"sparsity" poems
the fringe dwellers
those forgotten people
those who society
cares little for
the slums of the city
the shanty towns
the suburban blocks
are where they are found
no jobs
no money
no future prospects
this is their way of life
and ever will it be so...
the rich denying them a piece of the wealth pie
the fringe dwellers have not a good cast of the dice
they'll be kept in disadvantage by the monied few
a sparsity of cash yet they make do
our society isn't even of hand
a divide in social class seems to stand
twill there be a bridge of the inequity
which so blatantly pervades our society
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
a slave to wordiness, verbosity
self referential
(poems where sparsity lays the heart raw
something to thump against
our mouths and hands
little parts of ourselves
sadness is the only understanding).
cut, copy, paste
everything is lost, rediscovered
conduits are the building blocks
within the building blocks
contradictions of rationality.
everything is connected
drifting.
not machines
not of this world.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
to you
i hope you take me as seriously as i take you
there was a glimmer in your eye i swear i could see
and maybe after all of this time- this game of tug
of war we've had- our two lights could be joined
together- like a star birth so fantastic in the vastness
of the galaxy
i long for the day i can give you my undivided attention.
i know you appreciate me far more than i have been able
to appreciate you.
i fear if i took any more time to look fully at your naked soul
you may become my obsession.
-and I may realize life would be impossible to continue
without you by my side.
we'll probably never be together, truth be told.
but i envy the woman who fully devotes herself to your arms.
for she will know security without doubt, she will be drowned in the aftertaste of your sincerity- tingling from the warmth of your skin.
i forgot to wish you a happy birthday.
and I don't want to.
I want to be suspended in time every encounter we have- in a space where life does not weather our skins or tarnish our beautiful souls. i will remain young and still seemly, you aged in sparsity with a sophisticate air.
I believe God has a plan for us.
in this life or the next.
maybe in the heavens our souls will rest.
but for now I pretend I don't care about anything
or anyone.
it will hurt too much.
until next time, you perfect- but oh so familiar- stranger.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC
My depression doesn't come in the form of
rain clouds crowding over the sun and pouring
torrential rain on the sidewalks.
My depression doesn't come in the form of
thin white lines on smooth, brown surfaces --
when I say an arm, would you know if I meant
my limb or a part of a chair?
Would it even make a difference?
My depression doesn't come in the form of
empty bottles and missing wallets;
of nights spent in a drunken haze,
of sleeping in park benches and vomiting onto the pavement.
No. It comes in the little things --
Like the untouched, dry paintbrushes on my desk,
Like the growing collection of half-finished water bottles at the side of my bed,
and the tapestry that fell that I refuse to pick up.
It comes in little packages, like
the sparsity of my fridge, or the overflowing trash bins.
When was the last time my pots and pans have been taken out of the cupboard?
The last time that I prepared something that wasn't
microwaveable-ready, or straight out of a packet?
It's received with little fanfare, like
the state of my hair, unwashed for days;
the sunken spot in the middle of the mattress;
the awkward silence around friends.
Is the conversation drifting, or is it you?
It's crying in the bus for no apparent reason,
it's calling parents just to feel a tug of affection,
it's over-compensating with love and openness that feel entirely alien to be on the receiving end of.
It's smiles, it's frowns,
it's shouting, and silence,
It's day, and night,
and young, and old,
and in, and out;
The point is, the point is --
my depression does not look like yours.
I don't know what it's supposed to look like,
and at this point I'm too afraid to ask
the dark mass at the foot of my bed,
to manifest into something I can understand
lest it decides to finally swallow me whole.
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC