I wish I could understand
The lies you said
The pain you hid
The bitter truth you spit
But what if I told you
That every word you said
Is a dagger through our hearts
A wound that could not be stitched?
I wished to be your best friend,
But sometimes I feel like a stranger looking in.
Will you have the faith
To confide in us one day?
I promise we'll ignore your flaws,
If you'll kindly ignore ours.
Everybody lies,
It's the only truth sometimes.
The steamer trunk might have been my grandfather’s,
but I don’t remember seeing it in
his dark little room that smelled like old clocks.
If I sit for a long time in this chair
the right words will appear. Like magic.
Despite the evidence, I still believe
that. Believing in anything now takes
a toll. There doesn’t seem to be a god,
for instance, who gives a shit about us.
It’s August. The dawn chorus is over
for the year. Sometimes, one dusty robin
lands on the lawn and hops around. The worms
have burrowed down under. Everyone is
exhausted by the heat, the drought, the plague,
waiting and waiting for some kind of relief.
My grandfather had a small life, and yet
I love my friends.
I like my life.
My grades are
good, reputation-
pristine. Yet I
Don't feel happy here.
Is there something
wrong with me? Or
Is there an unchangeable
reason behind this feeling?
Any other way,
something does not
Belong.
We aren't special.
Nobody is, has
been, or ever will
be. Yet something
burns inside saying
that somehow, we
Are.
So are humans
just put here to
get from point
A to B, with
obstacles to amuse
the maker who put
us here? Or is there
a way to break
through the
Walking out the door
It's 4
Going to sit on natures floor
Listening to the rain
The cries let out by nature
Sitting peacefully in her tears
Mother Nature cries
It's 5
We say goodbye
No more tears
A new sky
Someone may reads books, but she doesn't always write one or so.
But another one who writes, she always read things.
She reads the sky and flowers.
She reads her surrounding.
She reads seconds that is passing.
She reads people.
She reads soul.
Having turned away from the present, a mood slides over and locks.
A vivid personhood folds him in. A halo as in an eclipse.
Knowledge is funny how it can just eat you up:
having named eras longer than any wholesome human projection,
and compressed extinctions into black threads,
and eaten a nice meal at All Souls College,
(the organ testing its high silver pipes,
thinking of the weird smear of blonde on the nude girl
he’d seen split apart in the operating theater)
John Phillips tumbles down some stone steps and dies,
concussing, his soft body softening further
on the edges of the granite,
erasing, in a way, a fish in reverse,
the special fleshy hope-lumps—no, need-lumps
All words, deeds, praises
Forgotten and discarded
Except by the sand
If a tree falls in a forest
And no one's around to hear it
Does it even make a sound?
Of course it does
What a stupid question
Just because your ears
Did not hear
The tumble of the timber
Doesn't mean it didn't happen.
When we close our ears off to the world
Things happen
Whether we want it to
Or not.
If you really want to hear a tree
Crash its last
And first fall
I have a scar on my thumb
Shaped like a crescent moon
Well, maybe if the moon was drunk.
I got it when I was twelve
An impatient girl
Used a pocketknife to cut cardboard
Because scissors just didn't make the cut!
And I sliced my thumb.
I have a scar on my ear
When I was young,
A skin tag marred my perfect vision
Of a perfect ear.
So when I was still young,
I got it removed.
It's faded now
But I can still feel it.
I see what lies before me,
I believe only what I see,
I have the weight of the world on me
Yet I can still breath
Every day that passes with me
I see my reality grow faintly
I fall asleep to the gentle breeze
Only to the dawn to see the willow trees
My eyes are unsure, do I see?
The beauty of nature bestowed on me.
for cruelty.
That’s probably
my biggest weakness.
Because there are times where
Cruelty is a necessity
There are times where
A decisive blow
Must be struck —
Thunderous, earth shaking,
Cutting clean in two.
Where you leave them
Weeping, clawing, pleading
With no kind word
From you.
You need a heart of stone
Cold, reptilian, unflinching