I like words. We all have them.
Yet, we use them so differently.
Some flow beautifully from mouths,
while others need to write them.
They can be stretched, measured for intent,
delivered with impact, or even severity, and all
each of them are, are tiny little sticks. Sticks bent,
and curled; all lined up nicely to make meaning of
our thoughts so others might also engage in our curiosities.
Thank you for reading and being with me. I’m thankful for all of my peers on this platform.
I see no reason to not be myself
It took me a long while to get here
I like the view
Sent from my iPhone
A heart’s twisted realization
may lie within the mirror
it most often views.
As it sits without sound
accepting lusting pangs
of curious voyeurism,
feeling that maybe,
this will be enough.
We slumbered nicely in a schizophrenic dream. Things seem funny here. If only we could be foam in the sea; one time a music asked for us to talk about it without nothing. We didn’t know how, so we did ask. The nothing in the music became enraged. It’s a white space thing in a black drawing, tampering with emotion behind your back. As though the fucking keyboard wanted this.
I opened the door to our spare bedroom,
stood motionless, and began to close the door.
Oddly enough, I knew I was supposed to open
the door and walk to the far side of the room.
For what reason, I hadn’t a clue. But, I knew
I was needing to do this. So I did.
Absolutely nothing happened.
I left the room.
It wasn’t long ago that I had one room,
with four walls, and a sliding glass door leading to a deck
overlooking a mountain ridge in Western, MA.
Those four walls and I never got along very well.
I remember the view in Western, MA, like I’ll always
remember walking to the far side of the spare bedroom.
For some reason I was meant to do that.
I believe I’ll realize why
when my mind decides to let me.
Death has its own shadow
From which we borrow time
While knowing in full entirety
It itself is following mine
A boy once walked alone at night
nearer than what he wanted-
While whispering to the wind,
‘Death follows its own shadow’
I have a new window to look out of,
new branches to learn, new winds to listen to,
and a new horizon to understand.
Something good may come from this.
From these new windows- Each Spring
is the newest and first spring for every
single budding flower, and for newly born
leaves to flourish in the sunlight until it’s
time to drop and fly into the crisp October air.
A face, like a barn door,
asked me to be like a nothing.
I was. Much like the old woman
shaking, and alone, just outside
the frosted window.
Talk with a man who wishes
to not live one day longer
And then talk with a child
who has no choice but to
leave this world early.
Why are these situations
placed one way or another
with so little leverage to help
either one. And yet I believe
we must try. Even if that means
listening to their last words.
Sent from my iPhone
Self control is a funny thing. Why do we need it again?