Wednesday, January 14th, 2015
If there is a time for the big comedown to happen, this time is not the best of them.
Yet I ask myself whether I am content with my life, and ironicaly I can say I am. However, explain to me why I find myself too hostile, and times of sorrow become part of one’s routine far too often. Why do my mother’s screams feel directed to the dead centre of my body, even though she no longer looms over my bespeckled head? I stand on top of a mound of self accomplishment, and yet I find myself kicking the ground before me. I look too far ahead and I am hopelessly distraught. My heart feels like a chamber for some heavy lead that has replaced the functuality of the heart and has left it to the purpose of being deadweight. Constantly, on the hour, the tick and tock of a cry that I have yet to calm down sits inside of me. A meloncholia of the darkest sort, and I have begged for it to come away until a later time. But when do the tides of nature ever speak to the poor famrer who weeps at its shore? It seems that progression in age only summons up another and another worry that would make a poor man’s scientist look for a deity. Yet I have none, for I lost faith for the pendulum in the reminants of a childhood long ago. Is it of nature for the poet to be surrounded in circumstances of gratitiude and still find it plausible to stand at the edge of a well whose bottom has been reached by many other writers, in search of finding someone who can cause permanent sunshine of the mind. Or perhaps they were caught in their reflection, and threw themselves inside with vainful disposition and dying aspiration? Until that answer surfaces, I stare into a space where my teardrops become grand submarines in search of a purpose in their journey. Surely they have gone farther than their conjurer, at the stake for their own accusation of treason of the soul.
Sunday, January 11th, 2015
dandelion lover wept once far away
where her hands of saturnine
in desperation of thirst for a love true
crawl to the moon
drown in lust drawn wine
cry in mascara marked pillow sheets
champagne delilah laughs in remark
whom could see love so blind
strikes the hand of the woman who
clenches her throat to force the dark provocation of heavy drawn eyes
her veins draw blue and she kisses feverishly for she sought to conquer and love her so
but dandelion lover has blown away
wept her tears in vain
holds eloquently the hand of love who doth fully enrich oneself in
delilah draws murky blue streams in search of a long lost dream
chases the matyr of a past life
there does dandelion delilah thrive
in one anothers sweet demise
Thursday, January 8th, 2015
how does one call the entrapment of ones self in a labyrinth without the intention of ever entering
much less intending to stop and trace your finger on the walls
when wandering aimlessly no longer reaches a dead end
when you scrape your knees begging for father time to stretch out the realms of the grandfather clock
when you study the art of the wristwatch just to tear it apart
when you spit on the grave of former loves taken before
when you etch into your skin words of lost poets
when you speak in simpler words for perplexity is at its finest
when you lie in your back and wonder when did the human species match up to the charts of stars
touched with the back of your hand when you saw nowhere else
how does it feel when you crush limb against limb
when you see the antiqued rise of the dust collected by the hold of sweet demise
how does one call a stargazer who has fallen deep in fascination with the view of the soul through the iris
Thursday, January 8th, 2015
A natural response that my mind has engulfed as a common habit of mine, the summoning of my oasis is one consisting of time and it’s many properties. Time slows down and thus lets my eyes shut for however long an inconvenience may be. I find it comforting to imagine greater and larger things that can surpass those heated moments that seem to overtake any possibility of peace. With this comes the rise of the questions posed by philosophers in their own serene perplexity, perhaps attempting to escape the realities of their own life as well. It might be quite odd to claim that complexity in itself is what keeps me calm in times of despair, and that may be in fact odd. However, this may be the inner physicist attempting to seep through the shell of my literature and words.
Wednesday, January 7th, 2015
The last poem i wrote was about what I thought was love.
However, it was far from it. It was far from previously envisioned memories of a meeting long ago. Neither was it the false pretense of the grab for something that I couldn’t quite have. Taking a step back from this now I realize that it was nothing short of a masochistic infatuation. One that I created based on the premise that I would have an excuse to fall back on when the lightest parts of my imagination mangled in itself to become nothing short of a terrifying monster. The monster that would soak up my assumptions of myself and the world, and paw and toy with them as I was afraid to ever look in it’s direction. I apologize to you then, as it seems everything that happened was quite unnecessary and quite frankly was all on me. All you offered was the start of a genuine high school experience, the smile to assure one that the future is not at fault. Yet I took it and manipulated the image of you into a facet of a collections I’ve cried when I looked at the mirror and saw nothing but mistake after mistake. Two whole years I managed to continue this facade. It was a cathedral where I could unknowingly go in and believe that falling to my knees would convince you and I that I was of worth. I can say of now that I still become crippled at times and fight to release into the purest air, but it is not for you. It is for I. Because I can grow empires and I am capable of setting fire to the bark that holds a false sense of security on me. The world is nothing perplexing. It is hopelessly drab and gray. I feel it every cloudy morning when the chill touches my cheeks and reflects the attributes of myself and society. I see it when I look down at the black in my coffee and I aimlessly continue to pour creamer in it, hoping somewhat to convince myself that I can continue the day. It’s in the quiet fog that trickles down into my thoughts, and leaves me pale. Yet I am able to continue and keep going forward. Because love is not suppose to be a vessel for self-acceptance. It is the faint reminisce of light at the end of the stone cold tunnel. And as of now, I believe that I have pointed myself in the right direction.