Its beginning is a fuse,
Its end a nerve burnt out;
Creativeness is only you,
Before other hands dig in;
A pattern like religion,
The lonely mind of man.
PhasesIn my waning I am pure.
In myself, my true selves mature
As dry passageways; a splash of concrete
Sets in a name.
In my aimless straying,
For being stranger
For some; losing faith in the phases
Of what I've become.
Austere moon, the stubborn cells
That stir in me will breathe new life
In you; as the sun returns,
My inner chaos tames.
There is no growth without change.
The night is destitute, a womb
So self-contained; the mind, a satellite
Tied to only one wave.
Obscure moon, may your newness obscure me, too.
For there is no growth without change,
And small steps are steps all the same.
HesitantCould the rented sun contest
Against the continent
That has splurged
And has spent blue skies,
Perhaps the ruins of my eyes
Could rest on yours and
See light, and feel blessed.
In the absence of ambience
It seems the air is less patient
For voices intent
On speaking plain.
Could these rented sentences make amends
It's the staying still when
Legs are begging to begin,
When just one step feels too big.
ShipwreckedSilent as a foreign, bronze god in its shape,
Toward an endless sleep it cannot escape.
There is whiteness in space, centuries of sand
That must be collected by speck and by strand.
Already belonging to a spotless sea,
Figures still litter like an ancient algae.
The mind drowns, wanders when the spirit is weak;
The eyes too heavy to see the crude fuel leak.
Is it noble to die a slave, a machine
Meant just to clean...or a thing free from routine -
Silent as a foreign, bronze god in its shape,
Toward an endless sleep it cannot escape?
There is whiteness in space, centuries of sand
That must be collected by speck and by strand.
They remind me of floating youth left at dawn
From a faraway star dispersed and now gone.
Forever is a last stand, an intimate
Landing pad for when our ships can't hold the weight
And in the greedy blackness of all, they fall
On marble rocks. An orbit's pull cannot call
Us to surfaces, but instead we must crash.
A small planet awaits my vessel of trash,
Silent as a
LacunaeIn bearing things, as memories,
A pull of one brings something more.
Could I recall
The only full
Expanse I've sensed, would this world then seem small?
In all things said of emptiness
It's a mess
Of molecules that serve that end.
The long-distraught leviathan called Past,
Unchanged, its wilting leaves
Will never last;
In bearing things as parts of me,
Starts to show
Where art can constantly span.
Hard to parse the
Distance I trek,
The dust left shows a destination
Best focused than reset.
Afterthoughts and premonitions
Where Loving LeadsWhere loving leads I lean most heavily,
Where decisions aren't easy
And reactions are rash.
But it seems that if living has no locomotion
Then it's harder to fall, harder to crash.
I know of a love only taken not given,
And yet in its mercy I happily stand;
I see a woman enslaved by deep inhibition,
Wanting not to give in to a weak heart's demand.
"Where loving leads is sickening" she sang, once
To herself and then no longer.
Were it easy to change a statue, make it like you,
How could it grow stronger?
It was always up to me to charm, disarm, or just engross her.
Her way of being close: standing still as I inched closer.
Muddy WatersI cannot clean
In between where
'15 struck and
This year spanned, I'm
A muddy wreck of obstinate time.
Time just to sit
And with it be
Done, split the face
That I trace when
I cannot claw away from the pen.
Funeral By The SeaChoose your beach before you go,
Tears caught in throats will one day owe
The scenic vista one last flow.
Mountains will pose and breezes blow,
Avoiding tropes of air and land
But hanging there still by a strand.
Choose the beach where it will end,
Seafoam to outline and shape a friend
Whom was ill and fought just to attend.
Remain in them and you shall ascend
Near rocky cliffs by seagulls scanned,
The black contrasted by the sand.
Gnawing PretensionsFor now, we have buried the sun,
A rotting powder for a gun;
The universe is overrun.
Pretensions gnaw in dialogues
Of casting calls by torpid dogs,
And off a plotting mask that fogs
Conversation, all are outdone.
For no purpose, Summer's name shifts,
And forms in kingdoms Heaven lifts
To match what king barely exists.
And what tales told shall still be spun?
Better the dust on a wet brow
Than the dirt on the field we plow.
We have buried each other, now
Let all seasons mourn everyone.
A Thread-Thin LineOf facts, she knew. From research notes could recall quotes to quickly spew.
Her passion grew, and passion floats like star-bound boats; on skies, she flew.
Textbooks could say, but not define, a thread-thin line walks minds that gray.
Facts can't outweigh a father's shine, that must decline somehow, someday.
