Poems · writing

Tryhard

Sometimes I convince myself that my teeth could bite through metal

That the razor edges would do nothing to the soft parts of my mouth

That I wouldn’t bleed

Sometimes I think that I could crush glass between my fingers

That the glazed sand would find no purchase on my soft tissue

That I wouldn’t tear

Sometimes I imagine that if you were here I would be able to stand it

That the sound of your voice would be nothing but a residual melody in my mind. Your face an inkblot.

That I wouldn’t crumble.

But I know, I know, I know.

The moments tick by and I know.

I bleed, I tear, I crumble.

I am no match for the dreams that play in my head

Poems

Subterfuge

Stars dissipate above and below.

I’m watching you move,

silently, now.

Horizon ticking by,

violet-orange bruise,

tender to the touch and yet.

You make it a habit to revisit those colors,

hoping to close this distance,

resistant to you.

The ache subsists,

I’m set adrift,

river-dark bleeding I’m

dreaming of you.

Poems · writing

Unintended Consequences

Push and pull

Out of control

Well let’s go since you seem to know

The way.

Between the click of the light and the start of the dream

When it ends,

Before it ends,

Will you keep me here in your mind

For awhile?

(Hidden away in the pocket of a daydream)

How much is too much to ask of you

I was hoping we could talk it through

Before you’re gone with the morning


Not sure I need to mention it but just to be safe: line five is from the Arcade Fire song No Cars Go, which is sort of what propelled this poem.

Poems · writing

Talking to Myself

By the end of Sisyphus Part 4 I didn’t know who I was anymore

Ageless and nameless I melt in the rain

You’re doubting me, timing me,

Daring me to get up again

And is it any wonder when I do?

Do these failings still come as a surprise to you?

In a minute I’m busy.

Some thoughts they surround me

I’m barreling through the rain:

Waiting to be caught.

Wilting under and then growing into the pain

I’m finding you;

I’ll be home soon.

Look for me sighing,

Somewhere under the moon

Poems · writing

Metanoia

My mind speaks volumes

I won’t say a word

(Mama said she’d buy me a mockingbird)

Indentured to sickness

She won’t stand a chance

Bejeweled wings flutter a commonplace dance

(If that mockingbird don’t sing)

A value of equal to or less in stature than

Some thing left to squaller

I’ve muddled it, and,

(Mama said she’d buy me a diamond ring)

For too late I find, I’ve lost peace of mind,

And those thoughts are loud enough to ponder.

Poems · writing

Do You Find It Alright?

How did I get here

How do I know

Which way is up

When will I…

I’m temperate I’ll have you believe.

You hack at me, start it off

One two three four

Who is knocking at my door

Temporal, always, yes.

Buried deep in my chest

Gently tugging,

Whispering

“Have we made it yet?”

Don’t do that here.

Five six seven eight

Resistance, entreat me. They can’t be late

Interesting, be too full.

Every feat, every way, every turn. Undeveloped.

In the morning I’m silver

You’re always light blue

Why do I move. Why do I move

Finish without me I can’t take the cost

Nine ten

Late again.

Shut me off


Been doing homework all day, so here’s one circa January 12, 2018 at 5:39pm. (I like knowing the time. Frames it better for some reason. Better guess at my mindset for weird shit like this)

Poems · writing

Peaceful Observance

I want to fall asleep in the sun

Full of warmth and comfort

Impeded by no one

I want to feel the breeze on my skin

Surrounded by flowers,

Pollen-headed bees tumble lazily in.

I want to watch their slow dance,

Entranced by their diligence, their inability to wear pants,

And on the tops of their silly-heads

Two little antennae bumble about

Looking around for the next bloom to sniff out

(Do bumblebees have noses?)

There are questions I suppose(s) that will abound,

Human nature itself is sort of tumbling around.

And in grief, I think, we know this,

Though when that familiar friend leaves for the summer

We pretend not to notice

He was never there.

Without a care, I lie among the roses,

Prick my fingers on the thorns

I will never pick them.

I watch the bumblebees tumble around