"unrevised" poems
These words are hot
Fresh from my fingertips, raw and unrevised
Like drops of molten glass from a furnace
These words burn up my throat as I am breathing flames and steam
My heart, like a bellows, forcing syllables across my tongue
They burn and itch
Inside and out
Days, weeks, and years pass
And these fires still burn inside me
Flaring with the passion of a little boy who has not had his last question answered yet
So he screams and yells and stomps his feet
Trying to put out the question inside of him because it is burning
And he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, to let it out, the whole world will be set ablaze with his question
And he is waiting patiently, with his hand high in the air
Hoping to God that someone will call on him
Hoping that God will call on him, and offer him an answer
God, extinguish these flames!
I am burning with all the passion of a little boy who will never know the answers
to all the questions he cannot ask
Because he does not know the words to describe his thoughts
Because he cannot paint pictures with nouns and verbs
Because he still only speaks half English and half God
So he is coughing flames until he finds the words to ask the question whose answer will put them out
And with the fire of God inside me, I hope I will never learn the answer
I will always be searching for the words to my question
And I will always be asking questions
And I pray to God that I will never know the answers
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 7:18 AM UTC
My muse must be a jokester or a ****
who’s starving at my fluffy luscious words.
My musing is so sensitively sick
I doubt my muse has ever talked to birds.
But when my muse is gone they sing to me
and he returns to tell me what they’ve said,
but makes no sense and speaks predictably
of seasons, love, the grief for long-lost dead.
I guess my muse is old and out of touch;
for everything he says is nothing new
and where the secrets are, there aren’t much,
with him i win the hearts of just a few.
I love to blame my muse, though i’ve come short
or quickly come, his unrevised cohort.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
As we threw our caps north,
my excitement sank south
descending step by step in a spiral staircase
the hope started flickering
this might be the last glimpse
but holding on to a ‘might be’ is critical, delicate
it’s like breathing with gaps in between
you might die anytime soon,
who knows
I might see you lifeless in a box
but I’ll keep you alive
in my memory
with strong hues
vivid outlines
our plots unrevised
exact timelines and spaces
names of people we liked
I won't stop remembering
because that's the only way
to make myself forget
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
Forgive me Father for I have sinned.
I cross my heart and heat the pin
To burn out the angels and tarnish my soul.
Dark Father, I have forgotten your goal.
Our Cathedral stands atop basalt
Chaos churns its eternal assault
Across the horizon where my tears were shed.
Forgive me Father, I should be dead.
The Throne upon which your eternal flame
Rests on my brow - a crown of shame,
Has beauty and light crossing it's face.
Forgive me Father for kissing Grace.
Take my heart as if your own,
Make it bleed and make it moan
It's confessions upon the cold earthy ground.
Forgive me Father, for the Light that I found.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
(WARNING FETUS POEM, UNDER CONSTRUCTION, 1ST UNREVISED DRAFT DONT JUDGE)
My pen must be tired
of bleeding on pages for you
it might feel used
as if I only pick it up to write words like
tragedy
cry
leave
goodbye.
I don't know what words I'd use now to describe you now
I remember how you once apologized
that words were the only thing you had
the only thing we have to share
and what I should have but didn't say was
I think that words
and the brush of a pen
are one of the most beautiful things to exist
apart from our story.
I think
"You're my silver lining."
is a close combination of words
I'd use
because I know you
like the back of my hand
and the roadmap that will lead us
thousands of miles apart
towards similar goals
and identical places.
You and I
"We."
exist only in midpoint
and in white and blue
sometimes green and white
if there is really bad signal.
We know of our friend's stories
but not their laughs
or their voices.
We only know each others.
Friend,
I love you.
No,
not in love with you.
But I'd be lying if I said
what we share
is only a silly connection
and I guess I"ll end this poem now
because my pen must be tired
of bleeding on pages for you.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
What is Melancholy
But the sound of a clock
Echoing its tick through the room,
Reflecting the beating of my heart?
Or the quiet tears held in check
Unable to trace a path along the cheek?
The breath - labored with heavy chains
That drag along the floor of my mind.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
Our tight ****
holes make
sure everybody gets
their comeuppance.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC