* I was looking through old papers from high school English classes and I stumbled upon this poem from sophomore year, along with a short essay on how I wasn't really into poetry and didn't see how it would ever affect my life. HA!
This is just to say -
I have broken
the strings
that are on
your guitar
and which you
probably needed
for your next
performance
Forgive me
It was so tempting
to try and play
like you
12.07.2010
Beautiful Death
The red of her lipstick hid the blue of her mouth
Rouged cheeks disguised the pallid gray of her skin
Elongated eyelashes and dark shadows of painted silver
Drew attention away from the absence of breath
She was a beautiful death
She was waiting for me
I was not ready to go
This was alright with her
She is a patient wraith of a woman
Rouged cheeks disguised the pallid gray of her skin
Elongated eyelashes and dark shadows of painted silver
Drew attention away from the absence of breath
She was a beautiful death
She was waiting for me
I was not ready to go
This was alright with her
She is a patient wraith of a woman
Self-Portrait
Grey-blue portals to lite-brite thoughts lay
Nestled between ever-moving brows and slightly
Native-influenced cheekbones.
Centered is a nose from my mother,
Origin betrayed by the slight rise at the bridge.
A smile made crooked at birth;
Fresh greater-than symbol framed by a
Beard that cannot seem to make up its mind
Between the blonde of my youth and
Dark brown of my father.
A body that to me shows whisperings of
Athleticism finally peeking through
Years of college dietary choices too often liquid
Supports a head covered with a preemptive strike of
Salt and pepper seasoning my scalp a few seasons too early
But at least I have my father to look like.
Nestled between ever-moving brows and slightly
Native-influenced cheekbones.
Centered is a nose from my mother,
Origin betrayed by the slight rise at the bridge.
A smile made crooked at birth;
Fresh greater-than symbol framed by a
Beard that cannot seem to make up its mind
Between the blonde of my youth and
Dark brown of my father.
A body that to me shows whisperings of
Athleticism finally peeking through
Years of college dietary choices too often liquid
Supports a head covered with a preemptive strike of
Salt and pepper seasoning my scalp a few seasons too early
But at least I have my father to look like.
why i write
I write because
Too many people won't talk anymore
Too many problems too quickly ignored
Too many detriments the same as before
And sure, I'm only one man with pen in hand
But words are how the world began
With words, life was formed;
Calmed was the storm;
And if sticks and stones
May break my bones but
Words will never hurt me,
Then how can the tongue be
A two-edged sword?
And they say a pen is
Mightier than the sword anyway,
So I write.
I write because there are those who cannot
And the proverbial fight must still be fought.
What fight is that, I don't always know but
Someone has to fight it.
And so I'll write it.
Language unites and language divides;
Words build up and destroy in the same sentence.
This power rips from my insides, in hopes that
One can somehow provide penance for another.
I've shattered and I've put back together.
It doesn't matter whether or not the intention
Is pure or wicked; that two-edged sword will
Sever in either direction. And the repetitive arguments
For justice and peace are making no headway
And becoming trite.
So I write.
I write because white sheets with empty blue lines
Make me anxious. Blank pages for verbal sages,
And I ache to add a few lines from my couple decades
Of wisdom to the ages. Language unites and language
Divides but words from the soul bridge any gap.
And gaps are getting too wide, spreading like a
Cadaver's chest, revealing insides left by the wayside.
Rescue is pertinent or catastrophe is imminent.
So ink on paper, thoughts exhibited on parchment
Previously unscathed by the two-edged
Sword is what I crave.
So I write.
Too many people won't talk anymore
Too many problems too quickly ignored
Too many detriments the same as before
And sure, I'm only one man with pen in hand
But words are how the world began
With words, life was formed;
Calmed was the storm;
And if sticks and stones
May break my bones but
Words will never hurt me,
Then how can the tongue be
A two-edged sword?
And they say a pen is
Mightier than the sword anyway,
So I write.
I write because there are those who cannot
And the proverbial fight must still be fought.
What fight is that, I don't always know but
Someone has to fight it.
And so I'll write it.
Language unites and language divides;
Words build up and destroy in the same sentence.
This power rips from my insides, in hopes that
One can somehow provide penance for another.
I've shattered and I've put back together.
It doesn't matter whether or not the intention
Is pure or wicked; that two-edged sword will
Sever in either direction. And the repetitive arguments
For justice and peace are making no headway
And becoming trite.
So I write.
I write because white sheets with empty blue lines
Make me anxious. Blank pages for verbal sages,
And I ache to add a few lines from my couple decades
Of wisdom to the ages. Language unites and language
Divides but words from the soul bridge any gap.
And gaps are getting too wide, spreading like a
Cadaver's chest, revealing insides left by the wayside.
Rescue is pertinent or catastrophe is imminent.
