Prose - Monster

fidgey:

What makes a man a monster?
What simplest word can cause the tamed lion to bite?
The gentlest rainfall can turn into a thunderstorm in a matter of minutes,
The light crackle from an April shower— it can bellow up into a terrifying shudder—
Shaking the Earth below it,
Rattling the wooden limbs above it.

Everybody has a Mr. Hyde,
Though concealed with false words and a pressing smile,
Even the bat of beautiful lashes, or the teasing words of a delicate whisper,
Sometimes things are like a rose,
Stunning to see, but hurtful to touch.

They say, “what a wretched creature; crack the whip”,
But I’m telling you this,
It is what it is.
Those who do not believe,
Have not yet looked in the mirror.

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.

Full Bloom

      The petal peddler came to town today; he asked to meet the clergy.  He had once sold rose stems, and sunflower blooms, and flowers long since dried—sun soaked to grant escape from the decay that is life, that is time, that lingers with us forever. 
     The petal peddler asked to see our shore, he asked to set up shop, but the clergy told the mayor, who told the clerks, who told the builders to refuse his money and gold and force of will, and have him look out into the crystal water, but not to keep it for himself.  The petal peddler went his less than merry way, finding his feet against the rocks and sand of our illustrious coast—flooded with pounding waves, that for a moment in time gave the beach blossoms, and gritty white petals, before withering in an instant. 
      The petal peddler stared into the great expanse of the sea, as the sun itself knelt before the night, and water pressed down against the peddler’s cheeks, until he too fell onto the sand and along the rocks.  A cross, and a jar of petals, were in the petal peddler’s hands, and he laid them to rest against the shore.  He stayed in that spot, till he too dried and ebbed into nothing, leaving only his petals, his cross, and a charred child’s toy. 
       The clergy met, and planted two stones where the petal peddler had watched the sun set—flowers would bloom their in the Spring, as children would come to play amongst the petals, the shore, and the sand. 


       And the petal peddler would stand there in the Spring, happy to be reunited with his child— watching the children play amongst the blooms, his immortal family.

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.

itisworthitintheend:

I used to wonder why
I stop writing sometimes
but I realized
it’s because
sometimes the things
I need to say
are the ones
buried the deepest
and the most painful
to exhume.

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

 
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