Make this more than just another
day that sits heavy on us all, make
this more than just another shoreline
battered and beaten by the sea.
Let us rise above the events that
make us and
may the rest of us
define our situation.
Make this more than just another
star-sprinkled night, make
this more than just another 5am sunrise
spilling quickly over calm waters.
Let us rise above the events that
make us and
may the rest of us
define our situation.
All we are,
all we are,
just steel-toed combat boots
with worn-leather laces.
Splattered with mud,
head down.
fight your own damn battle.
June 2, 2012
#15
Splatter color on your hands so the
prints
reflect who you are.
Press your thumbs into my cheek
and leave a
mark on my heart.
If I had a penny for every moment
I wished to be you
I would be a fucking millionaire.
prints
reflect who you are.
Press your thumbs into my cheek
and leave a
mark on my heart.
If I had a penny for every moment
I wished to be you
I would be a fucking millionaire.
Irony
The sunny mornings are given to the cynics,
the clouds to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and dew to the dead.
Bright flowers are given to the cynics,
the blight to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and potatoes to the dead.
A guitar's sing is given to the cynics,
sharp discord to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and a symphony to the dead.
We all have r e a s o n s for who we a r e.
the clouds to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and dew to the dead.
Bright flowers are given to the cynics,
the blight to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and potatoes to the dead.
A guitar's sing is given to the cynics,
sharp discord to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and a symphony to the dead.
We all have r e a s o n s for who we a r e.
#14
If you always walk with your head held down,
always staring at concrete angels with beauty passing by,
when will that beauty fade to black?
and when will that beauty fade to black?
If beauty is a perception,
and nobody perceives,
when will beauty fade to black?
always staring at concrete angels with beauty passing by,
when will that beauty fade to black?
and when will that beauty fade to black?
If beauty is a perception,
and nobody perceives,
when will beauty fade to black?
#13
If silence is louder than
gunshots
and looks are more piercing than
bullets,
then suck your god damn bullet
back into your gun
before somebody gets
k i l l e d
for real.
For once.
gunshots
and looks are more piercing than
bullets,
then suck your god damn bullet
back into your gun
before somebody gets
k i l l e d
for real.
For once.
#12
If sea waves crash down
and wash out golden irises, please tell
me how on Earth blue nail polish
should cease to chip
and breadcrumbs cease to
fall and hearts
cease to break.
When love doesn't prevail, when the
oceans recede, when golden
irises rise up from the dust be
sure to grab
your coat as you leave behind because,
everybody knows
that to protect your heart
is to protect you home.
and wash out golden irises, please tell
me how on Earth blue nail polish
should cease to chip
and breadcrumbs cease to
fall and hearts
cease to break.
When love doesn't prevail, when the
oceans recede, when golden
irises rise up from the dust be
sure to grab
your coat as you leave behind because,
everybody knows
that to protect your heart
is to protect you home.
Name Game
When I was in the kindergarten,
my teacher asked me who I was.
I said, "I don't know."
Hannah.
This memory is fresh and bold in my mind the
way
that the first snowfall stands out
on the trees;
the way the chickadee cries
at dawn; the
way that the stars graze my golden cheeks
in the sunlight.
The flower that blooms in
the pit of my despair
blooms upon my countenance,
a clever masquerade
who I am.
who I am
Who am I.
Nothing seems so pure or quick than
the soft ticking of a wrist watch
as gentle drops of
moonlight weave her fingers
through my hair, spring
my curls,
my friend.
Nothing seems so true and real
than the
songs and hollers,
whoops and cries of the
crickets in the night as they
weave their melodies of kryptonite and bonfire.
Music runs through my mind as I listen to their voices,
every cell.
every note.
The hum of the universe mingles with
my thoughts,
an interrupted and violent whirlpool of
memories and facts,
could-haves and would-haves,
long division and multiplication,
(insignificant)
makes me placid
HUM there, on
and on.
They never hear the crickets.
They never see the drops of moonlight fall on black pavement.
They never feel a hum deep in their bones.
What I would do to lend you my glasses,
my ears,
my soul,
lending isn't feeling or experiencing
listening is only hearing when
you don't hear your own heartbeat
connected by an invisible string
to everything.
