My first and second entries contain mostly older poems that I decided to post here, but subsequent entries will have been created within a week or so before the entry date. Also, I may cover some mental/emotional struggles and heavy topics (that might be uncomfortable to some people) on this page, so consider yourself warned.
Here's a link back to the homepage for any lost readers!
Saturday, Sunday,
The 'seems like fun' days,
Thursday, Monday,
Now I just wanna run away,
Wednesday, Friday,
Hey, I'm not trying to die today,
Then there's Thursday,
Each week seems so gray
The mind is like a ship
And memories the sail.
It floats until it tips
Or finds itself an ail.
Though not each tip does sink,
If sailor tries to brave,
All ships are brought to brink
Of chaos brindled wave.
I kneel on stone beach steep
To view this shipwreck field.
Does sanity still creep
On salted, rusty keels?
Once brilliant masts
only subtly felt,
the hull melts in a puddle
of splinters and shavings
from the hinted storm
that it had been braving.
Left is a lone cumulus,
with vaperous warp frayed,
while its weft had stayed,
making sewn cloud suit just
a single aerial string
As weather here cleared,
I recall eye drawing near
in sheer sky tumult, ions fell free,
and water sheets soaked sheltered feet.
The eye blinked,
and overboard was I
designed to sink, not swim.
Many think each storm
Has a silver lining,
But I swear to you that this one was blonde.
Talking cheese in the back of class
A dollop of daisy between us we'll pass
Chicken, beef, veggies the grocery sells
Or by local ingredients we'll construe
Sharing the stuff beneath our shells
Tacos mean I love you
I look up with myopic eye
To a movie-theater black sky.
Plane, copter, satelight
Shimmer and dance across my sight.
Little white stars dot the scene
Like mosquitos on a porch covered in screen.
The sound of wind is canine howl,
While skyline clouds are stacks of towel.
I see a flash of light
Streaky but not all that bright
Not even a moment passed,
But it couldn't last.
Whatever shall I wish for?
Alas, nothing tonight.
Red upon white
stripes upon thick fabric
No blue
But billions of green blades
to poke the shoes of
ghostly shadows
that do not haunt
that do not strike fear
that mingle and cheer
that face away from me
that glare at shoestring lines
and almond-shaped blotches
slicing, spinnning
into a forked column
of sturdy ivory
I lean back onto a chainlink fence
that sings at me
like rhombus-patterned birdsong
I wish I lived in a shoe.
Textile walls would press against my skin,
soft
and warm.
I would sleep between blackout curtains
made of sloped memory foam.
The risk of knitted cotton--
the shield to a giant's heel--
threatening to physically acquaint
my skull with my femur
would be well worth the escape
from this blinding light of truth.
The one that preaches
how all for which I yearn
is useless
worthless
aimless
if it isn't reciprocated.
I want to yell at it,
to tell it that
I ALREADY KNOW THAT
But until that light sprouts ears
from its green-gold rays,
stuff me in with crinkled paper
beneath the smooth-knot laces,
under corrugated carboard,
in a place where I can lie
in darkness upon a fresh rubber sole
Keeping friends
is like diving in a fountain for coins,
fighting to not lose your breath
and praying a little that you will anyway.
There will be a nickel
for everytime you laugh together
and a dime
for everytime you cry
You won't ever know how many cents
they were worth
until you crawl out of the pool
into cold, nude air--
until your lungs stop heaving sharp
liquid by the gallon--
until you forget what it's like to race
for somebody else's paycheck.
Maybe it was never about
keeping friends.
Maybe it was about
keeping you.
I say
I'm the North Winds.
You shall not harness me.
I would swirl between your silent soul
and, through mortal throes,
you'd slow,
easing into your own icy little sea.
I say
She is the bear who only wears snow,
that simply glares
at my fur=ruffling blows.
I urge her to merge with my cold,
cold heart,
but all we ever do is part.
I say
you are a golden flame
among a black banner and its distant dippers,
beautiful and beamly,
while I am snide and unseemly.
You smolder away into a now starless sky.
I say
nothing.
So far, I've said only lies.
Today I say
nothing to forget these thoughts inside.
She is a rose.
Her hair grows in lush,
delicate layers,
and she plants herself among bushes
of polyester leaves--a shell
of woven foliage for her warmth.
I prick my finger
on her thorns of sarcasm
and ostents of indifference
to lap the sanguine
liquid she'll draw from my skin.
But then, a rose would not--cannot--ever tell you not to pick it.