Monthly Archives: May 2012

I am

I am
a mistake maker to the extreme
and with obscene things
in these thoughts
I abide by these wants
where fucking paper with pens
only lends
its own views to the way things are.
And only to be read by those
known by you
at a time where candlelight flickers
and you realize
that even a voice can break,
but life is what it takes
just to make these mistakes
that pour from the fingers
that we use to touch everything
and with my own shown desires
I split so many of the ideas I have
into so many different things.
I become my own themes of distraction
where reactions are dominant
fractions become elegant
and even the last secrets we keep
will become the facts that set us free
into a world that has no idea
what it wants.

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Heart on the floor

This is for the times
when my heart wasn’t on my sleeve
but on the floor in front of you,
beating out fire while it pumped just to fan the flames.
Since you,
I’ve had digital experiences
that’ve sparked cognitive reflexes
that’re reflecting
just some of the things that I’ve been doing wrong.

I’m just trying to maintain myself
and retain some of the pieces
of who I was just minutes before you spoke
and broke the lines between laughter and tears.
And like those irrational fears
I leaped into what I thought might take me away,
or at least carry what I say
when my prayers play like poems that never needed pens,
where the paper fades lonely
until the creases crack
with that gentle touch
that was still too savage for you to pick it up off the floor.

But now words are known
and reacted to
with more meaning
than the definitions they come with.
You’ve accused me
of something like love
and it’s as if it removes the grooves of comfort,
like a distorted misconception
where the mind forgets the gestures and postures
of those who’ve stood beside you.
Because I do love you in ways without fear
where anger’s just another way
to beg, plea, or even just say
don’t leave me.

But these eyes on fire,
they need their tears just to cool down
where pupils drown
in the flow of what’s come too late
in the grip of this emotion
that could so easily become hate
I slip sideways away from what’s relayed by others
where the words are never as simple as they sound,
or are found in the places
where the case is
that our faces
hold gestures all their own.
And it’s apart from what’s shown
like reputations grown
into the forms of what contains them.

Now, my feelings shook reasoning’s
on a level that could break what’s already shattered
when I heard you moan my name
in a tone that knows there’s more
to these expressions and comprehensions.
But all I feel now is you walking away
and all I can hear are the door slams say
that enough is enough where you’ve called this bluff
with enough guff and gall that could only
make me love you even more
and won’t allow me to ignore my own mistakes.

But I love you like rivers love running,
like the tables love turning.
I love you like a need that’s never been hidden,
like the crosses I bear that keep me grinning.
I love you across spectrum’s
from the most complicated thoughts
to the most simplest of explanations
I just love you.
And beyond my capabilities
I have what I hold
and what I hold are secret superpowers
capable of the indescribable,
because it would take an army of evil villains
just to keep me from thinking of your name
and I would walk to cross countries
just to remember your frame
where the same hopes for this future
now lay distilled in the kind of bottles
that’re just waiting for the right one to drink them.

I love you like the dreams that’ve kept me dreaming
like the promise of a kiss that’s kept me beaming
and although I know that you wont come back
and all I’ll have are the things I’ll lack
I’ll still love you.

Beyond this poem being spoken,
or this paper on a table
this pen in my palm
the thoughts between my fingers
the hopes in my hands
the prayers that make me stand
to these arms that wrap and can do some of the things you cant.
When hindsight gives me these liberties
that sleep in the places that I could never conceive,
I realize why I’m not enough,
I realize why I needed this love beyond the need of keeping you
where I’m at that moment
between understanding and this beautiful plane
where people come home
just to be known and not forgotten
when that last bar-stool’s no longer calling my name,
and when I want to feel the same
as I did before you spoke,
because these are my misunderstandings
that took you leaving just to teach me
that I do have more to offer
and even prefer
not just to have,
but to be with
a real woman.


Unpaid wages

We’ve earned more than we’ve received,
but our compensation’s
just the validation that we’ve even worked at all.
And this separation of class
is just a preparation for these affiliations
where knowledge of desperation
seems to come only from estimations,
like those lonely observations
of bitter infestations
where the rest stations
are kept too far apart for any of us to risk movement.

