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Confessions of a bookbinderI never cared for the smell of ink
Black acid tears on white silky skin
Letters, branded without consent
The pages scream, but only I can hear them
If the birches and oaks only knew
How writers, poets, critics and fools
Would tarnish their flesh in self-importance
I reckon they would have remained seeds
They enter with their abominations
Gleefully proclaiming their excellence
And I am left to dress them up
To make them pleasing to the eye and touch
And I dress them to perfection
The smell of leather pleases me
But no one seems to notice
No one seems to care
They look beyond my seams of careful devotion,
And the fine golden jewelry around their necks
And see only the filthy smudges
Upon their white silky skin
Soon but a whisperLife is a scream
And an echo will follow
A ferverous stream
For the ocean to swallow
Life is a breath
Fast inhaled by the young
Soon, fear of death
Will fill up their lungs
Life is a beat
So rhythmic at first
A meter complete,
The treehouseI built myself a treehouse
High up above the ground
Extended open invitations
But people never come around
It is made from solid metaphors
I picked them out myself
It took some time to find them all
Among the dusty shelves
I thought I’d be a dying shame
If they stayed hidden out of sight
So I cut and shaved and varnished them
And thought it turned out quite all right
For nails I used those little words
That critiques so despise
But when building using metaphors
You have to compromise
When I stood back to behold it all
I felt a tiny sting
This simple sloppy craftsmanship
Could never house a king
I thought about just burning it
All, down to the ground
Why even build a treehouse
If they will never come around?
It wasn’t ‘till I entered it
That I had a change of heart
I was ashamed for even thinking
About tearing it apart
I felt so safe within those walls
As safe as I could be
And if queens and kings won’t feel the same
What matters that to me?
I built a treehouse o
On the moveFifty miles from home
Twenty miles from condemnation
And so many miles I cannot count
On the road of contemplation
A million miles from love
Means a million miles from heartache
And would you risk that lengthy walk
Just to see a lonely heart break?
A hundred miles of tip-toe
As not to wake what's in the shade
And a lifetime then of running
In the dark through which you stray
Not a single mile of respite
Not a moment yet to pause
And to look back through the blackness
The road behind - forever lost
The destructive powers of imaginationWe shackle ourselves
In a cage of limitation
Every bar in our cell
Is our own creation
It’s not the lacking, but abundance
Of sly imagination
Turning minds against themselves
It’s a self-mutilation
Whatever enters a mind
That hungers after creation
Will be created all the same
There’s no room for hesitation
Even if you let loose
They will fight you tooth and nail
For their own preservation
Because a mind that is free
Is also free to rebel
And a rebellious mind
Can be a living hell
Human natureDusk and thoughts that do not sleep
The snowcovered treetops
Bears a golden lining
In remembrance of the sun
There was never enough pain to consume me
And the drizzle doesn't scream of fury
It only whispers
Of past and future
The now was always lost
The grass doesn't stab at my feet
Green shivs licking my skin with tongues of dew
Only taunting, tantalizing
And the venomous snakes slithering in its midst
Only crircle my persona
Perhaps not bothering with someone intent on
Endurance is not the opposite of defeat
The cool spring breeze and the furious winter wind
Could spend years in feeble attempts to move mountains
And deeds undone will forever go unsung
Why do you even write?
To answer the who, the what, the when, the how
Before the question above all others cloud your mind
That reversed echo that is the bane of your existance
Why? Scream it, tear the sky open
Let the floodgates unbolt and drown in it
Why can't you lose yourself in your words
Like raindrops in oceans
The travelersShe is the traveler
In nothern lights
The rusty traintracks croon
The steel did write
It will have her sleeping soon
She is a stranger
In a world of homes
Raindrop on the pane
She stops, but never long enough
For them to learn her name
She cannot sleep
Unless she hears
The thumping traintracks down below
She is forever on the run
But to where?
She does not know
Some say that she is searching
For a place she'll never find
Others say escaping
Leaving sorrows far behind
But I remember when I saw her
She smelled of lillies then
So I packed my bags and left my home
To find her scent again
A two person operaThe overture starts
With beating hearts
Percussion is essential
In this work of art
At the pluck of a string
Every hair on your body –
Hear the arias rise
The libretto written
In wordless cries
The finale draws near
This is the masterpiece
That will make our career…
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Stranger's funeralUnder the clouds
Under the rain
Staring at the coffin
At a stranger's funeral
We're all alone
Feeling the storm
But not the pain
For he's but a stranger
And the graves around us
Are just there
Keeping us company
During this empty moment
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
Darkest MoonI celebrate my right to live;
To the dismay of some, perhaps
It should be noted
These words I write, however true
Are only portions of the moon
I’ve decide to shine light upon.
But who am I to preach respect?
Who Am I to preach equality?
An advocate for re-personification
Of the female gender
But exhibits cannibalistic characteristics
Within dark spaces.
I am a shadow
Hidden within an Eggshell, painted pink,
Waiting to hatch.
Is the darkness
The night brought upon us.
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
You Were Born Missing SomethingYour skin is glazed with crystals of frost
and your heart's valves are close to
freezing shut tight
from being devoid of something
Though I am torrents of hail, whirling storms,
warm tears streaking,and tornadoes of rage
that flow uncontrollably through my veins
and out of my mouth,
every breath near you is warm
because your words are so cold
I am a natural disaster at its finest
with bones twisted in painful angles
and a crooked spine
you were born spineless
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