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.
enduring biopoiesis getting over it in quick gasps of rabbit fur and valley tangles we would have had such darling alcoholic babies together swilling burgundy, strung out on fake roses floating on our sun-striped backs but we're so happy like this, remember? some world-children cutting out, tuning in yet nothing happens
Cheshire Cat-Pandora HeartsRingRingKitty EarsKitty TailRing-RingRing-RingEyes the color of crimsonClothes black like nightingalesRing-a-LingRing-a-LingChalky white skinWith disinterested gazeRing-Ring-RingRing-Ring-RingHair dark blood and disarrayClaws covered with maliceMeowMeowThe kitty smells evil bringersTo hurt its lost masterHissHissThe calm but volatile catProtects its masters harsh memoriesFrom the master herselfGood kittyBut you job is doneGo to sleepAnd perish within your mazeMade by the Abyss
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
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the KnightWhose armor shines so bright.Give me the Knight,Whose armor is dull and broken.Whose horse is weary,Whose heart is heavy.Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,For that dragon has done nothing,And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,But wants to free the dragon,Who does not wish to marry her savior--Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,Who wants to live and to learn.For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,But to see the world and live in the light.Do not give me the evil dragon,Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.No, give me the dragon who is weary,Who longs for the freedom of the sky,Whose leg is burdened with chains,And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,Lest h
david and goliath.He passes underthe dying streetlamps'orange halos,darkening splashes on his face,cloud-lungs heavingagainst the rooftops.The tarmac, painted with his footsteps,whispers, purrs,white lines of vertebraetickle along its back.Lovely glass, shattered fragmentsruffle the curb of the pavement,strands of rainwaterwhisper along the gutterin hymnal honesty; and sunlight seems swallowedby the swollen beast of night.The starsprickle at the back of his memory,a nervous pattern of speech,syllables of iambic chatteringteeth against the cold:the hotel window, shining withthe gaze of a thousand tourists' wonderment,is where his own eyes rest,as if the world is born anewand love-songs spike the evening airhis life-tousled hair. Hewalks on, passes on,a stranger in a foreign land;the moonlight seemsto turn about him, embrace his form,a lonely touch, not quite animate in its caress,but his love was the colourof seawater on gravel,and he would not take the taste of her brea
you can't have it allBut you can have eating wild grapes and their skin like beetle wingscocooned in bruises. You can have swings that go so high you kicka hole in the clouds. You can have chickens following you through the front doorand the cat’s gift to say, Look, I am taking care of you.You can have happiness, but tempered asyour first taste of wine when you hid your puckering facebecause you were eight years old and dangerous.You can have a touch you blush for, ferret hands dancing,small and terrifying and knowledgable.You can have an aspiration of “us” held on one stool leg, darting breaths butnever admitting to dreams, to a stew of practicality.You can talk to her, sometimes,and even mean something.You can have the book you stole after she stumbled,and “that” word sank into your hands. You can’t cure cancer,but you can have two sets of spoons in the same sinkalthough she’s only touched the one you lent her,the one you didn’t expe
heart brokenIn my dreamsIt was me in your armsMy lips on yoursThere was only usAnd the cloudsAnd the starsIt was the world and usIt was us against the worldBut in your arms I could take itAnything the world dished outAnd with your kisses I was strong againIn my dreams it was me in your armsMy lips on yoursBut in realityIt's always been her
san gabrielSometimes you dream about a burning grocery store and it means nothing.This is me standing in a hallway realizing that the people who leftaren't showing up for dinner. That's why it's only a theory.Look at these streetlights, look at you wearing that wreckage on your face,soaked in radio. I'm never here anymore, you say, What kind of epilogue is this.To white windmills flickering across the coast, to your dogsbarking like shootouts behind the gate. A forest flashes against a bridgeand headlights bleach our hills. I used to be joltedby the finality of these things, but now I'd say that our people's poetryis best understood as a consequence; not the revolver but a stained carpet,a note on the kitchen counter. How absurd, that the species blooms in catastrophe,how improbable to survive the lottery of having never blinked toward the shipwreck,to find an abandoned planet and fill it with chairs. Here in a parking lot in California,the hospital glowing around us, we roll a blunt
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flameAnd eagles, turning, turn to fireAsh cold, alone I lieAnd think of you.
Writer's Block Is...When a writer is feeling blocked.Yeah, that's all I got. :/Hence the term, "writer's block."