Fear
i do not fear death
so long as i live my life
i won’t go to sleep
feeling empty
if i do this one thing right
thoughts
Sweets
the laughter just eases out
we live in a capsule
time slows down
I breathe you in and out
People could be conquered,
galaxies lost,
cities ploughed,
we’ll still be here smiling that damned smile
like we’ve got a secret
and have had one for awhile
hurt piece done
the bad blood boiled, gone
together we fit
puzzle pieces
or dark chocolate in reeses
Inspiration
Sometimes inspiration for a poem can come from the strangest places.
What Will The World Print When
What will the world print
when I’m a famous dead and gone poet?
She liked blistex over lipgloss
dark chocolate and Ritz crackers
Brooklyn and Italy
dark poetry, like the confinements of a room
the stage
graffiti,
really cold spaces with lots of warm blankets
butter and mayo
converses.
She died a legend
that thrived in this world
a simple student with an open mic…poetry
humble
and to be honest,
always a tad bit hungry
Account
The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.
Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.
I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.
But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own—but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.
The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it’s late. And the truth is laborious.
–Czeslaw Milosz (Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Pinsky)
Dear High School Me,
If you thought that was hard
you’re in for a treat
‘here endeth the lesson’
Every
Every Monday
my life falls into disarray
screaming depression binds me to the bed
Every Tuesday hurts a little less
I pick up the pieces and mull over the rest
Every Wednesday I fall back down
Every Thursday I pick myself up
On Fridays I am born again
On Saturdays I am happy
so happy that I am scared it won’t last
And then on Sundays
the fear manifests
I am alone and shaken by my own happiness
distressed I count the hours
attempt to clean this place
call a friend and when he doesn’t answer
desperately call again
I talk to God for direction
and forget to eat
Lie awake in the cold because I can’t afford the heat
I’m stuck in a stalemate with the wall
wondering how I could want so much
and not enough
Of all the things I thought I’d be
I never knew this could happen to me…
Thank God for the music and the mission for keeping me going
To Know
The only way to eliminate stress and pain is to stop doing the things
that create it
It is easy to see what others do to us while we forgot the drama
we create for ourselves
How?
Take your pick:
The need to be right
Lack of life purpose
How we think others see you
Trying to fix the world
Dishonesty with self and others
Accepting someone else’s truth
Seeking material wealth over spiritual values
Doing it alone
My way is the right way
Fear of the future
Negative thought patterns
Trying to prove yourself to others
Anger over the past
Telling other people what to do.
It all boils down to “not knowing who we are.”
–Iyanla Vanzant, Acts Of Faith
Bordering On 5 AM
It is bordering on 5am
here I sit
fully awake
listening to the mundane hum of a ceiling fan
filter into the sounds
a house makes
when no ones moving
A white spider crawled from the depths of the couch
cross my sheet
& still I didn’t flinch
I simply sat
I sit here
memorizing every piece of furniture
staring at the ripped out stitches of an old couch
until the unexpected gut urge
to seek pen & paper
begin to twitch my fingertips
its an idea
premature obscure and cloudy
but as my search narrows
the
fog becomes elaborate clods packed with words
my eyes would not shut
my mind would not stop placing the words
seeing them in my head as if I had already written it
They floated there for hours
through the background of
headphones TV and conversation
until even now as day breaks into night
with nothing but my heart beat
to remind me that I am still alive
even that seems to thump words
as I conclude my search
when my eyes finally rest on my notebook
Divinely inspired is what he calls it
The peak hours allow sufficient silence
as I think at times my thoughts run so deep
that consumption ensues
I begin to feel every story I breathe
life to
from the time it enters my mind
to the moment its on the page
it is me
invented or not
the characters have faces that I can see
& I must write their story
There is a reason
for sleeping late with scribbles still swirling in my head
for sitting here
to know that now bordering on 6am
sitting here blankly staring at the floral patterns on the couch
isn’t crazy
I write to fill a void
I write because
it is the only remedy
for a long sleepless night
of ignoring a force
that commands me to write
even now
my eyelids sink & I feel sleep
meaning my thoughts may rest
knowing they are held safely within black binding
later to be shared
with those who are willing to listen
Around The Corner
[The young poet] should stay the hell out of writing classes and find out what’s happening around the corner. And bad luck for the young poet would be a rich father, an early marriage, an early success or the ability to do anything very well.
–Charles Bukowski
The Poetry Corner 