Monday, February 27, 2012

Dream I Had the Other Night

She sat on the beach
blonde haired
and broken hearted.

With an opal heart
her mother gave her
on a golden chain.

So the sun went down
and she fell asleep
in the sand
with a bearded man.

He became her family
which was something
she couldn't comprehend
because she never had one.

So she ran away again
found a new man
gave him her opal heart
but he just gave it back.

He just couldn't accept it.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Two Kids and a Funeral

That cedar chest memory
of a back-dropped curtain
that covers a window
in a dimly lit room
slightly tinted red
from the tassels on the shades.

So as he tries to crawl inside
someone always pulls him away
from that reoccurring dream.

While the memory I carry
is much less morbid, it's still
embedded in my history.

A yellow kitchen set
on a rainy summer day
that caught my eye in such a way
that someone had to do the same.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

This Poem's a Mess, and Has No Point

I'll highlight my life in black ink
and let it go word for word.

Trying to simplify the point
which I've written over and over again
losing nothing in translation,
and he just opens my drawers
like I'm some sort of Salvador Dali painting.

So he peeks inside and sees a crumbled mess
knowing that we're nonetheless alike.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Hope for a Family Became a Scary Hospital Drive Memory

I wanna have a family
all my own
without worry of my drone


-that sickly sad chord
in the song called my life
sounded over this piece.

So I walked through my memories
without a soul by my side.

Although even if there was one
there's no way they could
understand the ride
and the music on the radio
would be too hard for them to find.

so I'll sing a tune to kiss my pride goodbye
sit back, enjoy the ride
and let someone else drive.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

A Rainy Day Spent in an Empty Pool

A cloudy sky on a dreary day
the rain falls on my hair
with the words in my heart.

It's hard to write in the rain
when the ink runs down the page.

Those old plastic rimmed glasses
that I stepped on again.

That was the last time
the pool was open,
and the end of my childhood.

A black blanket draped over me
-soaked in rain
was my umbrella.

My Hero

What a shame-
I won't see you again
till your next tour

But when you come around
I'll be waiting for you with open arms
and a book in hand

As a gift for the songs
you've given me.

A Message for my Mother- a Complicated Brother

Throw your money forth to him
he'll just throw it away
feel as bad as you want for him
it won't change a thing.

You feel, lost, hurt, broken, betrayed
and ask god why-
but let me tell you something
there's more to life than the god you see.

You frame yourself
because he's the son you raised
but you raised me too-
and I'm not running anywhere.

I'm standing right here-
and so is my sister.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Becoming a Better Writer

I want to grow old
with my poetry
have it as a partner
and become wise
as it follows

as if it was human like me

so I could somehow
develop a relationship
with every word I write

to have a bond with the words
that speak for themselves

You left for Nebraska, I had a panic attack

I painted several blue stars
while you were gone

And for some reason
I still love the shade of blue
I plastered on the walls
but when I finished
my mind was too far gone
to realize I created a masterpiece

I cleaned up my world
and scrubbed it until the finish
came off the hardwood floors
then I'd horde again
to fill the empty space

and me scared, shaking
suffering for the first time
from the anxiety flu
partially because I was afraid to lose you

Ghost Loves it When a Woman Plays Hard to Get

He bought her a dozen carnations
but still she didn't budge.

I'd have liked to call her a mule
but he adored her
so I kept my commentary quiet.

Then looked for the reasons
for why she'd be so cliche
and shove him out of her way
as if he was just an
ink smudge on paper.

She made him feel blemished
and I couldn't reconfigure him

at the time
I should have let him know
she was the disfigured one.

Successfully Undiscovered Poets Society

Dreams are so depressing
when in reality
it's nothing but a
black and white starry night

and adding color
is like ripping petals
from the most colorful flowers

because you know
the paint comes from the nature
of those around you

and the possibilities
will never see the light of day.

Monday, February 13, 2012

Excessivley Expensive Education

If cultivation was so essential

why is it forced down our throats
till we're grown

and then given a price
before you've had the chance
to be employed

forcing many to lie dormant
with hidden abilities
which may never be seen?

Sunday, February 12, 2012

I Came Down with the Anxiety Flu

There I was
no expression at all
pale as a ghost

in a never ending mess

and my concern meant
not a thing at all

and it's that tickle
in my throat
that thing which keeps me

from speaking up
so instead I just cough
and walk away.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

We Learn by Taking Notes

Notes of memories
that use to be
are only reminders
of a past that
was not so ideal

but connecting with them
can sometimes tie
the knots for our future

and in doing so
every detail is important
because who you are
defines who you will be.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Three Months in the Hospital

Last night I had a dream
that my sanity crumbled beneath me.
No medications would stay down
and the problem went unknown.

Doctors couldn't tell how
long this bizzare frenzy would last
even if the right pill existed.

 A dream like this
is beyond a nightmare
when here in reality
this phenomenon came true.

And nothing is more eerie
than losing that control.

The Impact of the Song

His voice is stuck in my head
remembering every word
and every note he hit
with passion and pride.

The way his voice
rings in my ears
is intense like
breaking time.

If only he knew
how those words
rattle in my head
as if that's all I know.

And with so few words
he empties my thoughts
and fills them with his,
 like pouring water in a glass.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Filling in the Empty Spaces

Filling in the Empty Spaces.

Space is an open book
collecting dust on the table
being a useless sad story
with no one around
to read the lines.

So when space is shared
it just seems to be ignored,
faces walk by as if
it never existed
while in plain view.

Then space becomes useful
only when every blank is filled in
and it's vibrant enough
to speak for itself.