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.
ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,but it doesn’t stop me from nibblingthe cheese danish I bought at Krogerthis morning, warmed by thirtyseconds in the microwave. My mugof hot chocolate is too big, and Idrink it all. The washer is on its lastcycle; the cat is purring at my feet.Netflix is background noiseto clacking keys, typing a transcriptof middle class morning that I’ll latercall a poem or a turning point,wondering when I became such an adult.
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever. or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath. the thing is, i can substitute the body.the thing is, the slit is a fantastic shade of orange i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking jobthe thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.and the taste of power on the morning wind, a wet newspaperwith the headlines of a presidential divorce.there is power in the young eagle hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.i know one thing:
AgainAnother dayA new beginningAnother nightThe same nightmare
Writer's Block Is...When a writer is feeling blocked.Yeah, that's all I got. :/Hence the term, "writer's block."