The Loveliest Girl, This Side Of The World
The loveliest girl
This side of the world,
Shelters the recherché wealth
Of her lilac legged seas,
From the hounding beastly sun’s
Opaque eye of scalded miseries,
Vaulting through monochrome skies,
Ugly with volatile thirst,
That paints turpentine deserts
With scorch stroked wrath,
Upon the soft velvet curves
Of her lavender crowned path.
Ergo, the jilted jealousies
Of the smoldering sun,
Divebomb with headstrong fury
And thermonuclear blood,
Its iron willed ire,
Aimed at the heart of her love,
To barter with the spangled halo of stars
For her silken flowered touch.
And the riot act of Psalms
Was written bloody on her palms.
The loveliest girl
This side of the world,
Slips into daydreams
Of spring’s nubile skin,
As the rose of her lips
Dances a shimmering grin,
While February’s grey curtain sky
Peeks its smoky rimmed light,
Through the wintering sleep
Of its half shuttered eyes.
And the ruby flame stars
Are girded divine,
Like God’s garments dipped
In the finest of wine.
The wild dance of her lips
Grows breathless for night,
As the sun shunned and scorned
Pouts out it’s dimmed light;
And she smiles with ease
Though love tarries long,
As she waits for June’s mariner
To court her through song.
And the ruby flame stars
Are girded divine,
Like God’s garments dipped
In the finest of wine.
The loveliest girl
This side of the world,
Readies dawn’s pulse
For her swim through the earth;
And love’s feathered bride,
Dove hearted and frail,
Will soon shed the skin
Of winter’s dark veil.
“Hard Choice, Right?”
you had it.
their trust.
and your own.
everything was perfect, the drinks were flowing, the spikes were sharp
the test was easy, and you were making them proud.
but, you've lost faith in yourself again, haven't you.
the last medal to your collection is only a few months old but it feels like a lifetime ago.
when you're consistent, you don't know how good you're doing until you stop.
you can't see your own progress.
but now they look at you and they're unsure of when you'll perform again.
"oh, she used to be so good.
she used to have this shine that just pulled you in close,
she used to be so sure of herself."
now she can hardly make eye contact with people in the grocery store.
it's gotten bad.
do they make medals for trying?
Questions in a Troubled Mind
Is our reality a controlled hallucination? Do we actually have a physical existence or are we merely four dimensional thoughts? Is our consciousness actually just a continuance of our unconscious mind? What is behind the perception of our perspective? Is our reality created by our necessities? Is it all simply adaptive reality? Are we all irreducible representations of the symmetries of space time?
Questions that I ponder when the stress piles up in my life. I don’t know the exact answers to these questions, a lot are based on theoretical ideas and some like the problems in my life are transitory. They help me not to dwell on the negative and to work towards the positive. No matter how complicated it gets.
ISeeYouAndSmile
I know I'm never going to get a text back from you and that's okay.
I just wanted to text you to see how you're doing.
Hear your laugh another time, listen to one of your famous stories
and I don't give the best hugs because you do
and I don't give the best advice because you do
and right now you'd tell me to eat a snack and let it work itself out
I just wonder how, such a beautiful person can be gone
I don't really know how to write a song, I was just hoping
you'd be there tonight to talk about life with me
And I know you didn't mean to leave
but I was just ready to go when we got the news
had to choose but we were miles from you
in bed with all those various machines
But I know you didn't mean to leave
you just got places to be, people to see
Laughing with everyone you meet
They couldn't keep you down, busy with jet plane energy
you've got places to be, people to see
Flight attendant of the century
I'll always see you in my dreams
I know the three of you are laughing like old pals again
And I'll love you from right here, don't forget me
don't forget me, don't forget me
cause I know that you have places to be, people to see
hey J it's time to leave
places to be, people to see
there's other people here visiting
I just wish you'd answer me
when I joke and say your hair looks great
but I got too scared to say it outloud
so I said I love you and I left
knowing that I'm never going to get a text back from you, and that's okay.
Bare Poet
I mainly write poetry as an outlet for my pent up emotion
The thoughts in my head constantly causing commotion
I don't read poetry on my downtime for pleasure,
But from a young age Dr Seuss taught me about rhyme and about measure
Usually in couplet form because that's typically how my brain works
But my creativity can do much more than that, it's one of the many perks
Now and then I'll come up with something beautiful for an object around me
But they are few and my emotions demand attention because they are confounding
Reflections of happiness, pain, anger, and humanity
I bleed on the pages to restore my ever slipping sanity
Sharing my heartache so that maybe someone won't feel so alone
Demonstrating that honesty with yourself is the only way to feel at home
Just understand that most of what I write are my inner thoughts and personal feelings
You'll get to know me pretty well if you pay attention and are interested in real things.
I Am/Am I?
I am a writer.
Am I a writer?
When do I go from a writer
Who waits
To a waiter
Who writes as a hobby?
I'm not a waiter.
Why'd I say waiter?
What metaphor am I trying to achieve?
That's it --trying
Always reaching
Never grasping
Always just shy
Or this close.
No awards, no accolades
No recognition
No published work
And I'm thirty.
Not an ingenue
Not a new voice
Not a brilliant prodigy.
Thirty
And my book is still half written
And my poems are still trite
And naive
And irrelevant
Ever increasingly irrelevant
Because as I grow older
I fall ever away
From the people, to which
I long to relate
I am a writer.
Am I a writer?
Sometimes I wonder
Because I feel like a writer
When one line of brilliance
Hits my insomniac mind
And I cannot sleep
Until it's written
On any scrap of paper
To be found
But I wake up in the morning
And that sentence, so profound
Is gibberish, it makes no sense
Am I a writer?
I write a new word
But I hate it
The old word was better
But no longer fits
I feel like that word
Never right, never fitting
Always searching
I think I lost my generation
Or maybe it doesn't exist
Because we're all consumed
With chasing fleeting
Fragments of the past
That we hold nothing
That's just ours
I am no voice
To that generation
Because that generation
Is voiceless by choice
Everyone has their own drum
And they beat to their content
They don't need a guide
So why do I still
Feel this need to fill some void
That if I write for long enough
Or say enough
Perhaps I'll find some meaning
They'll find some meaning.
I hold that flickering hope
A candle flame
I make believe it's a torch.
And then I'll swear that I'm done
I'll blow out the flame.
I'll give up forever.
And then I'll wake
And I'll pick up a pen.