And so she asked,
"Who are you."
I don't know. She
never gave me a chance to
paint my canvas in more than
black and white; of
crickets and music notes, and
moonlight that
irrevocably
unchangeably,
what lies in you lies in me
what lies in me lies in you
But don't change any names just yet.
my teacher asked me who I was.
I said, "I don't know."
Hannah.
This memory is fresh and bold in my mind the
way
that the first snowfall stands out
on the trees;
the way the chickadee cries
at dawn; the
way that the stars graze my golden cheeks
in the sunlight.
The flower that blooms in
the pit of my despair
blooms upon my countenance,
a clever masquerade
who I am.
who I am
Who am I.
Nothing seems so pure or quick than
the soft ticking of a wrist watch
as gentle drops of
moonlight weave her fingers
through my hair, spring
my curls,
my friend.
Nothing seems so true and real
than the
songs and hollers,
whoops and cries of the
crickets in the night as they
weave their melodies of kryptonite and bonfire.
Music runs through my mind as I listen to their voices,
every cell.
every note.
The hum of the universe mingles with
my thoughts,
an interrupted and violent whirlpool of
memories and facts,
could-haves and would-haves,
long division and multiplication,
(insignificant)
makes me placid
HUM there, on
and on.
They never hear the crickets.
They never see the drops of moonlight fall on black pavement.
They never feel a hum deep in their bones.
What I would do to lend you my glasses,
my ears,
my soul,
lending isn't feeling or experiencing
listening is only hearing when
you don't hear your own heartbeat
connected by an invisible string
to everything.
And so she asked,
"Who are you."
I don't know. She
never gave me a chance to
paint my canvas in more than
black and white; of
crickets and music notes, and
moonlight that
irrevocably
unchangeably,
what lies in you lies in me
what lies in me lies in you
But don't change any names just yet.
#11
When tears plummet from the
skies like it's never going to.
End.
and when rain drips from your
eyes like it's the ______First you've been
h u r t,
it's clear to the soul:
practicing ice and
beauty yields jealousy
that
creates cracks in our bones
and if
she imagines, all the things that everything could be,
the
world
could
do
the
same.
skies like it's never going to.
End.
and when rain drips from your
eyes like it's the ______First you've been
h u r t,
it's clear to the soul:
practicing ice and
beauty yields jealousy
that
creates cracks in our bones
and if
she imagines, all the things that everything could be,
the
world
could
do
the
same.
May 7, 2012
#10
At five years old, I told my mother I felt strange.
She replied, ever caring with, "What, sweetie?"
If I had a vocabulary ten years wiser I would have told her it was like a freight train full of unicorns crashed inside my soul and they couldn't figure out how to escape the overturned boxcar of rainbows.
She replied, ever caring with, "What, sweetie?"
If I had a vocabulary ten years wiser I would have told her it was like a freight train full of unicorns crashed inside my soul and they couldn't figure out how to escape the overturned boxcar of rainbows.
May 2, 2012
#9
Tame your quiet rage
with a silent roar and
the vibration of a guitar string.
Let it all go into oblivion and let the light shine but,
windows at sunrise,
So I've found,
tend to not be as transparent as normal.
With light stinging so bright,
reflect back your secrets,
stun your foes,
windows are a lot like people.
with a silent roar and
the vibration of a guitar string.
Let it all go into oblivion and let the light shine but,
windows at sunrise,
So I've found,
tend to not be as transparent as normal.
With light stinging so bright,
reflect back your secrets,
stun your foes,
windows are a lot like people.
April 24, 2012
Dark Blue
Screaming doesn't always do justice to feelings
and sometimes they are all too strong,
too fast,
too incredible for words.
To smash a keyboard seems more justified,
to jump out a window with a parachute upside down backwards topless whathaveyou.
I want to feel.
I want to feel the rush of blood from the waves of
millions of poets pumping and pushing making me breathe
crashing down in my soul.
I want to feel the distant hours tick away knowing that maybe today is the day.
Today is the day,
I said as the symphony played on.
