Aug 01

Fear Is In The Eyes

Fear is in the eyes
of all those lost,
of all those forgotten,
of all those living,
and all that pools
with sentient emotion.
Fear is in the eyes
of all those caught,
of all those murdered,
of all those bleeding,
and all that cries
with tears too dry.
Fear is in the eyes
of the dainty-hearted,
of the sleep-induced,
of the living ghosts,
and all that dreams
with a face too pale.
Fear is in the eyes
of the cold blooded,
of the silent killer,
of the deadly seducer,
and all that tastes blood.
Fear is in the eyes
and the tight throat,
the drowning lungs,
the throbbing head,
and all that is a nightmare.

Jul 17
poem 0 comments challenge: Change

We Have To Care If We Want To Live

If there was one thing about this world that I could change,
I would make the world care.
There are not enough caring people in this world to save it
and because of those who don't,
those who do are limited by funds and numbers.
We are being limited by digits,
pieces of paper with faces on them and pieces of metal
that will never amount to the value
of the entire planet that we have the privilege to call home.
Scientists scramble to find an alternative,
a place that human beings, destructive as we are, can live on.
They're saying we have less than thirty years
before our mistakes become the reason for our demise
and most don't even believe it.
They don't care enough because they don't want the truth.
They want the comforting lies
that those they work for give them just to feel safe again.
They told us to build houses on stilts
because we may lose them to our oceans in a few years.
Jul 11

We were kids once

When we were kids, we went out trick-or-treating.
Our parents did our makeup so we looked cute
and scary at the same time.

When we were kids, we drew graffiti in our notebooks.
Our teachers read us books about sneezing elephants
and cats with very tall hats.

When we were kids, we threw water balloons at fences.
Our friends would draw on our arms with fat markers
and draw round smiley faces.

When we were kids, we watched the world spin.
Our excitement to grow up was becoming evident
and we put on our little boots.

Now that we're older, we watch rated R movies.
Our parents hand candy out the front door
and we try to scare the kids.

Now that we're older, we draw the people we miss.
Our teachers hand us books about the big future
and awful historical tragedies.

Now that we're older, we throw anger at politicians.
Jul 02

The Boy In The Soil

Was love my mistake?
What would I understand of it?
Sacrifice and guilt,
It's all a valve of disorienting clammer in the heart of the youth
and it does clammer my heart so.
In my arms, I cradle a tragedy, born into flesh and dead as I will be
and I kiss its eyes, for they will never open again to see what they have done
only to find the taste still on my frosted lips.
I wish to be born again in the arms of Mother
and to feel her sweet kiss above my brow
and to never open the eyes of the child who is bound to sleep for all of eternity.
I hold him close to my breast as I place his carcass on the stone bed
and fold his arms over his chest.
Mother, hold his hands which are so stiff
and warm his heart so he may not weep.
Pick the flesh from his bones ever so gently
so he may not only rest in the calm waters of peace,
but also in the blanket soils of love.
Jun 26

I Felt It

On November 25th, 2013, I woke up to morning rain.
It was maybe a good forty degrees, something like that,
and I wasn't ready for the day at all. It was a Monday.
God, I still hate Mondays. They're an enemy to us all.
I made the careful decision to bring coffee to school,
caramel swirl in a thermos mug,
and pulled on a pair of new jeans and a t-shirt.
My mom commented on my style with some distaste.
As I fixed my hair, I felt my heart throbbing a little
and I wondered why it did that.
There was a tension in the back of my throat
and my chest was clenching in fear and sadness
as though I was experiencing some kind of loss,
but I hadn't lost anything recently and everything was fine,
but nothing felt fine at all.
I felt a little sick and barely touched my coffee.
It tasted like soap and I left it on a table when I got to school.
The cafeteria was full and some kids made fun of my clothes.
Jun 26

Let Her Go

Jun 25

Dream A Beautiful Dream

I remember my last good dream.
My nights are torn by nightmares
that fuel the pain
I've kept a secret
and I know they're here to stay,
but if I could have just this dream,
this blissful breath,
this warm teacup.
If I could just have this one thing,
this one little favor from the world,
I could be strong
and dry my tears,
but it seems that I am still lost
in the nauseating confusions of life
and my dreams,
the bad ones,
are the disposal of my conscience.
I cannot be the Uncarved Block
for I am stained
and I am worn,
but I want to have this one little thing
just to remember a happier time.
This amazing dream
makes me smile
even in the darkest of life's moments
as their canines drag against my skin.
Death has coronated,
queen of the damned,
and if I have waved my skull scepter,
then let me dream a beautiful dream.
Dream of love,
Jun 05

I Think I Am Dead

The sky is made of molasses.
The fear spread like fire.
They came in enormous masses,
buzzing together in a choir.
Their eyes are white and glowing.
Their bodies are like shadows
and they move without you knowing.
The smoke is up to my elbows.
I can hear them coming.
Their heavy steps are above my head.
My throat is numbing
from the awful stench and dying dread.
I think I am dead.
I think I am dead.
Jun 03
poem 2 comments challenge: Junk

My Old Wood Castle

They’re going to tear it down,
the old barn in our backyard,
because it’s too old
and it’s falling apart.
They’re not entirely wrong,
it is falling apart
and it is old,
but it never lost its beauty.
You can still jump from the window
and land on your feet.
You can still put your bike
in one of the little storage rooms.
You can still pull down the ladder
and climb to the second floor.
You can still watch the birds
as they build their nests.
You could still breathe the dust
and feel the wood.
They’ll never tear down
my memories of that beautiful,
wondrous castle
with my baby swing,
my bike and jump ropes,
my hula-hoops and stickers,
and my little old rocking chair.
They’ll never erase my handwriting,
written in colored chalk.
All they see is a junkyard
and all I see is a castle.
Jun 03

Smells Like Dirt

Preschool smelled like Spaghetti-O's.
No joke.
The entire school smelled like that,
the cafeteria especially
because there was always one teacher
who brought them in
for that one kid without a lunch.
I got to have some too.
Kindergarten never really had a scent.
I guess it was because kids talked
more than they ever ate.
It probably smelled like hot breath
and a bit of grass from recess.
First and second grade were the same,
except it also smelled like carpet
because we often had lunch in the classroom
and we'd sit and play games.
I remember the fifth-grade cafeteria
because it was the worst place in the world.
It smelled like desperation.
Everyone wanted to be like the cute girls,
the ones with baby soft hair and booty shorts.
It smelled like a friendless chamber
and I was trapped in it, flailing like bait.
That's what it smelled like,