Poetry · Writing

same problem – different day

and it is always me

caught in the darkest corner of my mind

wandering aimlessly destroying the structure that wasn’t

in the last invasion claiming the lives of more innocent thoughts-

i can put down the knife but i can’t hide it

when i am not looking, i will continue to cut and stab and kill

until this home is a crime scene;

there are only a few calm moments

a voice that sends me, the other me

running- running to a place i have yet to evict

to a place he calls home that has it all put together

but

when i am gone:

picket fence repainted

door mat dusted

time for books to be placed back on the shelf

photo albums rebound

dinner in the oven

albums placed next to the sega genesis

and

i

can

breathe

Poetry · Writing

tree bearing

statue once

turned into a tree in broad day light

on broad street

public art they called it

splattered across all headlines-

now i stand, waiting

just waiting for something to change in the stars or the weather

or a god to have pity (any god)

but they are why i am a tree

right-

posing, wishing for rain to comfort

my heels fell in abusive clay

sporting pink buds

littered cigarette buds

and i am standing

here

on broad street

growing flowers as finger nails

watching children grow

feeling their toes

now only a dream

Poetry · Writing

cupid’s dmv

steady hand

the god with the steadiest and he never misses

truth sight and a bond issued

we waited our turn for something this real

love this real

not the temporary they handout to appease you

they can’t be the one to please you

cupid has not found your one;

number forty-two thousand and ninety three-

hoping it is our turn, i will finally have my number called

not this year

or the next

others picked what seems at random

what is it that they have but not i

challenge them for the love that i believe to deserve

enough is enough and temporary handouts it is enough

they don’t deserve this as much as i

will hold hands in line together

and wait for our chance;

Poetry · Writing

god’s arcade

chance is-

we get a second chance with another life

a god puts quarters into a game

and we reboot in a new body

new memories new family new lovers

in that life i never touch a pen

i carry a ball and a glove

a gun and knife

a purse and a baby-

maybe-

we live in the shadow of our god

the one pushing quarters to give us life

and we chase the same love they look for

and that’s why i always find myself in your arms

Poetry · Writing

demon killers

if i sold everything i have

i still wouldn’t deserve you-

it may not be true

but it is true to me

and i don’t deserve you-

but i’ll prove it;

the late nights let the past creep in

when the doors are locked and bolted shut

trespassing over my private property

and it’ll run a muck, yet,

everyday putting i will put in the work

from nine to five staying late working overtime

to prove that these demons don’t define me

and i will wonder:

i have brought myself from the darkest corner of hell,

i should have stayed and held that rope tighter

but i am here, fighting, so

does she deserve me-

and i see her working just as hard;

stomping her own demons

and i know we can survive anything

Poetry · Writing

do not enter – double a batteries

i know i have been in your thoughts

i woke up and my legs were shaking

roaming corridors i once lived finding myself a tourist

a map with rooms crossed out and a new name written

on brown tape-

renting or buying

a night affair or a lifetime package

why was i brought to witness;

a chance to outbid

or walk down a memory lane with caution tape

boarding off every entrance,

the tape was my doing

but the exhibits were made to last

and i wonder

how many double a batteries

it would take

Poetry · Writing

winter is here.

lost in a graveyard

found six feet under

it was never meant to end this way

or maybe it was

maybe i choose to ignore the signs on the road

the endless yelling of choosing poorly

but right now was meant for the hollow

a cross of a god that was never my god

a cross for the forsaken or the loved

holds the seal tight

i would challenge him but

he is a god so that seems dumb-

against his wishes i will rise;

turn my hands into shovels and rise

the bottom could never hold a spirit like mine

a heart with everything still to give

stories left to be told

work still to be done

and

the last season of game of thrones

still to be watched

Poetry · Writing

stringless kite

a little lost now

following a kite

map shredded

two nights to get it

and i have never felt, whatever this is-

a chilling call

not a heroes call

an endless brawl through the nights free-for-all

and i have been losing

easier to count the small moments when i felt everything was whole

can do it with one hand

do not see the second being used

yet to push aside this feeling of being used

left beaten and bruised

to lay in the coldest of night

with nothing but a stringless kite