Tagged: poetry

The man in the Ghost.

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The leaves billowed from the heavens, a roasted brown or Sunkist yellow. Mixed into the mess is the liter of the ages; a pattern, a rhythm, a song of color against dismal grey concrete. I pass the man with the tenderized face, jeans with holes and a twisted limp. But he smiles, teeth like termites. And though he smiles, later he won’t. And though he greets me with a kind face now, later he won’t. We know this, we know the binary of the demons and the angels. It remains unacknowledged, but the distance is respected.

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Stuck in Another Shadow

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I come to realize that we’re all Matryoshka dolls doing what we can to degrade the people around us, to feel a millimeter taller than our predecessor. I suppose that’s progress: grades painted in the blood of the people, but the test was in a language we can’t read. The door is barred. We’re all tired. We want to go home. There’s no end in sight. Didn’t hear talk of an end. It just rattles misshapen and defeated as if bureaucracy were a natural state.

The World in “Why?”

An open letter to critical thinking.

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 The same sights, the same sacred, lonely people. The same puddles, trees, cars.  I’m stuck in another cage. Is this all there is? Transcending through one cage after another, imagining some framework to progress, but we don’t move progress or regress. We move horizontally, shifting to a different cage, but still just as trapped as when we started.

There are varying grades of containment. In the heart of the woods, on the ocean front, at the mountain slopes, forgotten wetlands, I feel most free. The natural is fleeting landmarks to human spirituality. Simultaneously cruel and nurturing. A multitude of spiritual paradoxes deep within despite whether or not we know or acknowledge it.

I reach out to expand, to grow, but they’ve clipped my wings, they push my curious head back into my cage. They obstruct the view of potential in the outside world and I can’t have it. I’m ready to pull my hair out, to mutilate, disfigure, until someone listens.

There’s something to this. The self-expression, a window to Aristotle’s divine manifestation, (http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/republic.3.ii.html) and though I’m stuck in a cage in nature, I’m closer to transcending than ever.

Reality consists of perspective.

Death is not a thing to be feared, death is not something to be cherished.

It is simply the unknown. We only have one life, but we’re contained by the limitations of our body,

we can’t imagine what it would be like to be free of our aging bodies, but we’ve been given an opportunity.

A break from the eternal after. A chance to suffer, to show who we are, and what we’re willing to do with the chords that chime so intimately.

Proving what our love can do in another realm from the norm. We have all of eternity to be in the bliss of after, this is our chance to suffer, and have something to show for it.

This is the time to discover Humanity.  If you can, please, try something new today. Open a book about a subject you haven’t explored, a genre of music or literature.

Please anything to stimulate the mind. There’s so much to learn in the folds of history, so many skills mastered through the practice. It is a constant struggle to keep the mind elastic, but learning to be flexible in every facet of one’s life is an important, fulfilling skill. Curiosity trumps all.

Looking to Failure

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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.

The Trial and Conviction

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Limbs crack and break

Under grey

Cottage cheese snow

And the woods transformed

Into a barren battlefield

Fallen foe and friend

Frozen and forgotten on

The forest floor

In the end

the littered cigarette buds,

 plastic coated coffee cups,

the subconscious transaction

of future for convenience

Will be tried

as murder.

We all take a sip,

When we choke on air,

swallow toxic cake

whole.

Water thicker than ash

Slowly waiting

For lead poisoning

To take us all

Ticonderoga

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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

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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

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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.

 

For the Future After the Split

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If you could hear my voice

You’d know

That every sentence

Is another line

In another stanza

About the dispersed

Flakes of beauty

In human suffering

For love is the

Past tense of hurt

And past was once present’s

Future,

And despite therapists,

Broken hearted epiphanies

It does get better.

Despite all of the self-inflicted pain

And the fallen heroes

Dying at their own hand

For the future after the split

The spilt blood is human

                                Is beautiful

It’s a shame, but the eggs

Are spawned and now

It’s time for mom to go.

Destruction is as unknown

As the phoenix from the ashes,

As the future of the plastic

People after the credits roll

Finding Blood in the Wreckage

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 He is a creation of mine

A figurative shit

I forced onto the page

Blowing a gasket

How much pleasure does it take

Before it isn’t about love anymore?

How man slits before the wrists

Are no longer clenching an escape rout?

There is a green fog

Fallen through the tree canopies

Into the indignant

Hazed mind

I want the music

Mindset, words

That makes stone walls crack

That makes men feel.