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Restless Peace

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At restless peace I am

with the wind and sidewalk rustlings.

I hear no evil

but listen, careful

to the teacher in my head—

Ahem, it says, you see my boy

with an air of confidence,

before the mind had time to grow

to stretch it’s arms and wiggle toes

from abc’s to no means no

it was already in survival mode.

So from that time it tried to be

chameleon, I mean everything

to everyone without a doubt

as quiet as a field mouse,

the pressure grew and grew.

So that it’s not a man I see

or reckless boy in front of me

it’s simple with perspective, he’s

finally catching on.

What’s done is done is done.

The rhyme is just for fun.

If you can’t learn the lesson now,

there’s one last question that I’ll ask—

At restless peace, I listen

then watch the flowers grow,

focus on the question

and answer best I can.

The Progress No One Sees

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There wasn’t much pain anymore, just this numb curiosity that glazed his eyes with bitter knowing, as he understood that no matter how many questions received there answer, there would always be one, that only he could accept.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, not really. That’s not to say there wasn’t any sadness. In fact, sadness was still there, much like a dear friend, waiting and willing to drop everything in order to be with him, listen to him, and strengthen him, in times of need.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, just this constant urge to flee, and no matter how good the situation was, it came on like tinnitus, this constant ringing in his ear that seemed to say—think of all the things you could be doing…but you’re not…because you’re here.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, just time. Time enough to do anything and everything he needed to get done, if only he could grasp a sense of urgency, before being halted by this ability to fade within himself—hours on end—and not do anything at all.

There wasn’t much pain anymore, not really, just this introspection. It came on like a migraine, but left him feeling light. And over time this bitter knowing, well, it didn’t go away, but lessened with each breath. It was a private understanding—one he’d keep forever—in the tender of his heart.

Instinct & Irony

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Why does a dog chew a bone

or a cat toy a string

why do people do anything

other than sing—

why does sitting alone

in a park, on a bench

have to feel so good

when nothing makes sense,

but the sound of laughter

and a boy up to bat

while his father he cheers

hearing the crack

and the shadows with grace

dance light over page

of a passage familiar

as if written for me—

it’s instinct of course

the cat toying string,

and by the end feels pleasure.

But people write poems

and think too much,

they suffer alone—

ironically.

The difference

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The Summer was never peaceful—

Filled with silent worry

Watching from my window

Her skin turn golden brown—

Here’s everything, they said

Tokens for your smile

Just listen to the carnival

and what fun they’re having

How still it breaks my heart—

But what’s a boy of 12 to do

When everything seems pointless

And your world is very small

Knowing no one really listens

To the secret lives of children—

but I had a good mother who tried,

and that made all the difference.

The Primrose Path

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We’ve walked before, the primrose path

and what good hath it brought?

It’s crimson skin, and pit of death

the yew forgives us not!

Quite tempting is the flower, bud

who’s poison’s not enough,

it’s beautiful and deadly

how, our lives rely on luck.

See nature isn’t partial,

it doesn’t give a fuck.

We’ve walked before, the primrose path

to learn what can’t be taught.

Nothing Feels Better Than Pain

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Haven’t got the chords or melody.

Nothing feels better than pain.

I haven’t got the reasons anymore.

Haven’t got the words to explain—

People living life like it’s a parody.

Everyone to me looks the same.

I haven’t got the reasons anymore.

Nothing feels better than pain—

Prove to me there’s goodness, and I’ll prove you wrong.

Prove to me there’s no pawn in this game.

Talking to you now just feels meaningless.

When Courage gets mistaken for Insane—

I haven’t got the reasons anymore.

Nothing feels better than pain.

Haven’t got the chords or melody.

Haven’t got the words to explain.

It was a morning like other mornings.

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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.

The Old Wood Fence

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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.

Two Worlds Within A World

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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.

Answers(but who’s to say)

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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.