Titanic
Too long, the time has been given unto your possession and greedily you hold it still. You tarnish it with drooled words that slowly fall from your lips in a slime not unlike your character. A melted form of metal, you were gold but now you’ve shifted to iron. A tint of grey and nothing more, you are colorless and lifeless. You are a drowning ship, whose arrogance befits its failure. Sink in with all your greatness, in your size, you are a titanic waste of time.
A Sail of Roses
Waiting for you is a pleasure cruise, upon a bed of flowers I set my sails. The roses count off with petals settled slow, and I hearken to these words: “She loves me,” I believe it with each pluck. “She loves me not,” with short phrasing my heart stops. Each moment I see the naked stem, bare without its wings, and the petals laid bare beneath my sails, I sigh a breath that longs for your visage. To scream, in the most triumphant and weary way, I rest my voice for little more than plucks of petals red. I await the day when upon the horizon your smile rises. I sail, in pleasure, to you on a bed of flowers.
Wrong or Right
Am I wrong for things I’ve thought to be true to be correct? I thought that your caress would save me from a dark moment. I thought that my absence would mean nothing. I thought that whatever it was that you were for me, I could never be for you. How is it that these inclinations make me the villain? How do they place me in the wrong? I was right. You saved me from my sorrows. You went on without thoughts of me in your veins to course through your lonely fingers and cold chills. My heart is ravaged by aching, and yours is filled with slight joys of menial things. Am I wrong for being right?
Say It
The narrative voice within us all should never be quieted because of a lack of confidence. In that lack of showmanship you harbor spirit and wisdom. The way this Earth has housed your experiences should be relented, for even a greenhouse will open its windows.
Heirlooms
Divide the spirit from the body, make of it a separate soul. Give it no such thing as corporeal form. Leave it to its own devices, to never connect with this realm again. Still, you will find resonance from the past, the remnants of what has been. The body should still lie cold but the spirit lives on. In your mind, the spirit once within that chest is divided. Soon you will see that chest was only as valuable as the treasures within, and that you have finally caught it in your hands. The once warm casing is only cold because you have taken the warmth for yourself. Hold that warmth in your heart, and fret not that you’ve broken your piggy-bank. Spirit is yours to treasure now in your chest.
Absent
The quiet, the silence somehow soothes me. The slight whining in my ears have stopped and all that sits in this space is me. No action, no motion. The sound of absence. “Absence,” that word prevails over all others. It is not a presence of silence, it is an absence of action. Inactive as the dirt that sits on the trail, to this path I have dissipated to pebbles and dirt. I am that absence, even within my own life. Without something to shake off, or respond, I am absent. Absence of the mind? Absence of the self? Am I now the makings of absence?
Numbness
She said it had felt numbing, the sensations were never really present. She could feel the escape of touch from her hands. The chill she felt from the sweat disappeared and her chest became nothing. Emptiness would be too strong a sensation for her to know. She described to me what death might feel, but never told me an exact comparison. She mentioned a few things, like the expectancy of the cold of snow. The cold of snow, an obvious thing, was never there; the pain of a broken heart was never there. She stood at her stance in her place frozen from the numbness. She couldn’t feel the drops that flowed rivers of heartache down her cheeks. To this moment she says, “I still don’t know what’s numb, my body or my heart.”
Forget Forgiveness
I’ve something to tell you, but an apology seems lackluster. My mistakes are not far and few, but close and numerable. I’ve done nothing of the sort that says there’s anything other than a concern for myself. I have stained my own paintings with a red mark along the corners through the center. I have wasted the efforts of the muralist who thought myself worthy of your wall. As the bricks build in your growth, my piece will shrink in value. Should an apology be said when you’ve little regret and worry for these mistakes and their effects? Should I even begin to utter the word “I” in your presence? My name is nothing of your memories, and to forget me would be gift to us both. I beg of you forget, not forgiveness. I beg of you to do away with me. I beg of you to never suffer my name again. Bud of love, sweet nectar of ambrosia, I will leave with my head faced down.
Anonymous asked: Are you going to "The Beatles: The Lost Concert" movie premier in a few weeks?
Didn’t even know that was coming out… or existed
Father Talk
As his planned approach, the father came to his daughter one evening. He felt the urge was coming. Next Saturday is going to be her first party.
“I want to talk to you for a minute,” the father spoke, devoid of request.
“What’s up?” her lax response would soon be her first regret.
“About next Saturday,” he began, “remember, your body is a temple. Do you know what that means?”
“Ummm, pretty much dad…” her eyes wandered in discomfort.
He looked about himself. Scratching the back of his head. playing with his fingers. Moving his lips in odd directions. “That means, sweetie, no meat.”
I’m Happy
I’m happy he can make you smile, your laughter has a charm to it even in his arms. The giggle in your step as you chuckle at his side, laughing it up at how himself he can be. How much he is what you wanted. I can’t ask you what’s wrong with me, because I could make you laugh too. I told you stories to bed and you would love it when I told it with hints of me and you. How we could be in my imagination, how we could be if you could wait.
Wait for me. Wait for me to be the man that I know you deserve. Wait for me. Yet this I knownowis impossible. Your patience has worn thin, and he came with new threading. Your wait was never for me, it was always for him.
He has a strong arm that you love to lie in. Rest your head on his heavy chest, and remind me why having given you my heart left it too hollow for bed rest.
I can hear your laughter, its almost spiteful to me. Laugh away the monkey, he’s dancing for cheap change. Your man, that man, is the accordion player tipping his hat for your pocket change. Give him your all. Maybe through his life, I can be with you. For now I’ll be in mine, and be without you. Again, I’m happy he can make you smile.
Fresh
I am without the sensation of
fresh air in tired lungs. I feel no
refreshment in my days. The times have
little changed, and yet my spirit is
numb
from experience.
Tired and withered, my mind is
beleaguered by the
unattainable.
I am forever in want, and forever
without. I exist in a cycle, circular procedure
comes to the starting point,
a snake biting its tail but
still seeping poison through its fangs.
What change, what drastic maneuver shall fate
undertake?
Better yet, I suggest fate
undertake me.
Bring me to the doorstep of the undertaker.
There exist an unmitigated boredom,
the monotony is dreary beyond imagine.
I want of you,
fate,
to bring me your cruelest meditation.
Conspire with the dark forces that hide behind the sun,
the twisted fellows who had enough imagination to
hide in the light,
then to be the light,
and never make their darkness known.
Bring me to the undertaker, in whatever fashion you deem fresh.
