes in the fresh water
and the ripples skew my reflection
the man in the moon is happy
and so am i
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 3:26 AM UTC
I am fluent in
the tongues of
my lost willow language.
No one can remember
what patience has done
to my
forbidden
filthy
tongue.
So let me be your kindred scribe,
let me endure the ******* eternal wrath of taming a demon such as the one that runs like the Volga river in your honeysuckle veins,
I'll die trying,---
for you.
“Ahkira, I'll set this mirror up for you--"
"Lycan, it'll skew my beauty."
Quote on quote you howled the December
lyrics & spun my name in the elements of the atmosphere &
Aurora borealis.
"I promised, didn't I?"
Etching your voice in the hollow
drums I call my
mind & skai.
It's always been there.
Eyes catching the coals of
Jupiter,
foam and lust
driving your
shadow-bitten sanity.
Hostile under the wax of the moon,
burning like matches you stumble
in my constellation.
***"i spy
lovely sleeves of poetry
raindrops slipping into weeping veins
lungs of january
& silver bucket eyes."***
You tattooed this on your arm,
Lycan.
***“It’s the moon that pulls our waters,
distance doesn’t count.”***
I tattooed this on mine.
Arching up the sky ladder
I'll climb it to show you
I'm worthy.
.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
funhouse of self-reflection,
i indulge in your distraction,
make the best of every one of my heart's contractions,
to scintillate, to shine, to epitomize a refraction
that is all mine.
a start's best contender
to finish, always inclined.
for the heart's say is that gold is always underlined.
glitter of shimmer, of glistening hues.
what creator could produce formations as iridescent as you?
but coruscation of shadows, perpetually anew:
why do you always crack my mirror and skew?
mirror, mirror.
mirror of my mind:
tell me where it is that all my secrets hide?
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
skew the weight
the empty chalice
the worthless promise of something
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
Time: 1
Us: 0
Will it always be like this?
Swinging our racquets at Einstein's illusion.
Singing, singing, singing 'Stop
the World I Wanna Get Off
With You'
when nobody hears
over the relentless tick-tocks.
As
as
the clock's hands
push
push
pull us together,
apart.
Hey, you.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Let's look at the scoreboard.
Time: 1
Us: 0
In school, they taught us perseverance.
So we keep
dancing, dancing, dancing
around
the hands of the clock.
I'm on number 3 and
you face me.
What's it like on number 9?
What's it like to be on the edge of
the next hour,
the next day,
the next big thing?
You're on number 9, I'm on number 3.
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
I face you,
you face me.
So easy for us to...
So easy for us to love, but
so easy for us to leave.
So easy to fight, to
wrap our hands
around
each other's throats
simultaneously.
So easy to embrace, so
easy to walk away
when you are the west and I am the east.
I'll ask you again:
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Eyes flit up to the scoreboard,
even though
we don't want to look
away from each other.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The ball is in no one's court anymore.
No more back and forth,
stichomythia, repartee.
Nor round and
round
when it's all an illusion,
isn't it?
Don't look.
Don't bring it up.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The figures are getting bolder, louder
than the ticking.
Tell me, tell me, before
you move to 10
and our angles get skew,
tripping over the clock's hands,
because we forgot the steps of
our dance.
Tell me, tell me, what it's like
when you see me
all the way from number 9
while I'm on number 3.
The scoreboard's screeching
like a train ready to leave.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The audience is already beginning to clap.
They have loved us
and so have we.
We put on quite the show,
enough to rival Djokovic or Murray.
But neither of us will walk out with gold.
Not when we've lost to an abstraction
that can swallow us into
memories.
We get silver medals.
Around our necks, choking
but we clasp them tightly
so they can sparkle on our chests.
My silver beams to you,
your silver beams to me.
On and off,
a Morse code speech.
When we can't speak,
can't breathe,
that seems to suffice.
Here is a case of beautiful irony:
How did we meet?
Your eyes
saw in
my eyes
that silver gleam.
My eyes
saw in
your eyes
the very same thing.
Remember:
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
The scoreboard screams:
Time: 1
Us: 0
I bought a watch today, why
did I do that?
I'm so smart but
I'm so stupid.
I face you, you face me.
It's not an illusion, is it?
Look at me.
Is it?
Time: 1
Us: 0
We're finished.
But then how could we have ever won
when neither of us knew how to play tennis?
We look at each other
so the scoreboard can dissolve
instead of us.
Like your eyes
in my eyes
a tethering glance,
could hold us in an eternal position.
