PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"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." 

I lean too much on this description,

I can’t explain straight how I love you

so instead I will paint you in the light of

minutes and falling slow and laughing through the pain,

heat and support systems and split second choices,

skies and canyons, screams and whisper breaths,

gold and metaphors and scribbles…

hope it’s enough.

I have made this challenge a library,

over half a year of shifting

I have tried to tell a pretty tragedy

but somehow the pretty’s missing

Good intentions, I want to spread heart

Gray creeps up around my grin

This year’s library is how I keep

knives from slipping under my skin

Still grass grows around sinkholes,

showing just how we survive

We try to shine in our own spaces

pull magic out of staying alive

We have made this challenge a library,

a year of change and how we show it

We have tried to tell a pretty tragedy

and that’s what I call a poet

She told me

that since I love this

she wants to see it.

I swear that’s the nicest thing

anyone’s ever said to me without thinking

that sounded like it was thought out for centuries.

She said she wants to know

how I rant,

what sets me off

when I don’t usually say

because it’s already bottled up in writing.

I’m afraid of how she’ll see me

this vulnerable,

this aching for all the wrong reasons,

this cliché for all the right ones.

I’m afraid all this baggage

might send her

down the coastline.

I know I will show her my passion,

but not as much as she wants.

I will collect

all the words I think are worthy

and leave the rest behind.

Recycle my words like the dying sun

the candy wrapper you don’t notice beneath your feet

the one you leave stuck in the car door

when you go back to the warmth

So I’ll just stay here in the corner

and keep leaving things behind

all my dreams crueler than sleep

Recycle my words like I can tell you want to

I’ll crumple them up for you

but after you toss them I’ll follow behind you

steal them back, build them into something more

I have never written

like a petal,

words perfectly placed,

pauses perfectly positioned

like curves

down the slope of the mountainside,

soft dirt spilling

through my fingertips,

sifting through only the best earth

to grow my syllables,

picking colors so they

blend like a sunset

and I can sit there

at the end of the day

knowing I gave exactly

the colors the world needed.

No.

I write like a

weed,

shadows unable

to shame me,

waterfalls unable

to drown me,

just enough wild

to snap in the air

as I try to crack this world like a riddle

bleed it wide open

I can wield this art like a knife

like a drug

giving everything everything

too much of everything,

but still the wild waxes

and I stretch to every ceiling,

choosing words like a twister of seeds

scattering to whatever

wind I let loose

and the more I push through

my soil

my skin

my soul

the more that grows.