We’ve recreated procreation as a pastime
and we celebrate by desecrating our lands,
like we were dedicating ourselves to something more,
just to validate the relocation of other species
and like we were allocating responsibilities
we move people around
like they were made of paper
and not sweat
and we forget
to let virtues through these rusted gates.
And these looks we get and give
are acting out our reasons,
reasons that change like seasons
behind the kind of actions
that come with intermissions
and secret competitions
where the recognition of ammunition
is just the quiet exhibition of their coalitions’ ambitions.
Where the intensity of their abilities
are debilitating the agility of legitimacy
and where there’s room for equality,
they squeeze in hostility
and this anxiety becomes infinitely more complex.

We’re stuck in a daze
in these days
where the divinity of eternity
fades into the audacity of authority
where those who legalize
still only penalize
what jeopardizes
their moralized values.
But it’s us who energize ourselves
through verbalising our opinions
and realising our own lives are worth risking,
where cyclones of pheromones
can become elegant and free from arrogant masks.

We’re all encompassed in this race,
where the vigilant battle the hesitant
and the miscreants become more confidant
as their labels become fables
and stories become glories.
Because when we start waking up just to go to work,
we let the starvation of our imagination
meet the dehydration of our own concentration
through these lonely repetitions
the meet the validations that dictate
the things we need and want.

Where frustrations swell
just to tell us that those ringing bells
aren’t what’s causing these headaches
and earthquakes
and mistakes
that only frustrate the minds
that’re making money from the sweat
off lower class backs
which should be dripping back
down into the ground that feeds us
and not be found lining the pockets
of those round-bellied bastard’s
who’ve never known
the feel of blisters on their hands
and have only ever laughed
when they’ve signed our checks.


Strings

There are these things like strings
that bring themselves into effort
and consort with no one.
Take my shaking hands for example,
always hanging there,
holding things I cant even see, but feel
where memories conceal a better version of the story.
I cant help but wonder what connects me
when my emotions project me into the person I am,
always this nervous when you, of all people, look me in the eye.
I have weight.
Take the weight of a string that’s weighed down, guilt.
Guilt is the quilt that smothers and blinds
with the designs of its intentions.
Guilt weighs ships down into oceans
where waves rise and clouds hover
and the swimmers despise that the predators still linger.
My guilt is a long string that preaches and reaches
back past distance and pretense
where the lessons are rarely forgotten
and still has enough left at the end
to fill the cavern of inches
that we’ve let grow between us.
Now all this represents is the tail-end
of the way things used to be,
but I’ve carried it, like it’s never stopped growing,
like it’s never known knowing life without my hands holding it,
but these days it’s like samples have control
over the price of tolls
and your entire life can go on living without you.

This is the string of guilt and the longer it gets
the more of it rests
on this earth and from birth
we’re gaining tangled-up feet
and knotted-up fingers
just holding up our own ends
and pretending that it all makes perfect sense
in the absence of an argument.
But these words,
they’re only the pieces of my thoughts that you can hear,
but let them do something.
Let them push doubt into leaps,
let them hit your ears like free-weights falling from the clouds
because this is the plea that combats rage,
these are the thoughts that stain the page,
this is the feeling that’s known a cage
and this is the fight where wars are waged, listen,
I’m starting to disappear, listen.

Where friends now look like strangers
and I can still get to a point,
but it’s like an ointment on a burn that only gets things infected, listen.
Because this is the feeling of knowing too much,
these are the days that I rarely get to touch,
these are the dreams
that weave what seems
like oceans of collected memory.
This is the contrast of desires and repetitions
where those who conspire
still gain recognition for the things they’ve never done
and I want to race burning cars down crowded highways
with just enough leeway to be skinned alive. Listen.
This is the string that spins spools,
wrapped over, under, around and through.
It ties us up like our parent’s intentions,
but these are fresh eyes looking for old car keys
where the strings we carry need to be treated differently
in a world where any tool can be a weapon.
Treat them like the telephones we used to make when we were kids,
poking holes in the bottom of paper cups
and lift them to our lips to speak.
Or swing that string around so our friends can skip
the dull moments between the time it takes to play
and the time it takes to grow-up.

Because we’re all at risk here.
We’ve become the kind of people who don’t read manuals,
we just manually push the buttons to see what they do.
But here’s the risk where sick wrists slit themselves,
because when you’re the only one hanging on,
you’re the only one who can let go.
Because this it for better, or worse.
This is to cure that curse of better,
because the only ones we’re better than
are the people we were yesterday
and those we run the risk of becoming tomorrow.


