Resting Place
one way or another,
the world that haunts me
will bleed away.
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Extra
sitting here waiting
for the light to turn green and
the world to make sense again
i suddenly realized
each hazy blur of traffic passing by
each blasting radio preaching The Word
each teeny-tiny passenger on that teeny-tiny airplane
is telling an epic story of a world
full of thousands of paths to thousands of other lives
in which i am nothing
Pinky Promises
for every time you failed to come through
you should have broken your pinky
because promises mean nothing
if you don't lose something in return
but you didn't
you gained and gained and gained
maybe that's why i'm unafraid
of broken pinkies too
Hysteria
sometimes laughter
is cruel
twice as often it is nice
( A Girl Called X )
She is the girl called X ,
small and quaint
strong and sweet
but no one will ever know that .
because physically she is not special
on the outside
she is the girl called X
on the inside she is a glaxay of stories
a mind full of love
and a heart full of beautiful blemishes
but you will never know that
because she is the girl called X .
TO MY FUTURE CHILDREN
I maybe not perfect
But I will do my best
If something went wrong
Just come & tell me.
If I may say no
That means I protected you
& We can talk about.
If I may say yes
That means I know what's good enough
Not the best.
If I can't like your partner
That means I've seen something suspicious
& We can talk.
If your upset about me, friends & love
Come near me
& Talk about
Refrain
To realize only that a note cannot be written
as one would a word or phrase;
a soliloquy does not pierce the flesh
where a melody would resound within.
To know one's thoughts are one and the same:
like a twisting river it flows deep throughout—cannot truly be known through word or phrase.
No, it must be felt. It must be borne.
It must be lived.
What, You Egg?
Here I am,
sitting in the dark
alone next to the turtle pond.
There is no rhyme,
no reason,
and no sense
as the turtles are asleep.
I stay up late
for no purpose at all
and my mind is oft adrift;
I worry for the future
about the past
and evermore the present,
but I can't make up my mind
and the turtles are asleep.
Under muse of calls
Signature
My name is blue paint, cracked, peeling
I know all too well - that fickle feeling
and all the cracks on that musty ceiling.
My name is echoes of a time gone by
I can't ignore, though I may try
-shadows that might never die.
My name is silence, empty, fleeting
broken only by muffled eating
and sagging in that eternal seating.
My name is lost, forgotten, old
and really would rather not be told
lest it remind of that rotten hold.
My name is breathing, heavy, strained
-an unsettled joy now forever stained
by feelings that have since remained.
My name is hunger, hatred, unrefined
Snow Angels In Rose Bushes
Favor-itism;
a flaw you claim to be bereft
of, what a sin
I have gone and accused you of
and what a fool
you could never be oh so cruel
Favor-itism;
I'm just over-analyzing
clearly I am
what you do for them, no request
needed on their
end, you're just that nice of a guy
Favor-itism;
you'd do the same for me, I'm sure
I'm just complex
and hard to do things for, I know
Ambience
The chair creaks as
I rise from it;
god, what a horrid
sound.
As I walk through
the room, the dust
scatters from me
like scared little bugs.
I tear those
sickeningly yellow
curtains
away from their charge
and flinch
at the equally
revolting
sun.
Designation
What's in a person's name,
past it being theirs to own
and to notify of a neighbor's call?
What binds it to us - past remembrance
and the need to write to identify?
Why should we use these names
that hold nothing for us
past a label applied by other labels?
Why should I keep this name
that is tied to nothing but myself;
nothing but a haggard child
with eyes and smile both tired and aching
in a dimly-lit room I often forget?
Why, indeed.
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