Like a single look
could sustain us
stationary.
I face you, you
start to leave.
It doesn't matter now.
Everything's spilling out
on the loudspeaker.
(And for once, you don't wish to seek this one truth.)
Time: 1
Us: 0
It will always be like this.
Time: one.
Us: love.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
The moon is staring me in the face
Shaded in grey, slowly fading away
Barely paving the way
to the edge of the fray.
Whispers of intrigue control the iris
Repeated patterns within blue beauty
Triangles that sparkle like a diamond
around a dense, black circle
That leads to the cortex of insight.
It looks like that of a galaxy
Filled with mystical images of life;
Where night is day and day is night.
Meteor showers litter the sky,
tears of joy fall to a puddle of pride
As earth collides with a great divide.
Right through the center;
from the lithosphere to the core
Pain on the outside is ramified on the inside
And I’d be ****** if I said it isn’t a beautifully
tragic picture
because life isn’t balanced if a good deed
doesn’t contain a malice intent.
Temptation to touch the treasure without consent
is no where near the worth of self-control.
The dare to take a risk is self-imposed,
but the move to play it safe is the lightest of loads.
Would you rather re-paint the rainbow
or find the *** of gold?
Walk a path through the park to feed the pigeons
and a serendipitous encounter with livid pigeons
leaves your empathetic heart frigid.
While a deaf person speaks for the mute
as the mute listen to laughter,
The blind guide those who are struggling
to a gleaming green pasteur.
A mass murderer to the morality of humanity
Commonly senseless people skew
the meaning of integrity,
The soul of the soulless has been released
to be met by the life of persistence.
Positivity’s existence is amplified by tragedy;
Sadly it takes sadness to appreciate
what makes you happy.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
"There is a clarity you feel...something like a bride would feel, removing a veil and seeing her husband without it. No thin mesh, clouding you. There is a clarity you feel when you finally put down your abuse."
I say while abusing once again. It's funny how light on dark moments makes the light seem brighter than normal. The truth is, the light is no different than any other day, but since you've never seen the light here its brighter. A funny perspective skew. With abuse it's the same way. You quit, give up the vice that holds you tighter than any human hand. And feels more comfortable than love. You quit addiction for sun light because after you've given death a few rounds you realize that sun isn't just bright...it's warm.
It touches your skin
and all your cells race
to the surface,
antioxidize my sins.
Months pass and you become used to the light. It's normal again, and it grows weary under the weight of the boots. The veil would be better than this.
It was better than this.
And so the light becomes the same, and maybe you need darkness again to feel that warmth. Maybe you need the vice to cut off your circulation, make you shiver in the summer winter. So that sunlight doesn't just slide past you, so that it touches you again, the way it did when you opened your eyes for the first time...
Guilt rides your
back instead,
the warhorse
of an individual
apocalypse.
You make it, though...you keep secrets, you tell lies, so no one knows. It's not just darkness, it's silence, to deprivate from
"You can get through this"
"You'll be okay"
"Youre strong"
Because paranoid whispers are better friends. But it takes awakening from the right dream to remember that the sun loves you more. Your sun loves everyone, it pours down on everyone, it fills the darkness. All the darkness is just empty space anyway. Waiting for something warm to fill it.
It takes awakening from the right dream to make you realize that the sun doesn't just fill darkness, it grows life, it lives at the crest of mountain peaks, above the ocean of clouds.
So you understand that sun lights a path,
and you run it,
you plant feet
and
oaks blossom.
You never again take the world for granted.
You never again compare light.
Because even if it is the same light overflowing a new dark,
It is a growing light.
And it is always warm,
And it sometimes burns.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
Writers can be so snotty sometimes
They think they're so clever with their rhymes
They employ obscure words
the way armies deploy a specialized force
pedantic, pretentious, affected on some insufferable plagiarized course
Their wit a mired ploy to be perceived as bright
not so much to share knowledge
but to be the one that's right
vaingloriousness cripples the honesty in script
and another puzzled reader
reads between the lines of a message adrift
people twist things to their advantage
skew the facts to fit the page
shrug it off as a necessity of the modern age
most do it, few will notice
if they do they'll say it's a mistake
deadlines howl, time grates like a rake
truth is incidental when words are fake
another American madman goes berserk with a gun on a spree
perfect timing for the rollout of Grand Theft Auto 3
Don't worry little directors of death and mayhem
You've no culpability in the land of the free
causality is just some unprovable notion
you're safe and sound from any legal motion
exculpatory mitigation is your right as an 'artist'
'till the sorry day you eat the gun
the eventual price you'll pay for your sick wicked fun
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Open eyes can see as it all floats far away
Though denial runs deep even in the face of self-realization
Standing still in hopes that a small part will linger
Visions of yesterday's happiness shade today's shame
Different hues can tighten the squeeze
Small bits of who you thought you were run out
Lost in the vast nothingness that has taken hold
Twisted views of reality skew the mind against you
In a good moment there is peace
Too quickly forgotten, too quickly lost
Searching to find a shortcut back to who you want to be
Realizing in darkness that maybe, that never existed
Wondering if in this so-called truth lies the reality of others
Is this who you are?
