Writing poetry, attempting to be honest, and trying to steadily improve my outlook and myself.
Shaky minded unsure pondering
breaking down self-grown confidence
into brittle crumbs of former brilliance
to be lost in the all-swallowing fire
that is slowly spreading from the gut
to a house of ever-so-flammable thoughts.
Once proud thundering fades into the distance
bringing attention to once veiled queries
ignored in fear of being too revealing.
This is what deconstruction feels like,
a swelling concern fusing with self-defecation
expanding like a bomb going off in the chest
until the ash of a former self is all that’s left
needing to be shipped off to a lab to be identified.
Closing eyes, trying to imagine optimism,
picking apart of the problem
in an attempt to understand,
and then to destroy,
the source of this violent anguish.
So dream, dream so sweetly
that tomorrow will bring a new world,
one that doesn’t feel so familiar
and offers possibilities
like an opening passage
enabling a potential future
where creation doesn’t feel
like a futile attempt at self-love.
being punched deep
into your child-like wonder.
A smile flashed at you,
setting you at ease,
filling you with excitement,
what its like to breathe
of being deprived of air.
The violent smashing
and effortless reassembling
of a long forgotten memory
happening before your eyes
as if nothing in the world
was ever truly broken.
This is what its like
to listen to music
I’m cutting into the night sky
with the bones of a time long since dead
waiting to feel the knuckles
of the universe careen
off of my orbital,
loving the sensation
of having my ass kicked
by the idea of forever.
I don’t care if we ever go home.
Home is a place for when you’re ready to sleep
and I still have so much living to do
before I close my eyes tonight.
There is so much art in the world;
a cornucopia of hearts opened on canvas,
a plethora of words staining these pages,
and it makes me scared to blink.
Its always so dull here this time of year
so lets go somewhere uglier
and see what its like to look at bricks
that neither of us have seen before.
I want to watch streets bend as we drive,
I want to watch as the world opens up
and reveals some new fascinating mess,
because I’ve spent too many days in the same day
and I would love to be thrown off course by a surprise
even if that surprise is a bunch of dead buildings
trying to tell their tragic stories
over the buzzing of a city that never stops.
Art? This is art, this open road.
It is the most honest thing I’ve ever seen;
it isn’t scared to display its damage,
its concern is not how neat it appears,
it just simply is,
and I could speed across it all day.
Fuck the wind, this isn’t a boat,
I’m not going to trust it with my destination
it lacks the ability to appreciate anything
so the phrase “…where ever it will take us”
does not apply.
Someday we might go home,
but it can’t be back the way we came,
because then we’d just be trampling these sights
instead of experiencing them,
so lets find new roads, new alley ways.
If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll get lost.
A poem in the form
of a list of paintings
I would rather see
than another painting
of a bowl of fruit:
A bowl of rotting fruit,
a bowl of fruit being flung
through the air and shattering
against a wall covered
in paintings of bowls of fruit,
a middle finger,
a guy who paints bowls of fruit
being punched in the face,
a building filled with people
who like paintings of bowls of fruit
being set on fire,
a bowl of melting fruit
sitting on Salvador Dali’s head,
a fruit filled with bowls,
some guy taking bites
out of all of the fruit
and then placing them
back in the bowl,
or really anything besides
another goddamn painting
of a bowl of fruit.
I’ve realized recently that a lot of my coworkers, whom are incredibly kindhearted individuals with their own dreams and aspirations, have alcohol or drug problems, and its really started making me think about the sort of trapped and stagnant environment I work in.
I’ve been thinking about the end a lot;
its ever consuming nature
assuring itself the victory;
not only by being the thing
sitting at the edge of every road,
but by also forcing us to stumble around
in the shadow of its pending arrival,
constantly aware of its growing presence
like the tightening shackles
none of us can break.
I give too much of my time to it,
and frankly, I’m growing tired
of letting it win by simply being,
The end is unavoidable,
but it is not my master,
when it comes,
I promise to look it in the eye,
refusing to let it consume the now
with the suffocating fear of tomorrow,
because we are more than a destination,
we can live in so many more ways
than it can kill us
and the sooner we realize this
the sooner we can get started living,
this is me
no longer thinking
about the end.
Never underestimate the power
of small words,
or short steps.
because power might
cause immediate change,
but it took a million tiny waves
to change the world.
Sleep dances on finger tips,
whirling like smoke in love
on the currents of dreams,
lulling you into comfort
where the world
is a stone’s throw away.
it has to,
but for now,
I can feign eternity
at least until morning..