Poems – Page 19 – musings & scribbles

Songs Of Old

October 28, 2012

And memories, they keep coming when that’s all you have
Or all you care about– so easily picked, harder to remember what led to them being your
Memories.

I can move mountains with my mind, but my eyes will only watch and my hands only dig; my lips will only move, my mouth will only dry. A peculiar situation when reality puts you in a place you’d been before but hoped was only a dream best kept sleeping.

I laugh out loud when I think of days, but blank my stare when hanging on to thoughts of nights and all their ramblings.

Just poked fun at myself
Tried to land a soft punch
But didn’t pull back at all
Meant to hold a thought
Forgot to let it go to begin with

And that’s where this story ends.

ember(s)

October 28, 2012

and, adrift in climb of silence’s stairs,
we hold our eyes along route of that fleeting glimpse of God’s first gift, light in darkest days.

Another Thing

October 28, 2012

You should always say what is worth saying before committing it to memory. The phrase, “committing it to memory,” can imply memory is an institution. I agree with this. My mind often knows less about relevant responses, and more about fight-or-flight.

random musings

October 28, 2012

Don’t put it back the same way
you found it. That only means
you never existed.

A good king reveals problems,
but still despises the very notion.
Patios are for guests and bird watchers. Star gazers need a hill. Don’t ask me why, but I think it’s just social assumption; that oldest trait we still attribute genetics to.

I always find speed to be less a knowledgeable outcome, more a byproduct of being wreckless in earnest.

Preparedness should never be defined by the variables.

finding out you’re inadequate sure hurts, but so does finding out you’re just adequate. all told, you have to look at everything the world has to offer before you subscribe to the notion that, “one wrong is everywhere.” just like a hitter may need a different rotation, a quarterback a different receiving corps, a coach a different team– just like each of those, you cannot feel as though you are not good enough for all. you’re great for someone, for some team. you just have to find that team, show them you’re worth their time, and grow.

That’s what many fail to realize, really. Growth is not possible in a static/stagnant place. You either cannot expand, or you’re just spreading filth.

define:me
so,
i don’t think
you can.
i think you
see what
you want:
a spot of text.

‘ but not
‘ who i
‘ am.
‘ (a
‘ man walks through
‘ an open door,
‘ he doesn’t look around
‘ or
‘ stop to turn the handle,
‘ he just
‘ walks through and
‘ you take that to mean
‘ he knows it’s open,
‘ but what if
‘ he’s just walking
‘ and doesn’t
‘ know it’s a door?)

blahblah

October 28, 2012

yo, i
haven’t lost a good friend in a long while
to violence or anything that would be permanent,
but, damn, i feel like i’ve outgrown a few
of my good friends from when we would play war
like death was a distant concern– man, how fast
we grow up when put into a social situation
perpetuated by others and not ourselves, or
maybe i did it myself by not being a bit more
transparent.

Untitled 11

October 28, 2012

Addiction is a place inside your head,
Where you become locked in a cell
You’re the warden of– your own hell–
You can’t escape, but…
Just walk through the front door.
Stop scheming, be dreaming of
Relief, relaxation from that need–
Realize you’re better being you than
That prisoner of your own mind.

carnival barker

October 28, 2012

Enter the Maid, a traveler from another side of the city.
Across from the Maid enters Adani, a lover of modern necessities, but classic styles.

Maid (whispering): The carn’val barker knows t’ whispa,
so be c’r’ful of a soft breeze ‘t’s-not
movin’ thr’u’ th’ trees– it’s-a ploy, a plot
to hide y’r drown-in’ in anoth’r’s chatt’r.

Andi: What? I’ve heard that before. Do you know where that’s from?

Maid: Oh, it’s always bein’ said here. s’plains a lot. Can’t always trust a soft speaker!

revisionist

October 28, 2012

you’re so far from here,
but i can feel your presence, my dear,
shaking me from the boundaries and into thoughts
of us not having to be missed, but right on time for

never delete. revise, revise, revise, through giving yourself enough time to separate from the thought.

that’s what humans KNOW and PRACTICE every day, but don’t really employ (at all) as often– revising through time, not through repetition and brute force. give something to the world. let what you’ve given mature enough to tinge with rust and brittled corners. once you’ve forgotten what you’ve done, and had time to revise it in your head (there is the greatest space we have and the most time), proceed to revise a copied version. keep the original, so you can do the same thing later. with this method, you will know yourself more than a moment in time you witnessed.

humans never respond the same way– we evolve thought and practice the art of augmentation, ignoring repetition unless it’s the most mundane sub-tasks to our lives. we don’t really let ourselves become overburdened with the fact that our days are all the same, lined up and examined as though they were different– hell, we’d even find ourselves saying a day is better than the last, despite it being the same as today. our hearts follow a course and feel it’s more than the everyday we try to ignore– we never realize we’re doing the same thing until we look back and ask ourselves, “what the fuck was i doing for so long?” it’d be nice to be able to push back the end of a sentence to where it fits and where it doesn’t interrupt an otherwise productive day. but, we must end everything eventually. we must begin to build ourselves as more than who we were– by picking out the smallest subsets of our lives, as with a microscope, and presenting without examination to a crowd.

everything

October 28, 2012

i sit and stare at a spot i’ve not looked at before,
hoping the clarity returns and i can think of something more to say.
but words find there way around me, not intersecting with my thoughts, no.. no way to say how much i’ve missed you, how many times a day i find myself lost in thought of you and all you meant to me.
so intangible, the rough tongue of reality licks my hand and i try to think of something more to tell you. i try to think of what you don’t already know, and i fall short again.
interruptions, like craters, complicate our terrain and make it harder to run in a straight line to you, but i think we can make it if we go around. — at least that’s how the crisis-ridden got where they are. i don’t want that; i won’t be a better person by forgetting who i was. i can’t live life like a soldier when i’m a poet.

so many thoughts have come when we’re awake and ready, but never bother to write them down. “told you.” yeah, you did, but i’ve never listened and probably never will– it’s much less effort to make a mistake than correct the problem.

my shoes stink

October 28, 2012

i cleaned my room, sat for a bit and stared at all i had left to do.
can’t say much, but when i speak i say it all.
felt alone again today, just because you were gone.
forever, i try to be a better person, but it’s hard to be better when you only see your weaknesses.
i’m a witness to the rebirth of a nation of those, like me, who know nothing more than debt and its collection.
dreams are for believers in tonight, but i only see tomorrow, so i wake up blank and hope to start anew.
rarely, i wake up hopeful for what i’ve seen– i just hope where i think i’m going is where i will have been.
8 lines of myself, written as though i knew everything i said– but, that’s hard when you forget yourself each night, only letting that little nugget in your head remind you of the feelings you should have but don’t understand why.
anger. anger is the pit you can throw everything into, but can’t crawl out of without trying to find yourself someone to latch onto and see the grassline as the sky– a perfect symbol of freedom for someone stuck in perpetual falling, or engulfment.
my shoes stink.

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