PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"Don't get so frustrated, 

it's only a book, 

or a few words

that you threw,

hoping they might stick.

Sound familiar?

Surreal,

especially if you've stuck with it.

Life can be funny like that,

in fact, it is,

that the same things

seem to alwaus happen

to people who may wish

it wasn't the case;

assuming it's negative.

Once you give it a second

to process,

it's wild to think

the same exact advice

you give

is the opposite

of how you live

your own life.

Some advice...

Twice now I've had to step in.

To stop the golden desires

of sundrops on skin,

forbidden,

when there has already been seeds sown,

a tree has been growing,

and now there's doubt,

the axe lays on its side

nearby. Nearly every time,

it can hurt to cry,

but not if infidelity

is the reason why. At least,

let's hope 

that's not the case.

I'd hate to see the fallout,

it'd be all over the place."

Mysterious-
As you thinly spread magenta 
polish on your bright-
pink finger nails.
Deep blood that penetrates 
the surface.
Your keratin-
dusted ad speckled with burgundy-
DNA.

Certificates of excellence-
scattered on your pale
amethyst walls.
Your dwellings-
mirror yourself-
in ways no one else can notice.
Lilies and quotes-
painted-
surround you.
Bible verses hoover over your head.

Subjected.
Known-
Loved-
admired by many.
Who are you?
A shadow of dozens of golden stars?
A characterization of the millions 
of characters you've read about?
A description of influential 
words that roll off your pen?
An imitation-
of the paint strokes you create?

I yearn- to learn your ways.
Your movements-
I desire to delve-
Connect the sparks in your mind.
Bathe in your psyche.
Loathe your troubles-
Grow from your challenges-
Comprehend the misunderstood

What brings joy to your eyes?
Pleasure?
As the sun rises-
as the rain platters on-
the window.
Autumn breezes-
Wind teases-
shuffling of sienna brown-
burnt orange and crimson leaves.
The smell of antique-
age stained novel pages.
Crisp.
Lulling sounds of music-
as lyrics twist and turn
through your ear drum.
Peace.

What time do you rise?
the times you fall-
What intimidates?
Empowers?
My love.
Distant-
yet-
extremely close.
Bold-
and open.

Affection drips-
as you brush your hair.
Platinum.
Radiant-
Enamel;
Glistening in the-
Eye numbing rays of the sun.
You've learned to love-
Gratitude to your mother.
Giving you grace-
instructing you well.
Gentle-
Delicate.

Your attention is wanted.
Needed.
However-
Your time is taken.
Woven strands-
Cradling.
More becomes less-
As you try to do your best-
Control.

I'll remain.
In the distance.
Waiting.
Debating-
Patiently-
for your attention.
Admiration-
Adoration;
As I continue-
the long distance relationship-
with my love.
Me. 

The End of the World
Is far, far away.

But believe you me,
The people there are just the same.
They laugh and cry, etcetera,
And yes, there is even tea,
Which you can drink to Byron’s memory
Opposite the blue armoury,
On tiled wooden tables lightly flowered,
Staring into American eyes.

You can walk through those lean streets,
Ride the ascensors;
A pair of rainbow eyes.
But I’d still rather look into my Watson’s.

At The End of the World,
Lie the Hills of Paradise.
Not that they are really Paradise,
It’s just that, to me, they seemed to be;
Walking through those lean streets,
At the house that Cochrane built,
Walking by the sea he mastered and commanded.

And in the Vineyard
Steel modernity rises high -
Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive stuff,
But I get all that on the other side.
I prefer it when
Soft spirituality rises,
Cries of “¡Viva!”
And La Vida en Verde,
And Cueka in a kilt,
Downing beers and wagging our chins,
And talking about the end of the world.

The south of the End of the World
Is far away as well.
A land of rivers,
Lakes,
Arctic.
Kind of a breadbasket,
If breakbaskets were thin geographically
And mimicked my scrawny chest.
But these rivers run deep,

Mapuche force lies dormant,
Choked.
No-one’s fault,
Just blind prejudice.

The land of the End of the World shakes,
In ways few here can feel.
5 point 5, 7 point 8,
2 point 1.
Trembles in the night,
Yawning cracks by day,
The end of the world
Can swallow your good selves.

That’s why, for those of the land,
You live on the edge.

The north of the End of the World
Is a tomb world to some ancient race –
Land no man should look upon,
Forbidden.
Salty.
A thirsty, thirsty,
Desert tongue.
To the east, the Horseshoe
And the Third Millenium Cross,
Erected to the God who made
The searchlight stars in whispy skies.

The end of the world is cold.
And hot.
Chilly,
And balmy. The waves crash
Into the mountains
And froze for my disposable.

Walk those lean streets,
See for yourself.
You’ll find
That the End of the World,
Works tremors in your heart.