Writing, Ideas, & Stories
i changed the channel with my mind
i remember when instagram was only food
these seemed liked the hay days
not challenged working through a maze
but here we are;
i went with that 70s show,
when i changed the channel with my mind,
they portray a similar time
everyday was the good ol days
they never strayed far
and always had a good time;
i usually went with a burger,
for instagrm,
reminded me of home
on a warm summer day
in a turtle shaped pool
i have dreams
sometimes there simple
like tacos at that place down the street
on everything, they bomb.
don’t let it be a tuesday
ill transform into the road runner
and meet meet you there.
most of the times
i think about changing the world;
sometimes small,
like opening chick fil la on Sunday,
i’m sure i could start a political campaign off that one
most of the times,
i want to create something that enhances the mind
that makes others want to create
something the next kid can love
and grow up to rinse and repeat.
sometimes; i’m spiderman
but usually i’m me;
writing at a desk
with a half read book
playing digital chess
and a half eaten sandwich
it’s raining;
a week of it or so
nothing stronger then the fire
you left and now everything is gunfire,
rounds in my captivity
less and less full activity;
the rain came and it was already a jungle
beast running wild prowling on uneaten remains-
i needed your sun
and the beast came
howling at night
hunting during the day
lay away pathway waste in a day
mayday – mayday
wish we could find the boat that day in may
and sail back, to an island
leave this jungle-
the rain washed away the map
in branches hiding from monsters
looking at the sky
hoping for a pause
looking at the sky
we fall
we rise
we find each other at the bottom
it’s not where we started but we here
here at a fountain;
throwin’ dimes
wishin’ for a miracle:
feedin’ weedin’ threw the muk at the bottom
can i get a dolla fifty?
fifty begging for air
yet
we got here
out of the weeds
through the open doors
into a day
where we could breathe fresh air
where the mornings are filled with jelly toast and cartoons
where the nights are not filled with open prayers and sealed letters
and this is Troy
it swirls inside me
nothing i can do;
locked in a room and nothing but a light-
hearing the blade swinging round and round
a powerful swosh like top of nike hill
falling;
shaking with floating pieces of a being
i can’t make out
and everything goes black-
falling to pieces breaking bread with an unknown substance
racing the floor punishing like grapes meant to be wine
it’s not fine the blade has spoken
a mango blast
a tango last
i challenged you;
further then i should have
the cracks are showing and your hair is thin
and i blame myself.
never told you when to stop
showed you how to quit
just a brick and a pedal,
and i only watched.
i should have asked what you were thinking;
what was the miner doing in the deepest part of your thoughts
was it gold he was finding or coal
but seeing your eyes i know what he was finding.
your hands were clean
yet your body ran red
the miner never quit
and you payed the price
and i blame myself.
i could have stopped you
maybe saved you-
now i search the miners left in the dark
the miners left in the dark
there is no where to escape
all exits are blocked
and i hold my hands
wishing on a star that i’m not acquainted with
not yet;
for an answer
the pedestal is so lonely
second; third is a ghost
and first, first is somewhere else
here and no crowd or medals
just a box with white chalk numbers.
no one would believe me;
with all these opened doors
they never checked the locks
no one remembered those nights wandering
smoke in the air – silence
no one remembers the phone calls they never got
dialed and hung up dialed and hung up dialed
just to hear an answering machine
to feel the chills down your spine-
no one talks about it.
so we just sit on a couch a ghost, the one who got away
and me, a silver medal
set fire to the original;
on the top of a pedestal
down into the roots ashes run wild
anger in the streets,
before the new;
the new way
a new pedestal
and a new match
i only can picture you
not in a frame or a scrapbook
a memory;
where we all live
in harmony dancing on the first floor
our favorite floor
the song- our song
the one that hasn’t been written
it’s our favorite,
and you’ll hold me
run your fingers through my hair;
(you know i love that shit)
you know i love you
since the moment i saw you
that song began
my- our favorite
on this first floor
of this safe place
every inch, was not a promise
gloves without the ring
night without the moon
yet, we are howling.
wanderer without a road
ready for adventure.
and you gave me the map
taught me to read the legend
handed the pen to script the legend.
the spine in my back
the knuckles of my fist
the blood i spill
Saint's Muse 