November 2017,
“…are you ready for it?”
An album where all is said;
reputation exposed.
Pages of gossip about me,
they don’t know that drama loves me.
Like floating rocks in a sea, useless but appealing.
I will not sink with the pressure.
No one has the right
to determine another life.
And with that, I leave this to you.
Words of wisdom, strength,
and above all else, reclamation of power.
The clock strikes twelve
I spend two hours counting the number of hours in a poem.
Now it is two o’clock
One hour passes by as I try to figure out what to do next.
Then I spend two hours counting the number of hours in the poem.
Now it is five o’clock
One hour passes by as I try to figure out what to do next.
I sleep and eleven hours come and go in a click of a clock close by and broken.
Now it is five o’clock
Four hours pass by as I write the poem.
I sleep and eleven hours come and go in a click of a clock close by and broken.
Now it is eight o’clock
Four hours pass by as I write the poem.
Eight hours slowly pass as I read the unending poem.
Now it is eight o’clock
Three hours pass as I try to fix the tired, torn tool that travels through time.
Eight hours slowly pass as I read the unending poem.
Now it is seven o’clock
Three hours pass as I try to fix the tired, torn tool that travels through time.
The hour hand trudges along restlessly while nine hours pass as if it regrets being part of a clock.
Now it is seven o’clock
I meditate. Then I realize an hour went by so I go back an hour.
The hour hand trudges along restlessly while nine hours pass as if it regrets being part of a clock.
Ten hours pass as I try to look for the stealthy poem.
I meditate. Then I realize an hour went by so I go back an hour. Now it is two o’clock
Ten hours pass as I try to look for the stealthy poem.
The clock strikes twelve
He lays in wait, silently anticipating the rush of battle
sharpening his rusting orange blade
envious of his purposeful siblings.
He yearns for blood,
to burrow deep
within an
unsuspecting
host, to
have
a
Home
Let them be as hard as stones
Always sturdy, standing tall
But still, and forever cold
I’d rather be a long river
Passive, with clear streams, like shiny ribbons
blowing in the wind
Rapids rushing towards the deep open sea
To have no control, following the path that has already been decided To relax, to just enjoy the ride
To be pushed and pulled by moon and sun
Or to be crashing over rocks, swirling tumbling in a panic
I’d rather be unbothered, and if
Then I am alone
Than to be around still and unfeeling stones
Where they are praised for their rigidity
By those who just watch
I’d rather let everything flow
Than attempt to find footing in the water
If I could carry out my path freely
I’d Rather be a long winding river
Funerals
I’ve decided
Are for the living.
When someone dies
They pass the pain in their life onto the people left behind.
And when you lose someone you love,
Every little task
Is energy draining
and life sucking.
It’s a war to think,
And a battle to feel.
And reality comes in little waves
And fully submerge you and you’ll drown.
And the harder you fight,
The harder it is to breathe and to think and to just
Be.
And then every little memory builds up until they all crash and suddenly
There is a hole in the shape of them in your heart.
Your world goes colorless
All emotions and feelings are stripped from your everyday life.
The sound of their name
Rolling off of someone’s tongue
Puts a lump in your throat and tears in your eyes
but you smile,
And pretend everything is all right.
Because everything is.
You only grieve when there is nobody to see you at your most vulnerable,
To see you heave and shake
Until your knees buckle and everything blurs
And you have to focus on
In…. and out
In… and out
Because suddenly,
It has became in out in out in out and the room is shaking
And the world is spinning
And it hits you
Like the ground does when you walk down the stairs
Missing the last step,
That this was how they felt.
Because before you lost them,
They lost themselves.
And all of your unused love for them disintegrates into grief and hate
Hate for not doing anything when it crossed your mind
Hate for not reminding them that they were so loved
Hate
For not saving their life
Because you were too blind to see they were drowning.
Grief is the price we must all pay for love
We need to have both to truly appreciate love
And truly feel grief,
Because I think deep down
Grief is just expired love.
So we take all of our expired love,
Dress like death,
And prove that we will love again
With each shiny teardrop
That streams down our trembling cheeks
Every time someone we love falls
Like a leaf from on orange oak tree
On a brisk October morning.
In order to expect the unexpected
Unexpected becomes expected
Therefore leaving the expected for unexpected
But to prepare for both,
What should you be expecting?
Both expected and unexpected
Equally unexpected or expected
For all we know there is more than just
Expected and unexpected
And no matter how prepared you think you are
The expected will always be unexpected
The curve of the shallow bowl edge.
The smoothness of the handle’s end.
The plastic material
Which allows you to see through clearly.
The spoon is truly a wonderful tool.
Without it,
How would you eat soup or cereal?
With a fork or knife,
That would be a struggle.
The glaring reflection
That comes off with the light,
Shines in your eye
As you look down on the spoon.
They may only be used for a small number of foods
But they excel at what they do.
While a plastic spoon may not be very complicated
It is definitely very convenient.
A poem should be like a pie.
From the surface, its bland.
It can be any color.
It will always smell divine.
But it’s what is on the inside
That make it fine.
A pie can be sweet.
Or It can be sour.
It needs some some wheat.
It needs some flour.
It can be hot.
It can be cold.
Maybe eat it a day old.
A poem is like a pie.
You dont know whats inside.
Until you cut it up
And take a slice.
Eat it slowly,
It will be nice.
After you take the first bite
Then
you know what the pie is like
A poem is like a pie.
A dutiful match begins its ritual. Draws a flame with a scratch,
And a spark tags the wick. Shedding rings of light, the candle Consumes itself inside out, Leaving only a lucid puddle, a pool of smoke, slathered in waves.
You peer over. For a moment, you see your foggy reflection
Before its waxen memory solidifies, With your image locked inside. Even in darkness, it has known your face, Even extinguished, it remembers.