Is this who they see?
You can choose to live in the worst thoughts of you,
Or believe in the best version of yourself
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 6:43 PM UTC
A life lived in black and white. No time for middle of the road. Lines drawn straight and narrow. Passion, only with rules. Love, only as stated. A heart filled with admiration, adoration, and caring. Nothing missing from the list of "supposed to". All boxes checked off. I's dotted and T's crossed. Perfect on paper, perfect to onlookers, perfect in bed. Never a thought of something missing. All boxes checked. Not able to settle into a life. Unable to blur the lines. Must be good, always good. Mistakes happen, but not on purpose. Not by choice.
Always the good one
Right is the only option
Mistakes...still happen
Before we fully become, life is full of confusion. Who we are and what we do are enmeshed within our surroundings, our perspective, our emotion, and our lives. Pulled together, yet fighting every step of the way. Beyond our understanding of purpose or passion. Afraid of everything we are as yet unable to understand. Trying to get through to the next phase without falling too hard.
Peers skew vision
Rules confine the innocent
Love hides unnoticed
Grown into a life of checks and balances. A nice life, a good life. Loved by many, yet alone. Always alone. Able to love, willing to love, believing love is what is being lived. Unseen circumstances. Friendships remembered. Longing, pulling toward one another. More than passion could ever be. More than who we thought we were. The need to be right, to do the right thing, is stomped unrecognizable by emotion. The past melts into the future. Is a life unfulfilled, yet loving, enough to maintain, or is love supposed to be so full of passion that it takes you outside the box?
The thought of a life
A love left unrealized
A world in a cage
A chance to live in happiness. Fires burn in body and mind. No sorrow, no regret. Pushed by one into another. Two hearts alone run to each other. Holding fast to all that is real. Yet casualties will line the road forever tainting all that could be good. Checks and balances. Pros and cons. Does one give up happiness to maintain the perfect facade, the perfect family, the "perfect" life? There is no perfect. There is only what is. The possibility of happiness could be short lived. Hearts broken and bridges burned. Broken families, broken lives. Happiness could be tangible. Happiness could be real. Pros and cons. What price shall be paid. When should love lose and happiness not be a goal? Choices, pain, there is no fairness. There is no black and white, there are no boxes in which to fit.
Straight and narrow life
Checklists, I's dotted, T's crossed
Thwarted by passion
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 10:51 PM UTC
for the tricycle of a night, I conclude my life is becoming a literary event and I feel the poetry seep through every moment tinged with a beautiful narcissism some would call belief in myself or self-love self-help I'll-help-myself, thanks. I finally discover a glancing insanity of charm and wit- liberation, insanity, perspective, depends (on what) ?
I am slowly a freeman working freely in the free market freaking out in ecstatic *** for the world as a whole and even being kicked out of a pretty girls room for obnoxious insomnia gives me a reason to kiss the clear sky of melancholy happy-sad with another 'thank you' for making me *whoever the hell I am, GOD, THANK YOU*
it's another beautiful day in paradise, tossing dice to skew the probability in the direction of it's the beautiful whatever and you're welcome for everything
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
In a world of reality and concrete,
We exist in opposition.
While you reside in the physical and tangible,
I resonate in the mystical.
Our realms do not meet.
If I could alter my position in the stars,
For you I would.
I'd skew the right angle at which we sit
So we could finally see eye-to-eye.
I would be the flames for your airy aura to feed.
If I could-
I would..
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
Seek Not My Heart
by Kit McCallum
Oh gentle winds 'neath moonlit skies,
Do not you hear my heartfelt cries?
Below the branches, here about,
Do not you sense my fear and doubt?
Side glistening rivers, sparkling streams,
Do not you hear my woeful screams?
Upon the meadows, touched with dew,
Do not you see my hearts a'skew?