A really bad poem

I’m bound
to the sounds
that bind me.
Where I can find places
for my words
on lined pages
where I confess my mind
with a name signed in blood.
In this place
the kind
get underlined
and become inclined
to join a mankind
that’s been refined
just to be defined
by their design.
And what’s grown entwined
only reminds us
that we’ve now combined
those who’ve declined
and resigned
only to find
that special kind
who laugh so softly
the rest of us unwind.


This poems far from finished

We have lies and deception
and a conception of the truth
in relation to what’s been tolerated.
It’s a relative truth
where we analyze
and categorize
those types of lies
that help us
tell these things apart.
What we’re fighting
is acceptance without understanding.
The way we share information
from a media
that`s in formation
with our political leaders
that keeps us
at their disposal, so
this poem’s far from finished.

It’s the removal of acceptance
where it’s our very stance
that’s been challenged
by the self-righteous
who have condemned
those self-made men and women
and made them too tired to fight
and ignite those fires they once had, so
this poem’s far from finished.

Because there’s more to be relinquished
through these ways
we soon dissolve
with the way we play things out,
rushing to work and school
to learn and use tools
where we evolve by comparison
to involve us all in unison
because we want to move forward,
forward, but
this poem’s far from finished.

It’s only here I can enunciate
that it`s ourselves that we domesticate
with lifespans to alleviate
while we watch ourselves deteriorate
into the very air we breathe.
We need to recycle our own cycles
and make nature what we nurture
as a single souvenir
where productive habits are formed
and we can all rest warmed
by the blankets that we’ve made ourselves,
but we cant, so
this poem’s far from finished.

Now I’m pathologically obtuse,
but I came to induce an idea
and slowly I logically induce my neighbors
with these domestic donations
of all my intentions
because I want what’s best for us all.
I want dormant lives uplifted
and the critical
to be more critical of themselves,
but until then
this poem’s far from finished.

I want our doors to remain open
so that our houses
will embrace those strangers
without shelter
and our hardwood floors will creek and crack
with the release of those sorrows.
I want us all
to have the freedom
to enter different conversations
with our own observations
and naturally have the knowledge
and confidence
to hold our own.
I want our leaders willing to be shown
that they sometimes make mistakes
and to have what it takes to lead us
they must have what it takes
to self-analyze
and scrutinize
some of their own decisions,
because decisions for them
are a way of life for us, so
this poem’s far from finished.

You see,
I have a lyrical lack of rhythm
and I dance like it’s a symptom
of some crazy distress
in an S.O.S.
that’s been split right down the middle.
There seems too many times
that I feel like this
and those lists begin to combine,
but the biggest reason to why I leave this open
is because something’s begun to shine.
It’s the eyes and ears
of what we’ve come to fear
being the last of the unrestrained.
The ones that sneak past
and make poverty last
and wars their little games.
It all rolls on from people with control
who navigate to counter balance
and we gravitate to
those comforts we knew
and our often hidden talents.
So until it all dies down
we must all share the blame
because doing nothing
is still being the same
when we keep to these plain plans,
so until some day
I will have to say
that this poem’s far from finished.


And take.

It just takes so long
for the songs to make sense.
Those words hidden by quotes
and fancy notes
that are doing their best
to define the rest
who really don’t care
when the noises blare
their names.
Now these things shake the sides
when there’s just enough to glide
and subside
in another background
where we’re found
in the compounds
of our own creation
and it’s our observations
that save us
from the munitions of guilt,
like things absolute
when answers imply endings
to the conversations
who’s abbreviations
give implications all the same.
And we’re wanted as tame
in a world away from screaming
where it’s a meaning
that’s heard
once the violence is blurred
across a landscape raped
by the hands that griped
and ripped
the fruit from their trees
and the skin from their knees
before turning to flee
back
to their own understandings.
Where they can again
be standing
in a place
where the case is
that no one cares
when they’re not forced to stare
and their minds don’t absorb
of their own accord,
just to avoid acknowledgement
of the darker side
of their pride
that they’ve all denied
up to the very end.
Where they know how they offend
with how they pretend
to send things back the other way.
We’re all related,
in a relative way
and all our places
are in place
on a spectrum
that welcomes dictation.
The kind that dissolves it’s definitions
and absolves itself
from what we all know to be true.
It’s a design that’s built this game
from the ground-up grinds
of broken body parts
where the rules are seasonal in nature
and the tools used
were just as abused
in the dissemination
of misleading information.
So where do you get your news?
From the sources confused
with the race
to be given a place
and status
where it’s only obvious
to those being silenced
by all the things
they were never taught.