Take the easy way out.
Some kind of friend you turned out to be,
Who once I called my companion,
you now wash your hands in me.
Keep your shame,
I have my glory,
how dare you give me blame?
This was not my choice,
and take some fucking claim.
Self-Control.
A concept I know.
But you can’t roll
and make a show
But I know my soul
So fuck your woe
You were not my goal
You tried to grow
And you failed!
What kind of man are you
making a whore out of me
You fucking knew
I was your plea
YOU saw it through
and made me bleed.
Now you try guilt,
you didn’t play your part?
This friendship built
has been nothing from the start.
You asked
“I’m just another guy to you”
what contrast
at you I laugh
and now I’m thrown away
You want?
we’re done.
Although YOU begun
the end of all my care.
These Chains
These chains of sorrow how me captive
to this mattress, and although I cannot
see them or touch them, the leave marks
inside my skin.
I cannot move in this bed. I can breathe,
but no one ever said breathing was living.
My cheeks burn from acidic tears
which I’ve tried to stop flowing.
All I want is to get up. All I want is
to breathe and to have it not
burn my lungs and heard and blood.
These chains of sorrow hold me captive
to this mattress.
In every inch my muscles attempt to
move, my brain just asks Why I even
bother. The smell of stench from my
pillow reminds me, of these chains,
that hold me captive to this mattress.
Untitled
Why is it so easy to write
about our hearts and minds,
like we know them so well,
when they are only clues
to who we really are.
My heart and mind know only a fraction
of my fingers and toes,
elbows and knees,
and legs and arms.
And my heart and mind know only a
fraction,
of my lips and smile,
nose and cheeks,
and eyes and ears.
But none of these things,
not a single one,
know a single thing,
about me.
Untitled
The crevasses of my lips and cheeks
have never touched so much.
And my fingers feel so safe
beneath your gentle skin.
When our lips touch, our hearts touch,
in a very different way.
For we are not eager to love.
We are not eager to fall so deep
beneath logic and reality.
It is in these moments,
of touching mind, skin, and heart,
when I smile most.
I care most,
for you and who you are.
And our grip on reality, has never been so strong
as when we touch,
without any skin.
Come Find Me
I stand alone in the center of a room,
surrounded by walls made up of fears of being hurt,
misunderstood and emotions holding me back from you.
My fingers and fists have touched these walls,
but strong they still stand.
I hear you on the other side of my fears,
calling out my name.
But I am still alone in the center of this room.
I grasp an axe of strength, hope and trust,
to demolish my vertical fears.
With every strike my heart beats faster, my mind races faster,
and I feel empowered.
Except I stop.
Just for a moment.
For you may not be on this other side,
and the name I heard you call was only
an echo of my past.
In this moment witness the cracks on the wall
absorb into one another with the doubts and fears
I have with you and I.
It is in this moment I truly realize
the cold unfeeling truth.
These walls I have created hold me captive.
I am too weak to fight them off.
Because the fear of possibly loving you
solidifies these walls,
and I need you to break them down.
But will you?
Will you ram my walls of doubt and pain?
Not letting a single crack fill?
I will stand alone in the center of this room
and I will wait for you.
My favorite time to write is in the late afternoon,
weekdays, particularly Wednesdays.
This is how I go about it:
I take a fresh pot of tea into my study and close the door.
Then I remove my clothes and leave them in a pile
as if I had melted to death and my legacy consisted of only
a white shirt, a pair of pants and pot of cold tea.
Then I remove my flesh and hang it over a chair.
I slide if off my bones like a silken garment.
I do this so that what I write will be pure,
completely rinsed of the carnal,
uncontaminated by the preoccupations of the body.
Finally I remove each of my organs and arrange them
on a small table near the window.
I do not want to hear their ancient rhythms
when I am trying to tap out my own drumbeat.
Now I sit down at the dest, ready to begin.
I am entirely pure: nothing but a skeleton at a typewriter.
I should mention that sometimes I leave my penis on.
I find it difficult to ignore the temptation.
Then I am a skeleton with a penis at a typewriter.
In this condition I write extraordinary love poems,
most of them exploring the connection between sex and
death.
I am concentration itself: I exist in a universe
where there is nothing but sex, death, and typewriting.
After a spell of this I remove my penis too.
Then I am all skull and bones typing into the afternoon.
Just the absolute essentials, no flounces.
Now I write only about death, most classical of themes
in language light as the air between my ribs.
Afterward, I reward myself by going for a drive at sunset.
I replace my organs and slip back into my flesh
and clothes. Then I back the car out of the garage
and speed through woods on winding country roads,
passing stone walls, farmhouses, and frozen ponds,
all perfectly arranged like words in a famous sonnet.
Billy Collins (via thedoctorinthetardiswiththesonic)
(Source: thegoodladyapril)
Dogwood Tree
Keep me in your home
my hands, heart, and soul
from home is where your heart is
and I want to go home.
The bed is the same shape,
as so are the drapes,
like the crinkles in Mom’s face,
when she smiles at me.
The smell of special candles,
is familiar to my nose,
like the smell of Dad’s epoxy,
when he’s escaped to his cave.
And the feel of her fur beneath my fingertips,
resonates with the comfort of her pur,
she feels just like a kitten
but she’s 3 years old.
The bricks on the walls may chip,
and the flowers in front may die,
but the dogwood tree still looks at me,
as the petals spring to life.
The coo in the wind tickles my ear,
like the cardinal chirping by,
on the dogwood tree, she looks at me,
and begs me to stay with her leafs.
Sex, Love, and/or Death
I’m suppose to write about sex right?
Or about love or death,
or something deep and important,
that touches your heart?
Sex is fantastic.
Love can create sex,
and death leads back to sex,
sex makes the world spin.
Love is unique.
Sex can come from love,
and death happens to those we love,
love helps guide things.
Death is tragic.
Love and sex can lead to death.
An Ironic Poem
Does this sound about write?
Is my font loud and clear?
Can you read between my lines?
Do you see the real story?
Are my comparisons right?
Every simile and metaphor add up?
Can you see my symbols?
See what they really mean?
Is there a rhyme?
Is this a sonnet?
Or a haiku?
I don’t even know what this poem is,
do you?
Untitled
You’re the same guy I knew,
the way your shirt falls on your shoulders,
draping your chest and arms,
and how you’d place your hand,
and the back of your neck,
when you’d chuckle and smile.
You’re the same guy I knew,
when the warmth from your heart,
filled the crescents in your eyes,
and how your fingers caressed,
every inch of skin on my face.
You’re the same guy I knew,
how you’ll hold her close,
embrace her heart,
love her endlessly,
and never let go.
