There are so many ways
your words make it into my blood.
1. Melting into my skin
from absentminded pen marks.
I would take the pen away
but then I would be out of
these little autographs I want to keep.
2. Sometimes intended pen marks.
When I look at them
I don’t think I can tell them apart
from the accidents.
They come from
a laughing game of hide-and-seek
where you always find my hand
and I roll my eyes
as you leave yet another
little ink scar.
3. Something you need to
remind yourself of.
Paperwork.
Medicine.
Meetings.
I am a human pile
of things you might forget.
I am not always so good at it
but for some reason
you keep dropping more items in the basket.
4. When I catch myself talking like you.
These little
words a few people laugh at
are stuck in my head,
tell me
I’ve spent too much
too little time here.
5. Pieces of paper you slip under my door
that remind me
how well you speak my language.
Sometimes I think
I met you just for the words.
6. The last thing you say
before you fall asleep.
In daylight I’m not sure why
it’s in some corner of my brain
labeled more important.
I didn’t think sleep did much for my memory
before I started waking up with you.
7. When your fingers drag
along my arm
or my face
or my sides.
The lightest touch
leaves an indent
I’m never sure I can erase
even if I wanted to.
8. Sometimes we speak
in permanent marker.
Say things we can’t take back.
We write our way into each other’s hearts
with every breath we take.
To create something is
to sit here with the shivers
and the shavings of things I don’t want
and tell myself that I need them
to make anything more than mediocre.
To create something is
to see a place I will never be
ten steps to the saloon
high above a cliff’s edge
in a tree older than time
in castles that could crack under their feet and still don’t.
To create something is
to turn paper bag stories
into something more than plain,
the stories of poets and giants
and forests and lakes-
or maybe keep them just like they are-
after all, we keep coming back for normal.
To create something is
to say I promise to never turn back
to say I breathe in the harmony of nothing with you
to say we move like burning pale-kissed lips
to say maybe
to say beautiful
to say I love you like this.
To create something is
to know that my story is the dust falling off a traveler’s shoes
and it might get lost in a sea of sameness
and it might crumble while I sit here not knowing.
To create something is
to put a part of me out there
for people to look down on
or to hold close.
We never write what needs to be said,
the barely whispers you can taste in the hallways,
the silence that sits here too long.
We steal pens from each other
as they track down the lives
and I start a chain of the meetings.
It is a dangerous place
when sky meets star and star meets head
and we might say a little too much about this moment.
I’m not the messiah.. (he’s a…)
By jfarrell
(thank you, monty python)
I am not the messiah;
I hope you know that….
I too stupid to be anything other than honest.
Instead of wallowing here, in this hole…
I could sweet-talk old ladies outta their savings;
But that would make me feel bad.
A way with words is, apparently, the only real skill I have;
And for someone who doesn’t talk a lot,
I can be very careless with words.
I could easily make a suicide cult :)
But I imagine the pay is disappointing;
And the perks… shagging everything I want
Not really me,
Though,sometimes, I sorely wish it was;
Everyone, die on my command.
I can see how that would appeal.
You read my ramblings
And I feel, YES, I AM, but I don’t want the job.
Why do you read me?
I am nothing, a mote upon the wind of the cosmos;
But so many of you read my stuff
And say nice things;
And, sometimes, scarey things?
Please tell me why, I am nothing.
I write lines that sometimes rhyme,
sometimes crash and fall
Sometimes I pull out words from her
I shouldn’t want at all
My chest is testing, messy blessing
I wish I’d stayed till dawn
I wish I had the perfect sky
to spill the lightning on
Her name is memory, broken record
so I won’t get stuck in lies
Her face is magnetic, a ledge to leap
a place I will set my eyes
This game I play is war or beauty,
terrified that they’re both right
She spends the last of her minutes here,
I still can’t sleep through the night
My temperature rises, smoke to flashes
burns when I never choose
I wish we had the perfect canvas
and color we would never lose
Her kiss is lighter, heartache changer
didn’t know I could love to cry
Her kiss is faster, sinner, breathier
I can bite out the reason why
My heart is heavy, maroon lately
but I love that color too
Sometimes the red gets too damn lonely
with her I can even fade to blue
So I write lines that sometimes rhyme,
sometimes crash and fall
Sometimes I pull out words from her
I shouldn’t want at all
Dark corner
of a cobwebbed
attic,
Box filled with pages,
lighthearted,
traumatic.
