To the InferiorTo the inferior,I know how you feel. The thought of being "less." The notion that you have little to gain. The idea that you don't quite meet the world's standards. It's like you're stuck. Forever dreaming for something better. Forever wishing upon a star. At night, you sit up and wonder when the pieces of your puzzle-like life will fall into place. But isn't that just so cliche? All we do is wait...then wait some more. Yet, we're not far from the mountaintop. Someday, it will be our turn. Someday, we will see our long-awaited desires floating before our eyes, like satellites. And those who've never left cloud nine will finally understand. It just takes a bit of time, and a smidge of faith. Though it's easy to become vulnerable. Remember, even the "lowest of the low" have found their way. Some have even taken on the role as king or queen. And just know, that I am for you. Totally and completely for you. You never have to question your significance again.Sincerely,Everlasting Hope
Obsolete BeachThe lighthouse is catching fire tonight;the infrastructure is caving in.For several bottles of keroseneremain exposed, unattended.And the matches, ten years old,rub against the cardboard lid.Sorcery, or so it seems,taking course of foul revenge.Then fear falls fast on tired hearts;the angels have refused their part.So goes our love, our brick-built home,our oil, and our lamp.Still, we once felt angst before,the monsters piling on the shore.We'll reconstruct our secret placein the ocean's crib.
Tribute to the KingI had once dreamed of being queen. But not the one you might expect. Not the one to turn her back, so ignorant to flee. For you have seen their solemn eyes - the hunger beckoning demise. Still, you raise the cathedral spires, callous to their pleas. Then death takes hold of sweltering skin; guilt takes form of russet hands. Your ego, status as a man, is but an ancient thing. And purple banners start to fall, for the king who thought he had it all. Erect the tables for the feast! We're not disheartened - not in the least.Not in the very least.
Natural RestorationCucumbers like iceconcealing somber eyes.Pigment of chlorophyll -fluorescent green, divine.Capturing the light,conquering the night.Act of photosynthesis,soothing, sublime.
Spatial SerenityBathing in streams of coconut milk,I embrace my inner sense of youth -how calm, how mellow-minded,distinct of the Earth's mantle.A moment spent upon the moon.
Bobby PinConsider a bobby pin.How easy one could snap.Yet it tussles with gravity -leaves an atmospheric gap'tween your hair and your faceand your dimples like stars.I would be a bobby pin,just to unveil who you are.
MarigoldsYou call yourself a man,yet shamelessly crushmy pile of marigoldsbeneath your feet -your old rubber solesgrinding the petalslike mortar and pestle.Those apricot leaves.But you never knew lovein the form of a flower;how vibrant, how gallantlike the sun it could be.And you never knew thatthe true secret to manhoodis boldness with a touchof sensitivity.
PrisonerI hold the gauze against my lips,embrace the snow white fibers of its being -embrace the cotton candy-like tressesready to catch each speck of bloodthat will fall from my stitched mouth.Tonight, I'll break my vow of silence -my long-contained ghostly manner,no matter how much my mouth bleeds.For words weren't meant to be confinedbehind slithers of rusted wire;phrases weren't meant to run drybehind tired, parched tongues.Tonight, the clock will cease to tick,the rosebuds - cease to bloom.And my voice - cease to be mutedbehind the once ivory bandage.
Regarding BrowniesThere's a differencebetween gooey and chewy.
We all are beautiful!We all are beautiful!The problem is on our eyes!
Authorshipyou’re the authorof this story - and yetinsist on playingthe role of a foilwhen you couldrewrite the pagesas you wish.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
PhoenixI won't be your phoenix,your death wishof maudlin wordsstretched across this failing light.I will not wearnew wings for youthat crimson youwere born with -a mother's final wishto keep out the winterand weep.But I will wait,the flaw and beautyof your youthpainted across your palmsas you hold upthe moon to meet me.
spaceshiptwoWhat's leftafter the explosionare these suns,a faint projectionfrom an unreachable darkness,flickering.And then everything is simultaneous;the entangled mess,the crowds.*And maybe it's all about editing and being edited-The pilot painted across a desert,A desert painted across the pilot.*Or the holographic drift, a surface reflection-The expanse outside echoed inward,Jagged orange treelines over the firefly black like someone holding onto a woman(or the memory of a woman).*Or maybe just the T.V. relayas I struggle to sleep,the newscasterfrom both dimensionsglowing and whispering:The horses of your apocalypse/the apocalypse of your horses.
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
glass in the throatthere's something about thathollow quiet in the nightthat bite of airbeneath the clouded moon:something like calm words,falling through the gapsbetween stained teethsomething like a dull thud,a stumbling fawnbruised by a wheel.something about thatclinging crowding darknesssomething likea sweet invitation:prey on us sinners,now,at the hour of our death.
shearing sheepcrouching in the bathtub,knees-to-chin;a humming begins.above me, myparents dance -even harry potterwould say mybathroom is small.they fuss overmissed spots.dropped pronounbombs roll overmy feet.(i slip in a whiteflag reminder duringconversational lags.)ten minuteslater i amnaked and cursing,plucking piecesof who i used to befrom the drain.
Fixing the damageYou feel damagedAnd brokenJust like meBut togetherWe can change thatWe can fix each otherSo don't give upWe need each other
Writer's Block Is...When a writer is feeling blocked.Yeah, that's all I got. :/Hence the term, "writer's block."