So ink on paper, thoughts exhibited on parchment
Previously unscathed by the two-edged
Sword is what I crave.
So I write.
nameless
These hands have clasped with death.
Palms display a lifeline not mine, yet I live it.
Brain holds memories inaccessible to me
Heart pumps blood I do not own
Knows a love I have not known
And yet here I am.
Separate parts forming one being
Nameless
Sans identity
Plans for me cut short by a realization
Of fantasy.
My father, my father
Why have you forsaken me?
Frankenstein, my creator
Have you mistake me, your creation seed, for a creature?
Did you know you were playing God when you brought me forth?
Born from a storm yet never birthed...lightning flashes
Life from God's fingers as they stretched
Across the sky like ever-fleeting cracks in the
Windshield of the universe.
And now I stand, forever cursed to wander
This earth a spiritless being, never seeing
An end to this torment. You forwent reason
When you made me, save to satisfy your own
Perverse curiosity. It's heretical hypocrisy
By which you've begotten me; giving life without
That which sustains it.
So here I am, nameless.
Wanting only to please you, appease you;
Show you that my soul could come through.
I just needed a teacher. Someone to reach in
And jump-start the heart beating without purpose
In my cavernous cadaverous chest.
But all you showed me was disappointment and
Terror. How dare you reject me.
If you cannot respect me, you will fear me.
My purpose - pain. The only emotion you have
Taught me to understand all too well in this
Gangrenous prison cell shall become you
Terrestrial hell, encompassing you in
Sleeping and waking. You will feel the
Aching in my heart, doctor. Father.
It is time I find the life I was denied by
Your pride.
My life is not over; it is just beginning.
My life is not over; it is just beginning.
My life is not...
It is just...
My life is not just...
It just is...
And through this,
I shall be
Named.
Palms display a lifeline not mine, yet I live it.
Brain holds memories inaccessible to me
Heart pumps blood I do not own
Knows a love I have not known
And yet here I am.
Separate parts forming one being
Nameless
Sans identity
Plans for me cut short by a realization
Of fantasy.
My father, my father
Why have you forsaken me?
Frankenstein, my creator
Have you mistake me, your creation seed, for a creature?
Did you know you were playing God when you brought me forth?
Born from a storm yet never birthed...lightning flashes
Life from God's fingers as they stretched
Across the sky like ever-fleeting cracks in the
Windshield of the universe.
And now I stand, forever cursed to wander
This earth a spiritless being, never seeing
An end to this torment. You forwent reason
When you made me, save to satisfy your own
Perverse curiosity. It's heretical hypocrisy
By which you've begotten me; giving life without
That which sustains it.
So here I am, nameless.
Wanting only to please you, appease you;
Show you that my soul could come through.
I just needed a teacher. Someone to reach in
And jump-start the heart beating without purpose
In my cavernous cadaverous chest.
But all you showed me was disappointment and
Terror. How dare you reject me.
If you cannot respect me, you will fear me.
My purpose - pain. The only emotion you have
Taught me to understand all too well in this
Gangrenous prison cell shall become you
Terrestrial hell, encompassing you in
Sleeping and waking. You will feel the
Aching in my heart, doctor. Father.
It is time I find the life I was denied by
Your pride.
My life is not over; it is just beginning.
My life is not over; it is just beginning.
My life is not...
It is just...
My life is not just...
It just is...
And through this,
I shall be
Named.
9.03.2010
foliage fall
Limbs on limbs
Reaching higher as the footholds
Lose their strength
Keep on climbing anyway until
Slowly cracking
Limbs turn into wings turn into
Helplessness
Rude awakening fast approaching
Back meets earth
Like a thunder clap. Breath leaves
Body like an escaped
Convict; Doesn’t want to return ‘til
Warden Respiration
Hauls him back in; pain settles but
With temporary residence
Not sure how it happened.
Won’t attempt that ascent
‘Til youth permits forgetfulness
Reaching higher as the footholds
Lose their strength
Keep on climbing anyway until
Slowly cracking
Limbs turn into wings turn into
Helplessness
Rude awakening fast approaching
Back meets earth
Like a thunder clap. Breath leaves
Body like an escaped
Convict; Doesn’t want to return ‘til
Warden Respiration
Hauls him back in; pain settles but
With temporary residence
Not sure how it happened.
Won’t attempt that ascent
‘Til youth permits forgetfulness
sometimes
Sometimes, I miss you…
Like slow dances in the hallway to music heard only in our heads;
Like late nights curled up by the fire with a glass of wine and the
Sophisticated musings only Family Guy could provide.
I miss you like all-day text message conversations because our schedules
Don’t always allow us to see each other;
Like finally seeing each other and still having so much to say
Because every word from our mouths is important.
Like waking up and seeing you next to me and every time feels like the first.
Sometimes, I miss you like road trips to Louisiana, East Coast waves in July,
And sleeping on the air mattress in the guest bedroom at your mom’s house…
Alone.
