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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.
As daylight wanes, and night begins
there’s rapture in the air.
With static thought, and moonlit eyes
I see it all too clear.
What’s written in the stars, is written in the sand.
What’s written on the heart, is written now by hand.
My love for you is twilight.
My love for you is snow.
My love for you is many things, my love for you is old.
I’ve kept it in the shadows, of poetry and light.
I’ve kept it in the darkness, to brighten up my night.
Just know my heart is dancing, like fire unto stone.
Just know my heart is breaking, each night I am alone.
As daylight comes, I feel you near—
the darkness goes away.
The perks of you are endless still, your love’s a weathervane.
We don’t often get the real thing.
Or allow ourselves to be vulnerable while at peace.
Often we’re told to keep our chin up.
To stand up straight, and don’t ask questions.
Often we’re told lies.
Boy don’t speak out of turn.
Missy know your place.
It’s when we answer fearful calls.
It’s when we ask the harder questions.
It’s when we choose to be defiant,
to be honest with ourselves,
it’s when we find our truth sincere
that we start to become most vulnerable.
Then, and only then
will we allow ourselves that peace,
the piece that we’ve been missing,
that feels so familiar, so simple, so pure.
So much so that pure feels like a dirty word.
—
It’s this peace we can deny our whole lives over,
or accept that we’re a match
ready and willing to burn ourselves alive—
just to get the real thing.
if i could live with someone’s hope
forever till we part
i’d at least be able to see
beyond the ashes on my fingertips
and the cough tucked under-sleeve,
perhaps then maybe i could sleep?
longer than it takes to wake and find
who i’m not, or who i’d rather be—
cause it’s such a drag to smile
then to give a laughing nod,
that even when i do it’s like
my mind just says enough—
so when sitting becomes quiet
with my shadow and the curb
i hear within the darkest corner
that hope i don’t deserve.
and if i know you well enough
i know you’ll disagree,
still hopelessly devoted to
this god damn ghost of me.
and it’s hardly ever good enough
in retrospect you’ll see
that hope distilled in all of us
is that in which i bleed—
What’s the point in asking the question
If your voice is already defeated
I’d go blind just trying to see it
You know everyone is trying to beat it—
If there’s pain then that means there’s a reason
If there’s truth then it’s hard to believe in
Still it’s hard not to relive this feeling
Where everyone everyone’s stealing—
It’s like selling your grief for a grievance
Why the hell would you even break even
Doing all we could to deceive them
It’s all wasted time wasting time healing—
It’s like playing pretend dressed in your skin
Or saying the pledge of allegiance
When there’s no one to please or believe in
It only matters as much as you mean it
I like to sit, in long
Wakes of silence
And write cowboy songs
For drunks and dreamers
Who know better
And are better—
Who are better off alone.
Only in the slightest
Contradictions find us
Taking a piss in the back of a waiting
Rudimentary silence
Little acts of violence
Testing the waters like leaving the bathtub
Full of standing water
Babies left to wander
Dipping our beaks in a pool not so shallow
Now—
Actions without reason
God I’ve got this feeling
Down like the old folks whose tennis balls are wearing out
Obligations find us
Contradictions bind us
Tight like a truckers hitch secured to nothin but
Ourselves if we’re willing
To hold someone who’s willing
To kick the creator for all the stupid shit we’ve been through
Now—
Everybody wants their own way
Standing on clouds there’s no reason to shout out loud
When everybody gets their own way
I can guarantee somebody won’t be pleased (laugh out loud)
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.
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.
Now all we have’s the memory.
I’ll keep the one to forget
if you keep the one to remember.
The one never to forget,
the ones kept best from afar,
and the occasional Holiday on ice.
Words Of An Average White Male 