What do you expect from me?
What do you expect from me?
It's been 370 days, but not that I'm counting.
Nothing is here but dark blue,
dark blue that
keeps my curtains alive tell me now why
the pot isn't allowed to call the petal black tell me why
things go too soon
tell me why everybody says to move on when
still,
my heart aches my bones shake my mind spins and
still,
I think of that day like it was this morning at
9 am I got the call, a train crashed into
a bright blue ocean the ocean the ocean the ocean
of a dark blue bottom.
Where the octopus lives that's where I'll dwell
come visit sometime if you dare come see the depths of my soul
but pass a test.
pass a test.
370 days ago I learned to live
I learned to die
an equilibrium equation for lifedeathinbetween
Thank you very much but I think I'll play russian roulette with my
pens and ink and maybe a few paper cuts but I promise I'm not a cutter
cutter
cut her deep to the bone.
370 370 370
Get over it.
Get over the sea of dark blue that seems to touch and go, skip over words
Get over the sea of dark blue that likes to replace red blood,
call me a freak I call myself hurt.
April 17, 2012
Manny?
Hello blogging world and poets that know me personally.
Yes. It is still me. "Manny" probably just followed all of you, and that's a.o.k. Promise. It's just me. Long story short, I needed to switch a few things around. All is well :)
PS. or it is KL? I don't know guys. But that new follower? Don't get too excited. It's just me.
March 18, 2012
The Fifth Year Is The Hardest
"Five years ago feels like yesterday,"I said with a bittersweet smile enshrouding my eyes, covering my face with glistening sparkles of light. I would like very much to take every pair of reflective sunglasses from the clearance rack at my neighborhood wal-mart because I sure as hell can't seem to keep anybody out but I guess that's poetry. I guess that's poetry that runs through my veins, my life blood, you keep my heart beating
thump thump
thump thump
I guess that's poetry when your brain rambles so fast you mistake pillow for marshmallow so I'll take some creative license. I guess it's poetry the scrawled lines of misshapen pleas written in bold, black paint
Why will it never dry?
I guess that five years ago was poetry when we talked on the phone for hours, well actually it was sobbing, but when words fail to speak raw emotion does, I know better than anybody:
It's the moon that does the dancing, and
tears? Well they are just waterfalls from inside of our souls.
Five years ago you had a beautiful soul and now all I see when I search your name are birthdays and anniversaries and births but never that one thing that meant the most to me five years ago, my five year old poem of death.
Five years ago is the reason black paint is always in short supply in my house. I still remember when mom walked into my room, saw me with a paintbrush and said, You've killed the walls.
Five years ago felt more like a bird so I said, The walls killed me.
Five years ago killed me not you. Not you. I saw the walls close in, so I busted down the flimsy stone and strong glass with words and thoughts and a stroke of black paint did it. It did it like you held her in your lap and taught her how to count. Patiently, quietly, but with a determination of a few thousand birds,
flying south for the winter.
Five years ago, I come back home.
thump thump
thump thump
I guess that's poetry when your brain rambles so fast you mistake pillow for marshmallow so I'll take some creative license. I guess it's poetry the scrawled lines of misshapen pleas written in bold, black paint
Why will it never dry?
I guess that five years ago was poetry when we talked on the phone for hours, well actually it was sobbing, but when words fail to speak raw emotion does, I know better than anybody:
It's the moon that does the dancing, and
tears? Well they are just waterfalls from inside of our souls.
Five years ago you had a beautiful soul and now all I see when I search your name are birthdays and anniversaries and births but never that one thing that meant the most to me five years ago, my five year old poem of death.
Five years ago is the reason black paint is always in short supply in my house. I still remember when mom walked into my room, saw me with a paintbrush and said, You've killed the walls.
Five years ago felt more like a bird so I said, The walls killed me.
Five years ago killed me not you. Not you. I saw the walls close in, so I busted down the flimsy stone and strong glass with words and thoughts and a stroke of black paint did it. It did it like you held her in your lap and taught her how to count. Patiently, quietly, but with a determination of a few thousand birds,
flying south for the winter.
Five years ago, I come back home.
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