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

Sixteen Fears

I asked my buddy once

what he does to calm himself down.

He is an angry guy and he doesn’t get into fist fights

that I know of

so he must have a trick.

He told me he counts

s l o w l y

lowers his heart beat before he Hulks out.

After publicly laughing

and secretly taking notes

I tried it at home;

One, number of episodes I’ve seen of Ferrigno’s Hulk.

Two, number of times I had to convince myself that I’m not losing it before actually giving this a chance.

Three, pick up sticks.

Four, the number of times I thought about calling the love of my life and not doing it because I don’t want to be a bother.

Nine, worries I’ve given before reminding myself that she loves me and I need to escape the narrowing halls of my own mind.

Sixteen,

Eighteen, the year I decided to burn the world down from a water tower.

Twenty-two, the damn Taylor Swift song that will probably test time.

Sixty-nine,

Eighty-three, letters it takes for me to confess that I don’t want to roam this earth without you by my side.

One hundred and forty-three, It’ll be okay, as long as you know that you’re worth it and won’t give in to every single hick up even though your mortal self can’t help it.

Here, I learn he doesn’t deal with anger,

it’s the way to talk out his own insecurities.

Mine showed their tattooed faces at the first sign of a rain drop

no forecast of showers

towers blocking the sun

gun cocked to my own forehead

dread as I lower my own arm;

One hundred and forty-four, one day these worries will mute, the button is jammed in the remote but it’ll pop out, just have to keep counting.