Home » Posts tagged 'life' (Page 2)
It was a morning like other mornings
where if I had a garden, I’d tend to it—
each flower, delicate as the next
sleeping in a nursery.
Watering each bulb, silent
as a field mouse, I’d bow my head
in knowing—
It was a morning like other mornings.
And I was the sun.
I remember sitting
by the old wood fence
the alley, silent as a whisper—
The birds then sang
like they do now.
And just like a boy
hits puberty, I still don’t know
what’s wrong with me?
I watch the light
claw its way down the alley
and where shadows hide
I look for clues.
In broken bottles.
In rusted metal.
In pavement laced with weeds.
By the old wood fence
with its perfect knots — I scream
to hear my answer.
The sun which warms your brow
rests sleeping on my shoulder.
Your world’s in careful order
while mine’s in disarray,
I’ve tried to read between the lines
but there’s just empty space.
When dumb luck gets regarded
for gentle hands of fate,
I sit for hours wondering
whose world has been misplaced?
This fault line, it grows deeper
the longer that I think,
what good are silver lining’s with
prospects neither believe?
Is what I forge through fiction
just white lies for dispute?
I try to keep my distance
to organize what’s true.
Seems when I find the meaning
these worlds they split apart,
now mine’s in careful order
like yours was from the start.
As for that space between?
There’s no room left for me.
There’s nothing to be found
I’ve lived there long enough.
I’m happier with words that mean
exactly what they mean.
I’m happier to be a part
than live in disarray.
If it’s time that pulls the strings
than it’s I who’d rather be,
two worlds within a world
alone—
three worlds to form a whole.
My heart’s in heavy motion—
like a pendulum I sway,
back and forth, regardless of
the shadows of the day.
Would it hurt you to feel better?
Is it sadness or just sad?
I play this broken record till
it doesn’t sound that bad.
When questions sound like answers
it’s there I feel at home, but
impressions get mistaken for
first readings of a poem.
It’s how I’ve formed the theory
that everyone’s alone,
perhaps then not a pendulum—
I’m an ever sinking stone.
It’s something unforgiving,
reaching for the sky.
You know you’ll never reach it
but still each day you’ll try.
You bargain with the devil
in mornings softest light,
then hear the serpent hissing, from
the inside of your night.
It feels like not knowing
whether father will be mad,
it feels like how nothing
could stop your mothers tears.
And how when you were young
the only control you had
was the controller in your hand
as if games could numb the fear.
How no matter which star you chose
nothing ever changed,
star light, star bright meant everything
just wishing to be saved.
It’s something that we choose, you see
reaching for the sky
to a place that seems forgiving
on nights we’d rather die.
It’s a place where mothers weeping
could cure the land of pain,
it’s a place that’s unforgiving
which no one can explain.
I see, the dear departed
whose choice goes unannounced,
to try to understand it’s like
magnifying doubt.
It’s something worth forgiving, though
please don’t ask me why,
the ground’s not good enough for us
still reaching for the sky.
Perhaps an understanding then
for those which tempest-tossed—
and lay them down, each childhood friend
whose memory isn’t lost.
You recommend a book to me.
I read it till my eyes grow tired.
It’s not a long book by any means,
but a book this good doesn’t have to be—
To make my eyes feel warm like fire.
When there’s no one left to listen,
just the silence of your heart
It’s there you’ll learn the lesson,
for later to impart
Within all life’s little blessings,
a simple walk around the park
I offer you this dear confession,
I’ve always loved you from afar—
I know I haven’t made this easy
I’ve been a bitter, jilted man
But I admit the damage to me
has solely been from my own hands.
I know I haven’t made this easy
Somehow you always understand
And every time that I have fallen
you’re always there to help me stand—
When there’s no one left to listen,
darling let me be your man
I don’t want to be your burden,
this time let me help you stand—
This time let me help you stand.
It’s 8am when I mix NyQuil and coffee, knowing
getting out of bed can be just the same as staying in.
It’s sort of like how kind words sound profane
when they’ve just bout lost there meaning.
Washing my face, have I reused this puppy dog look
one too many times that all that’s left is ugly?
I’ve made mistakes before, though this, it feels different, or
is it exactly the same one I make every time I lock the door?
It’s like hearing the front gate slam shut
then looking out the window, only to see yourself walking away.
The brain sends signals to the mouth—consider screaming—
but what’s a voice without an ear of reason?
What’s the point of footnotes, when you’re drawing them in chalk?
And even though it doesn’t rain that often, on good days it does.
So brushing yellow teeth, I spit blood into the sink
then cough a couple times before padding down the hall.
Now slouching towards the sunlight, it’s effortless this pain.
These calluses remind me that I’m doing the right thing.
Milling about I feel nothing, so it’s now I know to leave.
That rainbow in the sky, oh how it bends before it bleeds.
By the time I catch myself at the corner
and reattach this shallow darkness to my feet,
it’s a cool, crisp sort of day, where the smog smells sweet.
It’s a cool, crisp sort of silence, watching traffic in the street.
It’s a cool, crisp morning.
And I’ve no reason to complain.
The lights are on,
but the drive’s not there.
I wonder if this happens to everyone?
I’m sure it does, except
I’m not everyone.
And you, you’re part of them but lately
only half as strong.
Does that sound correct?
Or am I just scratching an itch
not meant to be scratched?
Am I bucketing a well
when all that’s left is rain?
I hear you when you say you’re tired.
I’m tired too.
And when you say you’re trying, love
I’m trying too.
I feel you when you’re breaking,
partly because I’m breaking too.
I feel it when your heart is aching,
since mine’s been split in two.
What’s left than but a couple lines?
Enough to prove our sorrow?
For all the many times I’ve died
I’ve always seen tomorrow.
It’s hardest when you say
the words that help you sleep,
so sleep as many days
as it took for me to wake.
Besides, I feel much better since
I know this fight’s a gas,
it’s a wonky handle left we clutch
of a longing meant to last.
Words Of An Average White Male 