Words written,
long years
ago.
Forgotten notebooks.
-A poet's
portfolio.
Yellowed paper
sits there-
.
.
.
-unread.
Constructed thoughts
of an ancestor-
.
.
.
-dead.
Wasted ink
from
wayward dreams.
Never bound in books,
chapters
or themes.
It was her hope
someday,
to see them in print.
Now they sit there,
unseen,
in dust and lint.
A talent wasted.
Gone by
the wayside.
Packed away there,
soon after
she died.
Maybe fame.
would have come
her way.
But it never
happened,
to her dismay.
She never finished
the dream,
that she started.
Too many obstacles
sprung up.
Then she, departed.
Now it just
lies there,
cold and enigmatic.
What remains
of her life...
Poetry in the attic.
Do we sleep in rhyme,
With words rehearsed?
In unconscious state,
Do poets dream, in verse?
Do we see the lines,
That always take form?
When we awake,
Are poems born?
Do we fear our nightmares?
Or are they only a guise?
For the stanzas we compose,
In our slumbering eyes?
Do we imagine scenes,
While lying prone in bed?
Ideas and stories,
That reside in our head?
Does ink flow through,
Our vessels like blood?
Do we write each day,
To contain the flood?
Do poets dream in verse?
Do our minds ever rest?
Or do we fear, that our thoughts
Will simply go, unexpressed?
"You're free
to be
as creative as you are;
or so they say.
Yet.
Every time,
the artist guided,
unwarranted.
Unnecessary.
Why is the artist
so restricted?
IS it concious?
Do those who commission
Art
know they can be stifling it?
Or,
is it a lack of trust?
Not enough of it
to go around, knows
the budding artist
with lack of portfolio.
No trust
goes to those
with no reference.
So often are we told
we are free,
when we are not.
Their own opinion
trusted first,
unintentional or not,
before the artist,
the one who creates.
When one asks another
to create,
to stifle the flame
is to put it out completely.
Trust is a must,
we must learn to
give our hearts and minds
and souls
to others
to mold.
And that's the hardest thing to do."
"No excuse,
but the metal has rusted.
An unkept armory.
Barrels with red,
triggers peppered orange.
Springs stuck,
pins, unmoving.
Bores obstructed.
The whole weapon set
useless,
to the trained eye.
But
a gun is still a gun,
the potential it has
to kill,
ever present.
Rusty or not,
it is still recognizable,
months of no use
not enough to erase
the sizable impression
of the shape,
the indication
of the handgun, long gun.
The task looming,
Armorer,
keys in hand,
sighing.
Unlocking
the cages,
duty tumblers turning,
locks coming free.
So long,
had it beem
since maintenance
had been laid
where it belong.
The familiar metal
began to fill hands,
twist, turn,
rifles broke down,
pistols slid apart.
Rusty was the
mind,
as were the firemans,
but both began
to be broken
free.
Rag, brush,
break-away sprayed,
assemblies oiled.
Pieces began to click,
operate smoothly,
unlike language,
where lack of use
means disappearance,
past tense
isn't the demise
of functionality of things,
like bike riding.
or an armory.
The Armorer will be busy,
it may take some time.
But he will pass inspection.
With work,
with determination,
desire
and time.
It takes time
for things to rust.
It takes time
to fix such a lack of use.
The best solution
isn't busting rust,
but daily use,
rather."