Saturday, May 5, 2012


Lovers, movers, shovers. Liquors, stickers, and smoke.
Once what beat like a drum on a roll, is now comatose.
I could fill up these lines, like wine that  fills romance,
I could tap my feet senselessly, and pretend to dance.

That wouldn't mean much now darling, would it?
Though it would be pretty hard to not make it pretty.
With the stokes of a brush that happens perchance,
A picture of a coincidence on the canvas of a fluke.

I'm alive, but I haven't been living, or so I'm told.
If one could only explain to me, what I'm missing?
Perhaps the vain lingering of thought after thought,
Could dismiss the void that breeds on the inside.

Appalled by how easy it is, to sever these bonds,
The kind that had held me close, rattled my soul.
This unkind winter has turned from a testy season,
Into the perpetual setting of an already cold mind.

I repeat, I am not plagued, I am only pensive.
I keep a toll of the trinkets I find on the street.
They're not very many and they don't relate,
But form a chain that rants on endlessly.



There’s so much of a void to fill out.
There are epiphanies to be sought.
Enlightenment is to be gained;
Loves to be lost, lovers to be made.
Why does everything cry when I touch it?

There are so many shiny trinkets to soothe me.
They fill me with sparkle that is borrowed shine.
Yet I cannot lift my feet off ground;
Questions to be given, answers foretold,
Why does sister-solace elude me still?

There are images to be played in the screen of my head.
White boys with shaven heads, cracking their mother open.
An expression of confused innocence,
Rites to be performed, not felt or understood;
Why does sorrow wrinkle such a happy face?

There are so many tensed breaths to be exhaled in a year.
They do not diffuse the tension, neither the conviction of relief.
Instead I will inhale thirty different intoxicants,
That will addle my brain, but not my experiences.
Why does memory defiantly scratch itself into the heart?

 There are so many songs to put me at ease or regret.
There is literature that makes me forget if only for a while,
Until logic crashes open, both the past and future.
Everything is connected, but not complementary.
Why does resilience play so subtly in my constitution?

There are so many wretched, kind people in the city.
They are wretched for they are kind in not knowing.
Spending on morals, flaming their highs,
There is no dignity in good, and good is un-glorified.
Why does a lingering eye see more than it means to?

There is so much wisdom to grow old in, to die into.
Up until the breach, loneliness is a single companion.
It lingers on when everyone is around.
It does not let live, but will not let die.
Why does a limbo feel so cathartic?

I could chase this mist forever.