Unrequited Verse

As the lines I had to write
took a new twist of the pen,
my words became mangled
together in thoughts and lost
actions, where my truths had
spilt over and were now left
a harbored mess on the page.
My unwritten verses sought
revenge against my untamed
writers mind – I had deceived
the voice I once followed by
moonlight, left to scrounge on
the scraps of ink and dreams.
I became filled with wild and
impossible thoughts, crushing
the landscape of paper and pen,
ready to burn the bridges of the
written word and set the world
on fire with tongue and verse –
poetry is not dead, it is rising.

Relief

If I could graffiti the sides
of all the buildings on your
daily route, I’d paint only in
shades of gray so you’d
understand just how many
ways I can think of you, and
dream of the days between
longing and love; how with
every variation of my paint
and sonnet, I was believing
in the sunset falling over the
crevice of the moon, reliving
the first memory of that eve
of the two of us as we painted
the sunrise in shades of blues,
predicting the future of how
many ways we could fall, never
thinking twice about defeat.

Muse

I once called her name,
barely breaking a whisper,
trying to prove to myself
that I still could, even
though she had gone astray;
with me still looking for
her in the colors of my
pens, the spaces between my
words, and in the lines of
the journal that she had
insisted matched the
creativity that we were
creating. Together.
She was my second muse
having come and gone,
dried up with the blue ink
stains and coffee grounds
scattered across the page –
I can only hope she’s
traveling as well,
finding whatever it is
that she’s looking for.

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.