I miss you like love-making on a beached catamaran that was too quick
Because we were both so nervous, but still amazing.
And sometimes…sometimes I don’t miss you.
I don’t miss you like double standards and unearned mistrust.
I don’t miss you like I can’t get lunch with another woman,
In public, I might add,
Whom I had known for five years before meeting you;
Like you can go on a four-day surfing trip with two men
I’ve never met and I am supposed to be ok with that, which I was…
I don’t miss you like Valentine’s Day blizzards when you are angry
Because I won’t drive across town in blinding snow to cuddle;
Like you thinking I forgot your birthday because
I was still awake at midnight but didn’t call you like your friends did.
I don’t miss you like…like…like a migraine;
Like you coming on to me only 3 times in nearly two years;
I don’t miss you like constantly questioning my own self-worth;
Like trying to live up to the man I think you deserve
While being constantly compared to the man your
Father failed to be.
Sometimes I miss you…but most of the time, I don’t.
Like slow dances in the hallway to music heard only in our heads;
Like late nights curled up by the fire with a glass of wine and the
Sophisticated musings only Family Guy could provide.
I miss you like all-day text message conversations because our schedules
Don’t always allow us to see each other;
Like finally seeing each other and still having so much to say
Because every word from our mouths is important.
Like waking up and seeing you next to me and every time feels like the first.
Sometimes, I miss you like road trips to Louisiana, East Coast waves in July,
And sleeping on the air mattress in the guest bedroom at your mom’s house…
Alone.
I miss you like love-making on a beached catamaran that was too quick
Because we were both so nervous, but still amazing.
And sometimes…sometimes I don’t miss you.
I don’t miss you like double standards and unearned mistrust.
I don’t miss you like I can’t get lunch with another woman,
In public, I might add,
Whom I had known for five years before meeting you;
Like you can go on a four-day surfing trip with two men
I’ve never met and I am supposed to be ok with that, which I was…
I don’t miss you like Valentine’s Day blizzards when you are angry
Because I won’t drive across town in blinding snow to cuddle;
Like you thinking I forgot your birthday because
I was still awake at midnight but didn’t call you like your friends did.
I don’t miss you like…like…like a migraine;
Like you coming on to me only 3 times in nearly two years;
I don’t miss you like constantly questioning my own self-worth;
Like trying to live up to the man I think you deserve
While being constantly compared to the man your
Father failed to be.
Sometimes I miss you…but most of the time, I don’t.
8.18.2010
poems i like 2
So I have posted on here in almost two months...depressing. I know I want to write, but I cannot seem to find the inspiration to just sit down and do it. Time for forced free-writing...
In the meantime, here are a few pieces by other authors that I have recently enjoyed...
"The Shoes" - John Mole
These are the shoes
Dad walked about in
When we did jobs
In the garden,
When his shed
Was full of shavings,
When he tried
To put the fence up,
When my old bike
Needed mending,
When the car
Could not get started,
When he got up late
On Sunday.
These are the shoes
Dad walked about in
And I've kept them
In my room.
"About His Person" - Simon Armitage
Five pounds fifty in change, exactly,
a library card on its date of expiry.
A postcard stamped,
unwritten, but franked,
a pocket size diary slashed with a pencil
from March twenty-fourth to the first of April.
A brace of keys for a mortise lock,
an analogue watch, self winding, stopped.
A final demand
in his own hand,
a rolled up note of explanation
planted there like a spray carnation
but beheaded, in his fist.
A shopping list.
A givaway photgraph stashed in his wallet,
a kepsake banked in the heart of a locket.
no gold or silver,
but crowning one finger
a ring of white unweathered skin.
That was everything.
"in Just-" - ee cummings
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
In the meantime, here are a few pieces by other authors that I have recently enjoyed...
"The Shoes" - John Mole
These are the shoes
Dad walked about in
When we did jobs
In the garden,
When his shed
Was full of shavings,
When he tried
To put the fence up,
When my old bike
Needed mending,
When the car
Could not get started,
When he got up late
On Sunday.
These are the shoes
Dad walked about in
And I've kept them
In my room.
"About His Person" - Simon Armitage
Five pounds fifty in change, exactly,
a library card on its date of expiry.
A postcard stamped,
unwritten, but franked,
a pocket size diary slashed with a pencil
from March twenty-fourth to the first of April.
A brace of keys for a mortise lock,
an analogue watch, self winding, stopped.
A final demand
in his own hand,
a rolled up note of explanation
planted there like a spray carnation
but beheaded, in his fist.
A shopping list.
A givaway photgraph stashed in his wallet,
a kepsake banked in the heart of a locket.
no gold or silver,
but crowning one finger
a ring of white unweathered skin.
That was everything.
"in Just-" - ee cummings
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)