Allow me my sadness today.
We can talk tomorrow.
As you walk away, we
die a little more – separate machines.
But take care knowing, if
you decide to speak.
We can talk today.
Always.
Home » Posts tagged 'Poetry' (Page 98)
Tag Archives: Poetry
Change.
It’s clear that you are trying.
But things have changed,
haven’t they?
You have changed.
And that’s a good thing,
change is good.
But it’s clear, from us
looking in
that you aren’t quite yourself
you aren’t quite as we remembered.
And if you are,
then clearly we too, have changed.
But we haven’t changed,
not really, in the sense
that your new found glory
has taken control.
And if I’m wrong, tell me.
Tell me something beyond common sense.
It’s crystal clear,
isn’t it?
Us know-it-alls, know it all.
So for now, you’re out of the club.
And that’s a good thing, rest,
because we all come back eventually.
Those who speak of love.
Beware
of those
who, so often
speak
of love,
remember
not to
get too involved
with
their plight,
chances are
there is someone
responsible
and you
just might be
picking up the pieces,
because Love
too often
is mistaken for
infatuation,
but they
won’t see that,
they can not
see so well through the fire
the mystery
of the heart,
the failure
of the brain,
at face value, yes
they may seem true
but beware
the unhinged
romantic,
they know
what they’re selling
but not so much
what to do after they’ve made the sale,
yak-yakkity yakking
their pattern back
to heartache.
Where the actual music begins.
Living life
like a Bright Eyes song
will only get you so far.
At some point
it’s time
to turn the music off.
That’s where
the actual music begins –
that’s when you sing, your song.
E major
works for me,
what works for you is not my business.
White Noise.
Somewhere among the static
I remain
speaking on your terms.
Individual Sadness.
We each have our own
individual sadness.
Like a fine wine.
I drink it down.
Some tastes better
than others.
I drink hers down.
Then open another bottle.
We much prefer red over white.
Dry over sweet.
Though there have been those who’ve poured
and those who’ve carelessly spilled.
But none like this.
None so direct.
Covered in a deep, warm red
I much prefer her careful aim
as she throws the Cab into my face –
Betty Davis style.
Creative Bursts.
Creative bursts,
like drunkard
bar stool
thoughts,
I can actually do something…
That by morning
are swept away,
like confetti
on New Year’s Day.
When Powerful Voices Become Saints.
Powerful voices
don’t scream
they
listen,
they
aren’t forceful
they
think,
they
don’t condemn
they
heal,
they
know it’s not their duty,
they
do not seek control,
they
are powerful
in their
absence of hate,
they
are powerful
in their
acceptance of love,
they
are not
black or white
but every color in between,
they
never seem to get the press
the screamers get –
not until they’re dead do they become saints.
A brief look at mortality in the form of a side stitch.
An
intense
stabbing
pain,
reminding
me
how
lucky
I am
to
be
so lucky,
and
how
very
little
I’ve
done
with
this luck,
reminding
me
to
breathe
and
encouraged
by
the pain,
that
will
one day
subside
to be
someone’s
lucky
day.
a not too special little thought that’s as comforting as a freshly plucked sliver
I sit here and write.
If you read it, good.
If you don’t, fine.
If you like it, better.
If you don’t, that’s alright.
Either way I’ll sit here tomorrow and write.
Words Of An Average White Male 