Inflation DayI walked into my room
Pulled out some loose clothing to wear
Then I went into my closet
And pulled out a large tank of air.
I stuck the hose in my bellybutton
I said "This is going to be great!"
I went to the airtank
And turned the knob up to eight.
I felt the air enter my body
I had hoped it would soon
That's when it actually happened
I was inflating like a balloon!
My belly was getting rounder
I poked it once or twice
My whole body was getting enormous
The feeling was very nice.
However, I was quickly losing mobility
I was bigger in width than height
Soon, I was feeling lots of pressure
And my belly feels really tight.
I tried to pull the hose out
Unfortunately, it was stuck
And now I can't move to reach the airtank
Well great, just my luck....
The expanding feeling is just too great
I don't really think I want to stop....
However, I'm starting to feel pretty full
And now I think I'm going to pop!!!!
That Punk Rock FeelingShe walks down the street,
Headphones in her ears.
Angry music playing loudly,
To keep away her tears.
Her hair is short and messy,
Her black polish is chipped.
Her combat boots thump loudly,
Her goodwill jeans are ripped.
She likes her rough fashion,
Ahough she hates her face.
It masks her emotions,
Her hearts delicate as lace.
Yet she grins at passersby,
Who stare with pure disgust.
She leaves them speechless,
Coverde in her dust.
SEXLovers do it.
People abuse it.
Porn improves it.
Teens try it.
Rapists force it.
Hookers sell it.
Brothels run it.
The horny want it.
And human survival relies on it.
The Tell Tale HeartI feel the rhythm of his heart,
beneath the boards the beating starts;
as reason from my mind departs,
I fall apart, I fall apart.
The men who knocked upon my door,
not knowing what's beneath my floor
will want to settle up the score -
I do implore, I do implore
This guilt breaks conscience with my lie -
my wracking sobs and wretched sighs.
I never meant for him to die.
It was his eye, it was his eye!
RapeYou said it would not hurt, as you advanced;
Yet nothing but pain was inflicted, your
Secretive smirk left me lost in a trance,
I was young and vulnerable, unsure.
You told me to trust you, though I did not
Your words sliced through my soul; you took control
Of my mind, you left me with not one shot
To sew back together this gaping hole.
You took from me, my pride, my innocence
So you could receive what I did not want
To give you; You struck, as though with vengeance,
Though I had not wronged you; I fear you'll haunt
My dreams forever, release from my mind
Never, you poisoned this victim; left blind.
B, B, and a Broken HeartBlood is red,
bruises are blue.
My bones are broken,
thanks to you.
My heart is bleeding,
my tears are black.
And I can't believe,
I want you back.
Punk rocker.A boy was born nine years today,
he is given but one gift
no toys, no games for him to play
but a guitar to grant his wish.
The boy is fifteen years today
he was nine when his fingers bled
he is a rocker born and made
writing songs inside his head
Now a man and twenty-three
he's losing site of fame
will he quit to feed the family,
or try and beat this game?
Thirty now and getting old
but the record deal is signed
thirty cents per CD sold
but for his dream this is fine.
Thirty-five and world renowned
he thinks he's doing fine
but with alcohol and drugs he's drowned
he's almost lost his mind.
Forty years of life have gone
he's remembered his life goal
not to be a rich rocker stoned
but a punk who has a soul.
His life is gone, his tombstone set
he's six feet under-ground
loved by kids he's never met
the man who defined sound
Remember the Angel?
Remember the angel that wiped your tears and made you brightly smile?
You always told her to let you be; you were always in denial.
Remember the angel that sang you to sleep and played with your hair?
You never cared to have her near you, though that smile was still there
Remember the angel that waited for you, the one who waited countless hours?
You never seemed to even notice, I guess that was your power
Remember the angel that saved your life, risking also her own?
You ran away and left her there, you left her there alone
Remember the angel that fell from heaven, only to be with you?
You marked her with your sin and made her feel brand new
Remember the angel with crystal eyes and long white hair let down?
You see how she feels alone; do you see that awful frown?
Remember the angel, please remember her now, can't you feel her love?
All of that was only for you , sent from above
Remember the angel, don't you remember the angel,
Being a ChristianMany people think that they are Christians because they belong to a congregation.
Others think its because they come from a Christian background.
Others think its because they were born in a certain country.
Or because they believe in God and do good works.
It's not like that at all.
Being a Christian isn't belonging to a congregation.
It isn't walking down an aisle or being baptized.
It isn't just saying "I believe in God."
It isn't even following the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule.
Being a Christian means believing that Jesus Christ is who He said He is;
The Son of God and the only way to heaven.
It means making a total commitment to Jesus Christ.
It means making Him the Savior and Master of your life.