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waterloggedThe rain hasn't stopped for days
a continued onslaught to this waterlogged heart.
It creates an orchestra outside my window
of pitter patter plop
that makes my bones sigh.
The gentle doldrums ease me
into the darkness and the best sleep
I've had all month.
The rain hasn't stopped for days;
I'm beginning to think
it never will.
There's a place in the middle of nowhere
where dreams go to die.
I visit it in my sleep
covered in the veil of the city rust
a velvet cloak of despair
anchored to my scapula
with wire and bullet-holes.
Surrounded by an ocean
of life on the cusp of bare metal and steel,
I am buried underneath the haze,
a sea of high pressure torment
filling my emptiness
with pollution and filth.
The cavitary holes eat away
I am left grasping,
unable to gather the unraveling
threads of ribbon and metal
that led me here.
There's a place in the middle of nowhere
where dreams go to die.
And it's beginning to feel
Tip ToeSometimes I feel like I've lost
that part of myself that clings to sunrises
with poetic verse dancing on the tip
of these tired and twisted fingers
eager to capture every breath that is lost
in the cracked light, breaking upon the morning sky.
There are many moments
that these eyes and this heart will never forget.
They are not big moments like other people's moments
full of white dresses, swirling moments, and kisses beneath the bedsheets.
But do not be mistaken,
there have been so many moments that have passed
where my heart has swollen,
pushing against the confines of these ribs.
My hands have held, soothed and hoped;
these hands have done all the talking
yet cannot translate to paper
the joy that it all brings.
If only they could talk
they would tell of late nights,
of paper cuts and coffee,
of gunshot wounds and car accidents.
They would explain the stifling nature
of the operating room,
gowned with two layers of latex,
removing organs and cancers.
The feel of cold metal instrumen
I've seen you from afar
the way avid bird watchers
glance through windows and binoculars
to see the fleeting passing of some obscure bird
they had only seen once in a book.
The day you talked with me
my heart fluttered
a bird with broken wings in my heart
unsure of whether to smile or frown
at this twist of fate.
Now left dreaming
too afraid to step forward
and upset the balance,
this delicate dance.
I enjoy our time
this lyrical rhetoric of medical banter
knowing it will not last
so I step back.
because some birds are just meant
to be enjoyed.
button it"button it"
put a button on it she says
as if it was that simple
to sum up the world on a button--
a few words to stick into shirts
pants and bags.
what happens when we mis-stick
and the button reaches
somewhere below the skin?
will we even bleed?
is there no hope left for the world?
what would my button say?
would it be unreadable 1 point font
too many words
to fit on the front of the button
or would it be a single word
like confused, misunderstood, or way too damn busy
as if that's all i had to offer the world.
forever the world embraces
the labels of buttons--
the superficial words of those who refuse to look
beyond the outside and go deeper.
so dont tell me to put a button on it
because it will never be that simple
and give me a call when you finally realize
and live further than just
she dances softly
the starlight in her hair
if only she could believe
how beautiful she really is
instead, she tiptoes as she dances
afraid to wake the black
of judging eyes.
if only you could see
her dance a whisper across the stage
maybe you'd understand.
the sun rises and sets upon my heart
in equal joy.
the yellow mist of the sky
catches my eye briefly
and fills my heart with wonder.
perhaps we are the forgotten
the laborers of love
who breathe life daily
finding the beauty in a simple sunset
or yellow canary
everyone else would care to ignore.
life has become a traffic jam
in a city with no power.
we hesitate to move
the lack of the simplest change
of lights from green
i turn around
and am confronted by
a yellow light.
and we hesitate to move
or stay behind.
things continue to change-
the lights flash above me
and we move quickly
to catch a glimpse of something
to take our breath away.
this city is always changing
that yellow sunset always looks the same
no matter which rooftop
i stand upon.
we have missed
hundreds of sunsets
as if blind--
i never really could see them
until love found my heart.
and now all i do
is watch the sky
and the gentle morph of the clouds
from white to red to pink
i look to the stars
and i can only hope
you are looking at them
right now, at this moment.
if i could, i would catch them
to light your way home.
a brother removedshe stands strong
but she's crying inside.
i dont want to lose him
with him never understanding
how much he really means to me.
she stands so still
but she's dying on the inside
the last time i saw you
the last time i heard your voice
did i tell you i loved you?
she looks so hopefully
but she's worrying on the inside
the sound of mom's voice
when she found out
nearly made me die.
she fights back the tears--
will you please hurry home
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutter
I have failed you,
for you were not forged
to be so insubstantial as that
You were writ
to be an epic fable
of endings ignored,
of outlasting your body
through the sheer will
of a writers starving heart
through a broken, bowed
but bravely abiding body
that fights the soul
to comprehend Beauty.
