
what he carried
I remembered it
suddenly
when the light
struck the fence
just so
while I smelled
cut grass
and I remembered
my father
taking me outside
in his arms
saying, it’s ok Ben
saying, it’s not your fault
and setting me gently
on the warm sidewalk
by another fence
with that same light
and other cut grass
(I was crying –
a slap)
and I think
there was yelling
inside
while I cried
near the fence
till Daddy lifted me
away from there
and on the drive home
I asked in fear
is that man your brother
and he said no
and now I remember
what my father
could not forget
I did meet my uncle.
Why Death is my Best Friend
It's not that I don't want to live
It's just
that I don't feel like I'm living.
In the Beginning
I evolve gently
as the sea that I am
washed with white foam
throbbing with
gulf stream rhythm
bathing worries away
bringing new life
as my tide rushes out.
Mutating oceans
borrow new borders
land lessens and grows
but my oceans remain
since beginning of time
and I dwell
in my happy place.
Kill Me
And I tried to move on
From you
So I walked
To the edge
Of the earth
But that still wasn’t
Far enough away
For you
So you pushed me off
I hope I die from lack of oxygen.
Time
When you first told me that we were on borrowed time,
I laughed, taking you in my arms,
Asking from whom it was borrowed.
Now I know.
I know that time is not something we can keep,
Or hoard,
Or stow away.
Time can only be used, or wasted.
And it doesn't go away:
Even when we're gone, each hour, each minute
Will carry on like the last.
I remember when you first told me you loved me
And I laughed and said I love you more.
You said you'd love me to the moon and back
But not to the sun,
Because that would be too much.
I told you I'd love you to the end,
And this is it.
This is the end, and I still love you
Just as much as I did at the beginning.
I borrowed time and now I'm giving it back,
Perhaps a bit worn,
But still usable by some other soul.
Goodbye.
i wonder
how nice it must be
to only battle yourself
but i am tired
of everything,
of everyone
of every word
reused, recycled
into another work
and i can't help
but feel
it's all the same
i am uninspired
by myself, by others and
their blissful bullshit
i'm my own demon,
my own heckler,
my own obstacle
but i wonder
how nice it must be
to only battle yourself,
i wonder what it's like
to still have sickness
and health
because my battle
has left me
with nothing.
blew warm
flames lift
warm
currents
wind maker
and destructive
to smite
and purge
gentle
hands with
oily wool
and sticks
as bows or
cross
can make fire
lift spirits
inborn
I envy those of us
Who believe they are not artists
For they have so much that lies within
And in their dreams
Bursts of colours of imagination
Fill their subconscious
As they long for morning.
I wish to leave them a pen and paper
For them to write the dreams
So that I can feel their art
Emerge
As they pour their morning fix
Ice
She is breathless
Held to long in a winters embrace
Frozen by the fear of rejection
By the icy blue eyes
She once chased