Tuesday, November 17, 2015

What Used to Be

Like smoke and dust and remains of once were,
The fire is out, the embers burn no more,
Still lingers an image, a fragment, a soul,
To one to the other and to pay the toll.

The darkness is damning, the light is too sweet,
It seems all that's left is to compete and compete,
And though we should have enough, there is no whole;
Repairing a soul is more than burning coal.

The past is past, what's done is done,
And it is the same in moon or in sun;
Consequences pass over like they are the all,
Never once recognizing the real and true goal.

The candle is melted to useless wax,
And the barrels and bags are now useless sacks.
Yet time and time again, a new order calls,
The tears collected in the useless bowl.

Like smoke and dust and remains of once was,
Still lingers an image, giving pause;
Not all is lost, not as long as there's soul,
Even broken, it's as good as a whole.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Never Quite Safe

Safety in numbers is the phrase.
But it is in numbers that I never feel safe.
Instead, I feel scared, frightened, and afraid;
The pretense of being someone who doesn't pretend is too much to take.

When I find lonely hollows and run,
My mind spirals and changes social action
Into a harrowing experience of nightmares and faux pass
That, despite my hallowed heart, I cannot quite escape.

Solitude and softness free my mind,
The trap is anxiety and pressure,
A million hands, a million directions,
To go this way or that way.

But in isolation, the voices sound,
The misery shivers its way up my spine,
And vices wrap around my soul like vines,
I am the error, the glitch, and the fool.

Safety in numbers is the phrase,
But lonely hollows better suit this goal,
With solititude and softness to wear away the stress,
However, isolation brings up the dark.

So I write terrible poetry that pales
In comparison to the emotional fate
Of a faithful, aching soul,
Who is lost along the waves.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

have poem, will travel (untitled poem)

For me, writing is a drug.
A cathartic experience.
It is like nothing else.
When I write, I create.
What I create is up to me,
but so often I let myself lose control,
let myself pour words onto paper,
words onto screen,
carry myself and my thoughts away.
I write, and I learn.
My passion drives me to research,
and like many writers,
someone who saw my search history
would accuse me of murder.
Writing is a need for me,
as much as shelter or food or water,
a necessity for my survival.
Writing is how I feel God.
It's also how I dive into the world
and breathe in all the many different people
and become more than myself.
I feel calm, and at peace,
when I write, because finally
I am doing the one thing
that I can, with reasonable assurance,
say makes me whole.
I am passionate for it,
I am in love with it,
and because of that
when I find the words coming,
in whatever form they take,
I feel utter bliss,
something dangerously close
to what I'd say
might just be nirvana.