BeautyI'd rather wear flowers in my hair,
forming a delicate chain
Than diamonds around my neck,
covering my tender blue veins
For with every precious petal
and every lucent leaf
I'm a living lesson
teaching beauty can not be bought
But rather it grows and flourishes
with every living thought
................written in a frenzy and run-on
and exclamation points
used in rapid succession
words all blurred
so bare bones it's bloody
strung out and on display
in a frightening combination
of paragraphs and stanzas
punctuation gone mad
ellipses my new black
used and abused
then spit out
in gratuitous repetition
there is no word count here
no hearts dotting the i's
just a string of letters
done up in cursive
but not very pretty at all
Fearing MeI'm not afraid to cry
and I do it
a lot more than you would guess.
It isn't always sadness,
I just feel like I need to,
feel everything so strongly
that it's the only way
to let go for a moment
because if I hold on for too long,
if my grip gets too tight
I'll break myself,
I will break you like glass
and we will both
I am a good guy
who hasn't yet found a way
to show it,
I am a good guy
who still identifies with the villains,
hides everything important
anything to throw you
off of my trail....
and I don't know why,
but I am trying.
Maybe I think
that if you could see me,
the real me,
you wouldn't want to look anymore,
want to be anywhere near me,
and the idea
that I can't add up
to be enough for you,
to be enough for me,
is so fucking heart breaking
I can hardly fathom it.
I can't say that it doesn't hurt
because it does,
it hurts a whole hell of a lot,
I've come to depend on pain,
to befriend misery
you're just a question marki met you so long ago
but back then our bodies were made of metal
and nowadays they’re made of the blades of
grass and dirt settling
underneath my fingernails.
my fingers are having a hard time
reaching the keys and
my organs are shaking mostly because i haven’t
eaten in two days but also
because i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.
we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever ago
and you say you don’t know me
that you don’t know anyone
but baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skin
to try and reach my bones, just like you.
i hope you're happy,
i’m covering the hard wood floors now
the bits and pieces splattered.
they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling it
a way to see my brain and
just how dark it has become, and honestly
i don’t want you to try and see about your’s.
i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -
Sound PoemIthrumden, ithrumden delsum
nith mul thruss elmrissull.
Eth rut mundelliss
Curmiette dessel renrin
irme trell ithrumden.
The partyFlashing lights
Smoke all around
About to pass out
My head starts to hurt
I can't take this anymore
So without saying anything
I find the exit
And escape that place
"How can someone have fun in there?"
as love for summer fades.late morning-
there's the tease of
snow in the clouds,
in the air, and the trees
have finally lost their
the sunlight is damp.
alters the room
as it graces my skin,
and for once
i don't wake up right away.
instead i lay
between my memory bitten
sheets, and i think
about all the times he said
that he hated winter.
i don't remember
when i began to love it,
and i don't care.
nothing can shatter that.
Coming HomeComing down the ramp I spotted you in the crowd
Your tenderloin skin always stands out
Your aura was particularly bright that day
Whirling dervish colors in the pale sun
You wore a chauffeurs cap and held a sign that said “Anyone”
I knew that I wasn’t anyone, so I walked away
“Strange days,” someone said, and I agreed
I hate crowds and old garbled memories
Arriving home, my wife and cat didn’t recognize me
I looked in the mirror and noticed that I was someone else
Still carrying my old baggage, I turned away
I should have taken your limo
Barefoot beachBarefoot, these soles beat across the sand
dancing a mystery of footprints
that disappear in the coming tides.
We jump, soaring above--
for a moment, there is a mix of body,
reflection and shadow.
Upon landing, we relish the warm water
that greets our toes
swimming in the laughter that echoes
in the crashing surf.
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
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