Trapped

I’ve been meaning to write to you, I promise

I’ve just been lost in my head, searching for an inkling of good thoughts

sifting through thousands of figurative boxes filled with

memories, thoughts, dreams, hopes, broken promises.

I even found an brightly colored piece of my heart, I chuckled to myself as I tried to fit it back

it fit of course but it felt warmer than the bits I already have within

oh how I’ve missed this my old friend,

the feeling of throwing phrases into the air and having them somehow make sense

what a strange and fulfilling concept it is to write something like this

you see the past few nights I’ve waiting patiently by my apartment bedroom window

looking up at the sky anticipating the moment you would float over the building across mine and shine your light on me

I’ve wanted to say so much to you but haven’t known where to begin.

moon, my oldest friend, I feel trapped in my own body, won’t you let float up and live with you in the mystic

Flow (a Shy short)

lately i feel like im on a boat, thats on a river that flows in the opposite direction to where i wanna be

its flow dragging me ever so futher from where i know im destined to be, the waters themselves threaten to throw me off and swallow me

i bring up an oar and thrust it into the murky water to try and slow myself down and for a moment

time stands still and i see it where i should be, the water stills, a sliver of hope

and then the oar snaps like a tig and I’m sent spiralling down stream again

if only i had more time to figure out how to shift the flow, because the waterfall beckons closer.

Defining Moment

We all have that defining moment.Whether we realize it or not,
It is there.
We never know when it will be,
Or what form it will come in.
But what about the other moments?
The moments that allow for that moment.
Do you notice them?
Do you realize their significance?
Each one has its own importance.
That job you were fired from?
It lead you to this job,
This big break that is your dream come true.
What if you didn’t get fired?
You wouldn’t have had that defining moment.
That girl that broke your heart?
The one that hurt you so bad,
You moved across country.
You met the women of your dreams.
How else could you have that defining moment?
Your defining moment isn’t actually a moment,
It is actually several moments.
Moment that caused other moments,
That lead to your pivotal moment.
What are your little moments?

About

sure it sounds like a cliché
in the morning as the mirror

rinses the residue of sleep

the tap rubs on program
and hands conjure her face

slavishly giving me one cause
to pause in the long chain

sink in the subaltern

should one pause long
enough for winds to change

the chain of emery is the cliché
of haphazard sand dunes

when in the sleeper’s eye
the ocean swells in the orbit

struck in the floater that conceals
this replay of powdered cheeks

so here’s another one
already forms the mirror

as if a silent witness were to say

we have no recollection of the incoming tide

i hate myself.. again.. [a shy ones three parter,]

Nothing left but a touch and sigh
An open wound of cherished anguish
Tearing down the laughter, kindly
Dragging out all my sincere tenderness
I fall upon my knees and call
Waiting for the answer, ever waiting
That tight lipped curve of happiness
A drop of love could warm my bones
So cold and bitter they’ve become

Is it better to forget,
than to remember . . .
the sweet sliver of euphoria,
awakened by your . . . lingering touch?
Is it better to forget,
than to remember . . .
your exquisite features,
arousing hot, erotic, wanton emotions within
me?
Is it better to forget,
than to remember . . .
being enthralled,
by,
the tranquilic sound of your . . . idyllic laughter?
Is it better to forget,
than to remember . . .
the tantalizing scent of you,
imprinted upon my very being?
Is it better to forget,
than to remember . . .
Is it better to forget,
than to remember . . .
the heartbreak and anguish,
than to remember . . . you

i hate myself for feeling like
this again,
a helpless slump of
raw emotion, i threw my heart onto the
path of a guillotine with foolish hope
that i wouldn’t have it torn in half

The other me

Eating me from within
I can hardly see
Who I am with
What I am doing
What has become of me
I can no longer;
Believe in truth
Believe in myself
What has become of me
I can’t run
Due to exhaustion
I can’t tell you
How I feel
Because my feelings are wrong
I want to cry
But I’m out of tears
I want to be scared
But I am out of fear
Tears will find me
At the worst moment
No-one will find me
At the worst moment
Do not trust me
I have already betrayed myself

In the place of nothing is “perfection”

I stare aimlessly pass my florescent handheld screen, all the while, pretending that the blinking turquoise cursor, is anything but, a nuisance.

My vast mind creating
images after images,
each thought competing for the publisher’s spot.

I close my eyes for, what feels like, a millennium in Writers Block Hell. I struggle to formulate precise word placement.
.

………delete…..
..delete….
…..delete.

Ugh…..Frustration takes its toll.
Damn you, you blinking vertical line with your taunting gimmick in utter hush.

–Blank it be, if this page is meant to be.

Bright white… are you all that is to be? Then so be it.

So be it… Be!
Be anything, anything but, perfection –you are nothing more than, a cursed downer. A cursed downer dripping from hesitant pale ghost-like fingertips.

I grind my teeth, gridlocked sway, fallen to now- nothingness.

Must you bound my pulsating ticker to my fragmented gray matter. Must you dismantle my sentiment, confusing such placement in hour. Must you, you despicable cursor, you.

I burn the visual images,
delete the final draft,
Rip holes in the basic reasoning
then revert the screen to black.

…
Welcome to ….
. … ….. . . .
….. . .. . . … .
. …… The bleeding…. …
..
…….. ..
. . ……….. …. . . . . … .. . ‘Nothing’

the gardener

i have black thumbs;
still smoking
from cauterising
your dandelion heart.

my throat is lined in fractal scales;
i shouldn’t have let you kiss me,

and you …
should have bloomed
before dark.

 

Taxidermy Sunshine

I realise that the sun has risen when you open your eyes
and the pink light reflects back at me- divine projector.
Peddlar, quaint non-poet, clinging
to moments, asking to shred them and link them into
daisy-chain eternities, I am
ready to bury your soul in my pockets, I am
the senseless tongue that wants to lick your envelop mind
shut, to keep your thoughts fresh – (your feelings towards me ripe) –
To store you in a bottle and send you adrift within the cushions
—you sober me, I wilt and blossom
continuously, the dying in the loving
the loving in the losing, your heaven speared eyes are Cupid’s missiles
and I tear the X within my chest, an eager mark,
a tender predator, a willing dissector, I am
not a poet
for loving you
but I will be one
when I can
preserve
taxidermy
stuff and mount

this.

The unknown

What is unknown is thought to be magnificent,
so please indulge me as I share vague imagery
from the safety of my fortress of misdirection
by talking around and around and around and…
Children squeal with heartbreaking laughter as they
ride carousels constructed in a nightmare to teach
them being impaled with mechanized authority can
be beautiful and moving in circles is an adventure.

Just down the hill sits a shack painted white
inside and out, because that is an easy choice
that matches everything to include the plastic
flowers in neat rows that will never wilt away.
The lady who lives there is part chameleon,
so if she invites you in for a beer you never
know if she really means it or if she is
secretly horrified you didn’t know to refuse.

There’s a guy up the street that wears a mask
with no mouth so as not to offend with a smirk
or a frown and I wonder if anyone knows who he is
that could give a description if he disappeared.
I marvel at how frequently seductive this approach
seems in a world where so few are truly accepted
for who they are, allowing the absence of love in
others to steal the joy of the sun on their face.

Descendants of dinosaurs tear open a meal to
spread it before them over the ground, but they
get no respect and are chased away with a broom
because now they’re just crows feasting on trash.
On the edge is a graveyard with a freshly dug plot
amidst the rows upon rows in the manicured lawn
and the only thing written on the stone is
“Here lies” with no one to be seen standing around.

These are the things that scare me…