1, And then we weren’t forever…

It feels too early to be laughing –
a gentle crooning as the sun
is falling asleep, the bugs
singing chorus after chorus,
the songs of early summer.
This was your season, and my
laughter is hindering the
picture that I painted,
dreaming of these days –
you and I on the patio
with a few beers to our names,
counting down the hours
until the stars would appear,
simply because we had nothing
but time, just you and I.

But now we aren’t forever –
the crickets are mocking
in their mating calls,
the neighbors are whispering –
it isn’t fair that they
always loved you more.
Everyone loved you more, and
that was the problem, wasn’t it?

I can’t keep pretending that
I’m doing alright considering,
when I can’t even describe
the blazing heat of the
boulder that’s crashing down
on my chest every time
a spark of interest in a
memory of the two of us comes
screaming in, demanding to be heard.

No, this summer will be long;
with laughter evaporating
before it can even make
waves with the falling rain.

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24 to write.

write.

I write this word a lot –
almost two dozen times a day.

It’s on sticky notes, my hand,
        it’s on my notebook –
        every single page –

it’s on my mind.

I write until I can’t remember,
sometimes I write to forget.

There are days when time sneaks away
from me, and then there are days
when I am part of the
        sixty six second minute.

That’s called fiction.

I can be in the right, or wrong.
And as long as I’m aware of that fact,
        I’m right, again. So no matter,
                I still win.

I have tried the whole rhyme thing,
but no good words rhyme with write.
        It’s too predictable, it’s too much.

I can’t commit to one poem about a word.
        It’s like a prison sentence.

That’s why I write it so much.
I space them, I slant them, I chant them,
and I rant about the whole process.
        because I can.

Creative Authority.
Artistic Liability.
Lack of editing, what have you.

I’m right. I’m still right.

And even when I’m wrong,
        write.

Fourteen

In an ice induced blaze,
I am struggling to keep
my head from drowning –
my feet are dangling,
grasping for any ground
to grab hold of;
my arms are stone cold,
too stubborn to grasp.
I was never the warrior,
too timid to fight back;
but yet I’m supposed to
keep fighting for you?
Give me a blade, a sword,
a word, or an anecdote –
I have nothing left beyond
a sigh of defeat
in a barren cause.
The cold too much,
the flames too high,
my battle never finished.
I have lost – a great burden
on the hopeful and enduring.
Now let me rest,
or leave me to drown.

City

it was jazz.
it was love.

on the streets, after dark,
and underneath the lights
of the city where the
stars were meant to shine,
but were hidden between

smog and smoke,
there was a note,
a key, a lyric,
and a voice.

there was love found
on this corner,
and there was compassion
in the music.

I heard him sing;
a raspy voice,
calloused hands
skillfully playing guitar,
with a mind
of dedication and more.

he called it jazz.

I didn’t think it was.
but I called it lovely, all the same.

Choices

It was nothing more than words;
yet no note, no apology, no voice.
The silence surrounding your actions
was speaking volumes past our memories.
A false tear to fall here, there –
mumbles about how that wasn’t home,
followed by sighs, and promises
that wouldn’t make it to the trash.

You let me hold you that night,
a truth that’d never pass your lips.
Perhaps, that was your goodbye –
a tell-tale sign of cowardice,
mixed with betrayal, and fatigue.
I was only searching for two words,
buried and set aflame in June –
just speak with me darling, come home.

Eight.

With every whip of my pen,
wrinkled parchment and landscape,
I bleed caution in ink,
daring my voice to
artistically craft her beauty
in lines and white space –
envisioning her giggle and sigh
as she traces lines of muse.

She is my first thought and last –
straddling the lines,
hovering in creativity,
bleeding ink and thoughts
into words crossed out and read.

She inspires my days,
my stars, and the nights –
beauty manifested in
illustrations of golden haze.

I spend weeks
tracing the contours of her skin,
eager for inspiration to
develop and strike
ballads and sonnets,
literary heroism at its finest.

Yet no muse has ever touched
as sweetly with such a wicked
lash and streak –
violent temper to refrain
in poetic mortality.

She is ice in June,
blinding in twilight,
shining in starlight and sun –
fitting yet resistant
to lay in paper and share
her beauty to the world
in verse, in lines,
in love and rhymes.

Untitled One.

My apologies are weakness
cascading down like rainfall –
all too familiar and yet still
beautiful in transition.
No two quite falling the same,
but made of the same broken
particles of twice the sincerity
and one mound of pleading
empty words of collapse,
failure, and harboring defeat.

Five (In Yellow).

In the brazen-induced hours
of a Wednesday night,
she was decadence in yellow –
falling too early to
ashes and smoke rising.
Dancing among the
sidewalk cracks, cigarettes,
broken hearts and debris –
mending the desirable
with promises of rays
galore; valiant in her efforts
of debauchery and possibilities.
She was fair and sparkling in sin,
creating charcoal as she danced;
silent brush strokes echoing
into the sobering night.
Her depravity was evaporating –
burning innocence and melting
cinders of truth in profanities
of saint-like resorts.
It was four hours past midnight;
the streets were empty
with light posts barely
creating shadows dancing
with the wind or singing
melancholy desire.
She was decadent at her best –
yellowed and glowing.
Still loved – still loved
and wholeheartedly.

Two.

One was lost
to forcible hands,
twisting and bending,
bleeding on paper
smothered in ink stains,
crinkles on the page.

Not fine-tuned enough –
not willing to be a draft,
or a cause to let settle,
simmer and rehashed
in two months’ time;
no, one was eager.

One was desperate
to start the year,
falling short without
rhymes, riddles,
or expedition.
A few words scattered
trying to make something
in this world of sonnets,
fictions, and dreams.

One was lost,
until two came along.

Resolution.

A reminiscent encounter with the self
you no longer wish to be –

a declaration that change is necessary,
and you aren’t enough –
self-deprecation.

A vying stance of out with the older – out with you,
out with all that was learned, shared, celebrated – accepted.

Acceptance is now demeaning, flawed to the core.

Yet, this year it is all in regards to bettering one’s self –
healthy habits are the new wave again this year –
do actions still speak loudest?

Words are silenced if they’re not the right ones – the flawed ones,
the chanters of praise are unworthy, appreciation is the antonym,
meaningless to acceptance of self-aware.

Encounter the self – speak wise of one’s creativity
without falling into
the declarations and resolutions of self-infliction.

Be aware of the resolutions we cast on ourselves –

accept no less than
we need to change our habits,
of needing to change ourselves.