Beneath the thousand twinkling stars,
Do not you feel my jagged scars?
Seek not my mournful heart kind breeze,
For you'll not find it 'mongst these trees.
It's scattered 'cross the moonlit skies,
Accompanied by heartfelt sighs.
It's drifting o're the gentle rain,
A symbol of my silent pain.
It's buried 'neath the meadow fair,
Conjoined with all the sorrow there.
It's lost among the stars this night,
Too far to ease my quiet fright.
No gentle winds, seek not my heart,
For simply ... it has torn apart.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
Am I supposed to want
To do more than just take it all in, how does everyone
Hold so fast onto the silk when it’s been
Sedated to such a slippery strand?
My grip tends to snap the thread extended by the
Way they talk to me, maybe if they gave me a rope.
As it is I prefer to
Synthesize the scenery into puffs of ***** smoke-
These desserts are grated from reality and so I
Must love reality, but I can’t eat it raw;
I see people’s sawdust centers as the
Cream they could become, I am far more deterred
By bitter tastes than the concept of having to wait for my predictions to ripen,
The fact that they never will is
Only a cynical estimation of mine that I hope will spoil as I age.
Spices are not lies, are not
Blandness masquerading as something so inconsistent with your vision that
You will lose sight of the road.
It is not just a question of
Going down easier, it’s just better
To boil your potatoes.
I hope to dispel a fear of my own, that
I’m some sort of addict, filling myself up with helium like some sort of
Basement-life pocket knife fix,
A recipe mixed to skew me into groggy selfishness that
I would anticipate as good faith and optimism, but my tendencies are erratic,
Dragging my body along to trace a healthy heart line, I suppose,
and with one foot in the door,
I can't quite say which side I'd rather be on.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
questioning the soul, questioning
the mind. why did that girl have
to have so many strokes? how
skew'd is the memory? spirits,
spirits on high for nigh recurrence -
nihil remembrances. mention'd by
name once. something wrong with
the body. disconnecting from on
high, disconnecting in a somewhat
general sense. no straight lines in
nature, no chaos in nature. get away
from the species' mentality. chaos.
c-h-a-o-s. chaos. chaos. species created
word to organize the unorganized.
straight line, polygon, order, chaos. time.
species ingrain'd, call'd instinct. to file,
to follow, to seek originality through
unoriginality. thru the banal. memory
warp'd, once could live. self-destruction
and a thought of living life without
affecting the choices of others. weakness.
chaos. rambling. tryptamine influenced
creation of language. showing teeth,
trying to intimidate. trying to rise, a
Jane of the Jungle form of archetype.
the passionate, caring, forbearing,
ape hunter. and lids sinking, closing off
the soul of influence. struggling thru
connections severed. those released from
******* by soul's recollections. by
metaphysical muscle memory. weeping
chaos, wailing order. finding null purpose
in. in. of all things. all people, all purpose.
knowing the worthlessness of well-chosen
words. and gaining access, and
trying to rise, and thirteen lines to stretch.
thirteen to fill across.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
At last,
Realization came to him
A sudden blast
Enlighten what's dim
Now, he knows what to do
Must forgive and forget
Truth must not skew
Else a ton of regret
What happened
He never thinks of such wisdom before
Because the pure white he used to blacken
He enjoyed the face of others down on the floor
Now he feels lighter
Ready to seeds good deeds
A color of cotton or even whiter
Will response help to those in needs
No more heavy metal song
Just soft and sentimental one
It's time to correct what's wrong
To hear the words "Well done"
He saw a man fall down
The song he sang is fresh
Suddenly he realized the sound
That he was no more in the flesh...
March 16, 2017
Mysterious Aries
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
- - - and i have been thirteen years out,
thirteen cast out, in it to
impress with some congress
and break a rhyming scheme
with some unrelated information
that could – and would –
ramble on and on, trapped in a
roundabout and listless format
pressed upon from birth in
mimicking action of that conception.
of anyones, of graphic denial
to linger in bliss and in blind
parasitic servitude.
- - - and i went for a cigarette,
and basked in the sun on a
November-ending day.
and i thought
of my plans, and how i am
pathing myself; and i thought
of my writing, and how i am
advancing myself; and i thought
of my life, and how i am
fulfilling myself; and i thought
of my death, and will i be
able to accept myself. and in on
in repetition, once again
in haste, in waste, in mending
of past-lives and weaving their
threads into this greater fabric.
- - - and my **** is constantly hard,
and i try to be shameful of Sin
on the long winter nights.
then there’s a point in exhaustion
when the mind stops. stoic absence.
