Neighbors have a bug infestation
My personal manifestation
From streets to the bus station
In an overcast nation
Call it tradition.
We’ve run out of munitions.
No ball players,
but the pitcher’s pitching
and we’re Nothing
but strikeouts
Looking to Failure
Don’t live life looking for the path of least resistance. Don’t avoid challenges because if you do, you’ll never have any idea where your potential lies and if you can’t understand your potential, then you’ll never meet it.
It’s important to ask yourself: What have you failed at today? The real root of growth; the struggle.
Ticonderoga
3262
Engraved
On a Ticonderoga
I reached to the back of my skull
And found the same number engraved
In me
Serendipitous utensils
I know how silly
Love can be
But why not believe,
Yellow slender;
Soul mate.
We are writing utensils
Intertwined
Flowing
Like letting go of a manuscript
In a windstorm
But you hurt me so.
Do I use you?
Or do they use me?
Were you here?
Is your motives for nothing,
But profit?
Is your heart not in it,
The way it once was?
It will feel like years
Until I see you again
But I’ve never loved
Like I love the pen
And once the door closes
I’ll curse your name
Wish the lips never parted
Slithering tongue
The picking of
flesh from bone,
My vulture
My muse
Moving me to new grounds
Starboard Apocalypse
I’m just doing what I can
To survive
To post pone the end
Immoral, bitter, dirty
Pull out your dictionary of insults
The price to keep this ship from sinking
I get so sick of patching
Splintered wood,
Leaking cracks
If screaming out to the
Pale men on shore
And getting no response.
I’d give anything to dock,
But grabbing the nose of my dingy
And pushing it away
I sail in search
Of a new shore.
A place I can rest, escape
the pangs of reality.
Stagnation in the center of the sea.
Writing to Routine
Making plans
Manipulating phrases
Chiseling poetry:
Fallen, forgotten, worlds
Nostalgia, fear
Connection, obsession.
7 worded nights
Fighting after they’ve taken
Your will to live
Fighting with nothing left to lose
Fighting with fingers
Mashed into
A potato fist
Clashing batons
Whipping, slashing rounds
And I’ll stand in the middle of
The battleground
With little, but
Crippled fists
From bashing faces
Into misconceptions
Of “art”
Only the greats would envy
If they could only see
If the product
Wasn’t so impermanent
As a newly born author
Picking up his first pen
In the street
Outside his first
Wholesale purchase
Of cheap liquor.
Tarnished Silver 