Home » Posts tagged 'death' (Page 3)
There’s something bout the Summer
that makes this all ok, yet something
bout the Winter that
would have me feeling grey—
Like the cement of a tombstone
or the flowers of decay
In Springtime there’s a forward march
No Fall back plan could save—
Perhaps it’s in the heatwave
that makes this all ok, or perhaps
it’s the chemistry
where praying mantis lay
What I release to the night
Let’s me wake in the morning
Where I’m light as a feather
And stiff as a board
Oblivious to the slow dying
That I keep in a delicate cage
With just enough space
And water
And love—to survive
You read my sadness
Word for word
Like I’m a novelty
Then put me down
Back in my place
Some oldtime tchotchke—
And I wonder how it feels,
Window shopping too?—
From the corner of my gladness
To the outskirts of your sadness
Where nothing is for certain
And no one is to blame
Except we don’t glimmer anymore
Or sparkle like we used to—
Ornamental at our best
Tokens from another life
Myself or you
Who to believe?
Our tongues
Entwined
With poetry
The trail’s bare
Just fallen leaves
Our bread it’s stale
And crumbling
Call me by my medicine
not by my mistakes
It’s all I have to offer,
it’s all that I can take
Call me by your reasons
my reason not to stay
And let me be the treason
to help you walk away
I keep trying to focus
on the good things, except
it’s all the little bad things
that keep reminding me
of all the good things
I should be focused on.
There’s grass and flowers blooming
in Magnolia park
And this absent minded feeling
while the sky grows dark
Lily pads and grapefruit
growing in the yard
Fences form a fortress
full of dull remorse—
You left me standing idle
like a broke down car
Listening to Layla
watching shooting stars
Visions of Johanna
all just fell apart
Romanticized by healing
and those tarot cards—
Now I’m drinking nightly
at an empty bar
They gentrified the valley
and closed the bodega
I still see you smiling
from the bedroom floor
Hailing that taxi
with a broken arm—
A tincture of illusion
pressed beneath the tongue
Awakens the compulsion
to hold a smoking gun
There’s two sides to the story
I’ve got another one
The party’s in the distance
Teen’s wet dream in the sun
Whatever I had to say
can wait until tomorrow,
with everything else
and all her parlor tricks,
scattering my brain
and blurring my focus—
people have that power over me
that no substance ever dared—
as if a bottle of whiskey
ever could compare
to the power of a woman.
I was in love with the odds of failure
so I did all I could to succeed, and did.
And didn’t.
All in the same go, all in the same stop.
I was a handful and
she had very small hands,
handing me love I
couldn’t handle and
it was no secret
we knew eachother’s secrets
quietly speaking through tears
and farewell in exchange
for another type of love—
one we both could afford.
Words Of An Average White Male 