An Old Foreshadowing Thought

My writing isn’t beautiful

My writing isn’t dark

My writing isn’t some great mystery,
some great expression,
some great something
that I felt had
to be relayed

My writing is my thoughts,
my feelings, my need
to breathe, the result
of my yearning
and my unease

I’m writing
to share the world,
or at least parts of it,
with you -

cause, sometimes,
it’s hard for me
to walk closely, or
make a call
so that I can share
those moments too.

There are halos in the wind,
the air we breathe in are wings
for both angels and demons
and our luck,

and reformation, and renaissance,
clings to thoughts we think,
the ones expelled,
the ones brought in
like an anchor holding on

heaven on earth
and we mix it with
our hell—
we get the grey,
the brackish water

we’ll have something
at the very least to drink,

and we’ll drink to ourselves -
glasses raised even as
hearts stay heavy

like a stone lifted, though,
day in and day out
the muscle grows strong

don’t let go—
not until you
can throw the weight
far enough outside
of the blast zone.

Tagged: #poetry #PC's poetry

Duck, duck…

The choices amongst me
are an infinity.
The star filled sky
is a straighter road
than the one I walk - with
possibility circling
around me just as
a vulture from above
hunting in wait for
the putrid dead
to ferment and decay.

Each road I’ve
been shown
carries thousands of
footprints, numerous lives
already marking the trail,
yet the sands of time
blow anew over every
new soul to wonder
against every winding route.

So I’m left here,
to choose which trail
in this winter
will turn to spring,
or turn to cliffs
and falls - and leaving
me to falter, prolonging
my search for a
life to finally lead.

Tagged: #poetry #bleh #PC's poetry

I don’t like being around these people.
I lose my sense of self,
my humanity is disposed of.
They ask to see a smile,
and my distant mind forgets
what that’s supposed to mean.

My memory loses consciousness,
and my senses reflect the loss.

I don’t wish to be alive
around these certain folk,
and so I try—unknowingly—
to transpose flesh to stone,
and play with pigeons
instead of smiling a lie
toward these blood-filled ruins
that carry more than just
old memories and older names.

I need a means of
restoration—I need
to settle for sanity
rather than wait
for luxury that may
never be found
amongst these waves
of aged rubble.

Around it goes.

I took down
the merry-go-round
because it made
me dizzier than
the third shot of whiskey
I let settle against my stomach.

The children laughed
at me—scornful and malicious
smiles bubbling about
their darting eyes and
youthful faces—
and said, “You couldn’t take it.”

I sat against a tree
as the young ones
decided to play
hide and seek
and I was wishing
to be evaporated
like the best of them.

But I was among
the best of them, since
I would still
be hidden in plain sight
as they became ready
to take on the world.

I took another drink,
as the sun set
and the children fled
and scurried back
to their homes of holes,

and I was alone
without their shrill screams
once more—
tired and dizzy,
uncertain if I should
give the whirling mechanism
one last go
just to prove and show
that I can take on the world
as it spins on, yet again
from young to old.

Tagged: #poetry #PC's poetry

Time Forgets

My words are whispers—

the photos that I’ve forgotten

or ran from

hold little memory

for my mind that’s

left those moments.

I’ve recorded what I can

but records can be edited.

My history is a forgery,

and though I wish
to be the thief

of my own past,

my mind’s been

the arsonist

of a past I mostly 

don’t recall.

I hope to linger

amongst these ashes

and like a home

destroyed by fire

I hope to build

myself renewed.

Tagged: #poetry #bleh #PC's poetry

I sometimes think
about the huge audience
the wind has
as it strums the leaves
and plays against the grass
beneath its feet.

But like a performer
on a busy street,
I don’t believe
we ever drop
our cap, and reward
the music with a glance,
or with a coin—or
with anything at all.

Above The Neck

Back and forth
the wars wage on,

they become lit
with the glow
being exhaled by
famished eyes

and I bring weapons
to the front lines.

But these wars
are not meant
to seize land, or standing,
or souls,

but for the ages
yet to come,
for those whose lives
stretch and shift
to the shape of
wisdom, lost in a time
unforgettable and old.

I build the ships
that crash amongst
the waves we love
to make—I build
the bridges that run
to illustrious gates—

and I’m told
I think too much,
but why should I
be faulted
for firing the
first shot.

Tagged: #poetry #PC's poetry

Poets die first

the page is a sentinel

whether paint or ink
or word or vision
grants it armor and life

it does find a means
to make the world
a single shade brighter

so tears may fall gladly
and fears might be held back
and lives might not
be turned aside
and built into
the same solemn sacks
that walk and talk
of nothing more
than everyday voices,
the ones that exclaim
"we birthed you"

Stupor

I wake to find
myself still within
a dream-like state

The walls are not my
own, the light sneaking
into this unfamiliar room
dances and shrinks
against the leftover shadows
from a night that I
don’t recall, and my
eyes are fixated
on something I can’t
seem to grasp

These mirages continue
to tug on my head,
and even now
I wonder if what
was made in my mind
was a dream
or if I’ve finally stumbled
upon a nightmare
I actually will fear

Is this
what it feels like
to meet your
own monsters

Atypical Allotment

I sit against my ocean
of white sheets and coats
trying to empty my
pulsing head
of my usual words
or oaths.
Killing my desire
to talk of my coffee
and dreary sights,
my moon overhead
and my rainy nights,
and to cut thin
my urge
to write about time,
the ticking collapsing
around our lives.

So instead I’ll make
a stair case,
           a moving member
                       of my thoughts,
                w                   something to allow
                  o
them           r
      room to g
and be something more
than the stones
I’ve thrown for years now,
toppling over grave sites
and the overgrown dreams
that in the last few years
have kept me thinking,
and feeling,
and thankful,
that I can continue
on sleeping,
continuing to be allowed
to wake up
and realize that I’ve
been given another day.

Whether in rain
or sleet
or snow
or fog
I have another breath
to breathe in
and let out to feed
the coming spring
beneath the hardening cold.

 
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