“what brought you to this town?”
a bad decision, a woman.
“mind if i pray’d for you?”
if you want.
“mind if i pray’d right now?”
one hand grasped in both of his,
‘oh heavenly . .’
kindness out into the world.
and my ***** constantly hard
and my lungs tarred
and a harsh word traded for prayer.
- - - and perception becomes skew’d
with the last drop of sanity
cryin’ forth to ride the snake,
to nip at Apollo’s heels in
his retreat at the end of night.
and to wail from my place of rest
at the loss of the Sun’s mistress,
to the loss of a lover given.
logic null’d by the body of another,
inert love, nothing more than
a little friction.
we press’d against each other
with hopes that we could
impress upon anothers physicality.
venial sin, so long as confess’d.
congenial sins we are bound to regress.
- - - and i beg to be set free,
beg to be loose’d,
to have the notch that is me
relieved of a taut string.
to feel my force release’d
through the heart of another.
to be witness to a love
called ones own while Ross
wails on with his epic poem.
we fail as the red and white
haul us to a stroboscoping stop –
intermittent breathing and panic.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
I've been trying to read signs
Because life aint easy without them.
I've been trying to search for her in every chocolate bar I open,
In every cake I eat,
In every frenchfried burger and a piece of meat-
A piece of me,
A piece of you; in ever jewelry in ever earring
In every dream I built, with every boat I drew;
With every rain drop that never existed
But still was able to tingle down my eye lashes
And come down on my cheeks
Those are not tears
Those are rain drops I swear…
She asked me…do you still care?
I used to walk around her house
Wait downstairs
Just a moment of her eyes
I cannot bear to see myself without her,
But next to her was even worse;
She asked me,
Do you still care??
With every step I take or theory I make,
Sitting on lonely chairs
Of wood that'll break;
And broken my heart was when I used laptops as solace
And suns as my sight
Moons as my wisdom,
And words that fly within a glimpse of an eye
As why would I try
Why would I cry;
Those are not tear drops
This is the rain I swear…
I swear with every stomp on flimsy grounds
I pause and ask myself…
What if that stomp was made by two?
Would it be heavier for me??
Or lighter for both of us??
And both of us know the answers but our egos became our virtue;
And virtual venom grew,
What wasn't clear to me; wasn't existing to you.
The images, the pictures, the rocks I threw
Upon daemons that scream
Upon daemons the skew- words and ***** with our brains just to make us believe
To make us believe that this us, and this is what we knew…
I suspend in between the silver linings of earth,
Laughing at the irony of life;
And what's ironic
Is that iron is kinda silver
And silver is silver
And silver is what made me cry.
Those are not tears
Those are rain drops I swear…
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
Oh darling, you'll never realize just how incredible this is for me.
How you can tell me my worst nightmare has come to be,
And ask me to accept it, and I do.
Oh my love, you really don't have any clue.
I am astonishing myself, and you have no idea what it is.
No notion of something impossible as this.
I am surviving the only thing I never thought I could.
And you assumed I always had and always would.
You see me and I go on, permanent as the night.
You can't imagine what it's like,
To do what I've been told to do.
To have more weight than you can carry heaped upon you.
And then more,
And more,
Within the shortest wink of time's despair.
To be expected to seem as if it's light as air,
Even as you wonder if tomorrow you'll even be there,
Crushed this next second? Or this one?
You don't know the edge I stood on, toes curling over an emptiness that yawns,
Wind tickling my back
To make my stomach leap the gap,
You don't know what it feels like to take a deep breath
And take a step,
When you know that there is nothing there in front of you but air,
And a ground too far away to be perceived or even dreamed. No matter how long I prepared,
The fall loomed at a sickening skew.
You have no idea what I've just done for you,
How it is the most I've ever done for anyone.
How each day I fight the ***** of fear that I'll be gone.
Morning breaks and I wake up thinking, "Today I too will break. This is it.
Today I will feel the force of all of it."
You don't know how each night I lay down, shocked that it was not today.
You don't know just how easy it would be to walk away,
Send it all to hell and say enough.
I am not trapped here by anything but my choice to love.
And that is why my existence is extraordinary,
And shall be.
No matter where I go from here,
Each day that I wake up with that crushing fear
And live anyway
No matter how much else may go astray,
I will have already been astounding for just that.
I will have already fought the hardest battle:
There is no winning
There is no losing
No banishment of scared and sad and lonely
There is only
I am not dead yet.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC