Now

Under the sky’s silhouette

our eyes run rivers

and the heat of our hearts shiver

The mantling is heavy

and expansive;

and what should be warm

is afraid

The space between our fingers is none.

The air between our mouths is gone.

But the worlds between our hearts are laden

with fleshly chests

The flesh is heavy,

and cold;

and what should be certain

is painful

The rain goes away,

the stars twinkle,

and the treetops rock,

as we play hide-and-seek

Count to twenty,

and no peeking.

Next door, sleep lovers.

Next door, they run around.

And next door, they go outside

But no peeking

And next door, sleep Jack and Jill

I wanted to write about the importance of ourselves in times of despair. It turned into a poem about needing love.

Such is life.

Hope

And the hit takes us away

into a fantasy world,

where dreams come true;

Lovers fly and riches are won,

we laze about the ocean

and upon candied sand

Oh yes, this hit is so powerful.

But when we fall,

expectations fall.

And when we fall,

we fall.

What's the most dangerous drug?

I personally believe it to be hope. You take a hit, and you delude yourself, fantasize, dream about things that are improbable. And when they aren't actualized, you fall.

Oh, how you fall.

It's the worst type of crush than any drug. It can crush you, break you, cripple you. But there's nothing you do, except keep on hoping.

I feel so... for lack of a better term, "emo", right now. I don't know what I want. I'm confused. Every time I feel that I decide on my feelings, the rest of me just doesn't follow through. I have a swelling in my chest that just needs to let out into a big ball of tears. I feel that would be the perfect cathartic release.

But I feel unable to. Confusion is the worst.

Love

The frame hangs empty

and the honey droops

down the side of the dresser.

The paint was red once, in this room.

A bright, vivid, warm shade of a young girl’s blush,

decayed down to a hunched hue

A cliché from the past,

scrawled with some faded thread

hangs over the frame.

The hinges are snapped,

and on the other side of the way lies the door,

old, faded oak.

The strength gasps from the rings in the wood.

And my honey drips.

My attention so fixated on the amber drops.

The jar that once held things so sweet,

cemented in an exhibit,

clenched tightly,

like the talons of a dragon over its gold

The mess is everywhere,

sticky,

so, so sticky.

But not the least bit sweet.

Huddled in the corner, under the empty square

where a window would hang,

I think of nothing, but the monster,

ripping out my door,

waiting

just for me outside.

I can hear it breathe, outside my doorway.

The heavy breaths,

the seductive sighs,

the tempting whispers.

Hear no evil

Hear no evil

Hear no evil

But the voice pries my fingers away from my ears

and asks for my permission.

My brain whispers no,

My mouth whispered yes.

I know everyone writes about love. I know I have previously. But writing poetry is about being human. And loving is something humans strive for.

I haven't posted in over a year and a half now. I finished this project, and there was really no longer any need to keep this up.

I'm not writing a poem a day any more. I'm writing when it's natural again. And my poems feel so much more natural now.

I don't know why I got the sudden urge to come back to this blog; today's senses would decree that a tumblr would be in order.

I have one of those. It doesn't do quite what I want.

I just want to keep writing. And I want to blog about my thoughts. Somewhere where few people are reading. And if people do find it, that's fine. Putting thoughts into the public eye is so cathartic. Even if the public eye is blind.

I don't really quite know where my life is right now. I read these old poems and remember those days, and how different my circumstances were. Right now, I'm just existing.

I've forgotten how to breathe. And to live.

There is so much confusion in life. I suppose that's why we turn to poetry. Vague words that pretend to let us understand our own vague circumstances. And understand I'll try.

And here I go. Again.

Scene 365: UnFinale

The doors are red.

The paint drips menacingly,

though long dried on that aged wall.

The rustic knob creaks.

Refusing to turn.

We sit.

And we wait.

The doors will open.

The gates, so jagged

laugh at us resting.

Their teeth taunt.

And their breath beats

never relenting.

We lie.

And we wait.

The doors will open.

And we will enter green gates

Done.

It's a weird feeling. For sure.

I know no one really reads this, but I can't help but have to pause and ponder this.

365 poems.

365 scenes.

365 memories.

Wow.

There's really nothing I can say. Except that this has taught me a lot.

And I can't wait to see what the future has.

It was fun. See y'all later.

Scene 364: Anticipation

The stars fizzle

sparkling in the corners.

Oh breath,

I need you to catch up to you.

How do you expect?

Eons

compressed into a single lung.

Pressure in the veins,

bursting with riches

Hesitancy in the fingers,

until spiders dance across.

One breath,

before we explode

Scene 363: Whispers

The paint peeled

around the hole in the wall

and the words

oozed onto the floor,

dripping from that gaping gap.

Uncontrolled,

the mill blossomed

and soiled the wall,

burying it in quiet whispers

Scene 362: Timed

Though you tripped yesterday, I felt no remorse.

Under the cold canopy that dawned,

the weight of the sun grew

and it crushed you.

Had we skipped today, I'd feel pity.

With the beat of the midday daze,

your breathing slanted,

as if merited.

Don't think of eating tomorrow, for I am full.

Before the rising moon screams,

leave your ears uncovered,

and listen to the symphony

Scene 360: Our Union

There are too many toothbrushes in the closet,

yet your floors are still dirty.

The blood under your nails just won't vanish,

and your ring finger aches.

The bells are ringing, over that hill,

yet trudge as you might, you never will.

The iron circle that should bind you always,

is bent at three points.

We drink our chardonnay at home,

and sip on dry martinis.

The white frosted sheet we wished to dance upon,

crumbles under our feet

Scene 359: Indigo

My road is painted

Your house is not

in between the two lines

our souls will rot