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

A Hot Pocket Haunting

Startled, dreary, drool sticking to me, I fall off the couch

What is that sound?

Why do I care?

I look. The microwave is singing.

No doubt bringing some molten cheese or other into being

But for a good minute all I can do is stare.

Wondering, pondering…

…what the fuck did I put in there??


Don’t you hate it when you put something in the microwave, and just…have absolutely no memory of it happening?

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

Poems · writing

Dreaming Electric

Sometimes I wish I were an android

My only worry to look troubled and pretty

Wondering if there were more to me than circuitry

Tangled wires and synthetic skin,

Obeying a creator’s every whim

And, what, be a surgeon? A maid? A mother, to children who have nothing left in the world?

I wonder, would I be content with the part that I played, or would my heart remain, rebellious in its strain, chasing dreams that always seem so very far away.

Disillusionment is a jealous game, one I try not to abide in,

How easy, then, would it be to forget any sin, comforting knowledge in the fact that it was all part of your program. Life as a joke. Possibly a gift. Depends on how you look at it.

Cracked rib cage,

(Iron bars)

Heaving lungs,

(Rubber scars)

Beating heart,

(Prosthetic pump)

All parts of me nothing but a lump of machinery. Imitating life.

And I don’t think I could ever really know, without searching in the depths below, whether or not I truly have a soul.

Today, though, today I will stay. I know I’ll find out. Either way.

writing

A Letter To Myself

Or, more accurately, a series of post-it notes I wrote to myself while in a self doubting spot at work. I want to be a writer. I’m going to be a writer. I am a writer. I am enough.

You have not gone far enough to give up. You haven’t dug your heels into concrete. Your shoes are still intact, you haven’t drawn blood. You have not reached a point to shrug your shoulders and say “well, I tried”.

You have yet to feel the satisfaction of a project moved to completion, you don’t know what it’s like. You want it, but will you fight?

You assume you have reached a place where things cannot possibly get worse. You’re wrong, and they can, but things can get better, too. That’s all up to you.

Now go put books away, dummy. You’re fine.