I was told I was crazy
I dream of a better world
But lazy to take action.
What are you passionate about?What gets me strangely is listening. You know those times you find yourself staring up at the stars at night. I've always felt the need to do that. Moments where you take in the world, yet you make another. When you look up at the sky, something that's always been consistent, you realize you're growing older but your soul hasn't. I've always had an interest in people, more so a curiosity of everything around me and the perspectives they bring. I strongly believe in presence; in having every meet sweet, to make others feel appreciated and to be appreciative myself. I guess that's why I love to laugh. I'm thankful that God has made these things innate in my life. I think it's important find contentment, to work on being more whole, to be an individual and do your favourite things. And that's where singing and drawing comes in
She leftIt's been months
A year at least
Haven't seen that hairy beast
Stuck in his den
Shunning the light
All he does is write
He knows her needs
But falls for his own wants
Haunted by afterthoughts
WeenieShe only intended the best. But things took a turn for the worse.
She took in an outcast. A little puppy, a mutt.
It was an unusual smoky grey with an ashy fur look.
Shabby. Stubby. Short.
The wiener dog waddled down the street
Between the legs of its new owner.
It was hungry but followed and obeyed.
She kept it close like a penguin
But never tripping over it.
Went a little too fast one time
But turned around for it to hurdle back.
Out of nowhere, a little girl shows up
Petting the puppy without asking.
You can't tell a 7-year old otherwise.
He couldn't talk, doesn't bite, didn't bark
But scurried behind.
"Look it's a puppy!"
Yelled the kids down the block.
They were her age as well.
The little girl asked, "How old are you?"
Being the adult, she was she knew better
Than to talk to them.
She continued down her path
But feeling the stares
Of the adults there,
Telling their kids to go in.
The little girl ran out her house
And followed her down the street.
Beautifully Out of PlaceDaily and nightly
She sat there quietly
The clouds drifted away
But not her thoughts
DenialIn the mood for crying
To myself I have been lying
I haven't been hurt in any way
There's so much I want to say...
WrittenUnheard but written
Are the stories meant to be spoken
Heard but dismissed
Incomplete and misunderstood
Are the stories meant to be spoken
Forgotten but there
No one to listen
But to read
The experience and thrill
The writer dead, reader still
Internal battle rages
But anxiety filled
Ready to spill
violet and violet.a spliff
between my fingertips,
(blue smoke in the morning)
kabul city this time.
i see them everywhere now.
i am back,
at an endless sea of rime
stretched and stained before me
on the pale concrete
in the weed-turned gravel.
and i remember death
when i sat, sun-sunk but it's night
now, ex-breathing smoke
under the floods.
the sirens sounded
that night: incoming shells.
i sat with strangers on a bench,
the alarms vomiting back
we witnessed explosions blooming
nearby, exchanged glances
in our flagged eyes
shrugged, a deep resolve:
we'd rather keep smoking than run
staring into the dirt,
expecting any moment
to hear the last
White DwarfWe are the buzz of a fluorescent light,
the desperate cries of a thousand electrons
as they try one last time
We are the shimmers left in the sky
the afterimage after lightning has struck
the vague whispers of radiation that linger
milliseconds after the thunder has calmed.
We are violent
That grow and grow and grow and burst
In a spectacular display
That are wiped out by the next flash of color.
A sun lasts for billions of years
And shines bright
In much the same way we do;
For who is to say
that a young yellow star
is more beautiful
than the nebula it leaves behind?
That the nova
is not the pinnacle
of everything it has lived for?
And then it becomes an echo,
An afterimage hiding behind clouds and cosmic dust and the brilliance of other stars.
Who is to say
That we are any less grand
That any of us are not star stuff
When we live and radiate and fade
The same as our burning brethren?
PoetsPassion of a Poet
This pen and paper pictures passions pride prayer
From fissures formed fixed flows fullest fine flare
The spirits of starlight significant in sea
That majestic marvel a moniker of me
In twixt the twine we tether to talk
A whisper of the willow in wind that we walk
A greet of gust no gallows in gale
Egress every earned emotion in exuberance exhaled
A wisp of worry, woe, will, whimsy would weal
Softly soothing song or sorrow we seal
To tender talons tacked of tear-filled tact
Fixed frame folly or furious fact
When we will our weal whispered in word
In hallow heaven or hated hell heard
Our soul shines singularity of shrine
Distant dark delumination or dichotomy divine
Living love lusters light of the lust
Tantalizing time in intangible trust
Sharply soaring soul-fire significant in song
Blessed borne beauty by beginnings belong
A regal realm raving rows a rally release
Never dim dark by light's deign decease
A purest passion in powerful poise
Never neglected to nefarious
Saxophone smooth in a three-piece suit
enters Blue - cool and suave, disdainful
to those of duller class - the crass
beiges and browns seen down the street
and around the town.
Electric, Blue glides bar-ward, in charge
and smug with martini charm - rhythmic
in conversation, his words slide
like the saxophone ride he came in on.
Red can't leave him alone.
He presses convivial keys, playing
the spectrum with a smug smile -
It's an old game with new names
and people to mix with. He smirks
his way to Ebony.
'How have you been?' and all that jazz,
just the casual quips and usual digs
of the typically hip, tripping
over tongues and each others' ego.
'Hey, gotta run'
Over to Green, and the game is on:
Name drops, topic-hops, the usual
shoptalk of performers at play -
Plucked strings sing a telling tune.
Green leaves with Envy.
Saxophone smooth in his three-piece suit,
Blue waves like the pacific ocean, breaks
the last ice and serenades the senses
with a warm smile directed at the party.
empty self evaluationi vowed i'd go to bed at a decent hour a couple of days ago,
but i know after staying up all night i'll find myself
at 3:15 am
splashing cold sink water onto my clammy face
and staring at myself in the cracked, dingy
cheap mirror of the girls' bathroom that this hallway shares
LessNo matter the madness that strangles
the news of this world
now it comes down to a friend
someone I've known for years
here, with every organ big enough
to hold more than many of us could
until, after a long struggle,
something gave, and yet
this wonderful man kept on
until there was no more road left
to walk on life's journey.
He still walks the journey
it's just not on this level
where the rest of us must wait
while the madness of this world
doesn't matter as I ache
because I feel there's less now.
it was all skinned knees
and stop signs between us.
we pushed too hard
or not hard enough.
the last star i wished upon
turned out to be a satellite,
and the last time i kissed you
really wasn't the last time.
the scent of romance- pine needles
and sawdust clung to my shoulders
where your fingers left goose flesh
when i least expected it.
i'd be tangled up in you and bed sheets
if i didn't know you better than that,
[sweetheart,] you're thunderstorms on
Saturday nights and "Why don't you stay
for awhile"'s and the infidelities
that line my cheeks.