To Prom?

Just a few weeks ago, I hardly knew
The wonderful person that is you.
It's strange that the beautiful fruit
Is hidden by the tree, colors made mute
Behind veils of green and thin stems.
I regret not having seen you behind them.

So it is to this end that I propose
Through my rhyming words; poetry, not prose.
I've finally asked for money, permission,
Now I must take the final step of my mission:
The question I ask you, Stephanie...
Would you like to go to Prom with me?

The poet in me is dying

The poet in me is dying
Which I find quite disturbing to say
Who needs the crazy old imagist inside of me anyway?

Though these words are rhyming
And the rhyhtms are not well-set (as they always are)
I find myself writing about nothing incredible (instead about topics sub-par)

Such as how I cannot find inspiration
In the most menial of tasks, nor in the flower
Who is swaying gently in the grasses all the day, every hour.

As the trees move in the wind
Their seeds swim in the breeze and shake.
They all eventually fall loose so that they may procreate.

So is the poet in me, swaying in emotion
Tied up, steadfast, in the mind of a rationalist.
Dying desperately to escape and inspiring me to write this.

On Dying

One of the great paradoxes of life
Is that man is not living, but dying.

From the moment he is born,
It is a constant struggle against
Forces of great opposition
To live. In living, you are dying.

For how could there be life
Without death?

However, most feel death to be
A definite moment.
When the heart stops its movements.
When the brain becomes insulated and sparks no longer fly though it.

Save for those rude deaths instantly caused
By man or nature which take lives instantly,
I disagree.

Man is dying, not living.
From the moment he is born,
He is fighting a losing game.
His senses dull he wages a war against his environment.

The things he can once see, hear, touch, smell, feel slowly
Start to lessen after years of nonstop fighting
Until the man himself loses the will
To prolong his destruction
And waves a white flag
Giving himself up
While the others
Still choose
To die
Living is easy.
Any creature can live
Without ever experiencing mortality.
How will you die?

Apology

What is an apology? Just words

Words spoken in coated thick in regret

Maybe sorrow, maybe sadness, maybe sarcasm.

Words that hesitate

To slowly

Drop off

The

Tongue

As honey would.

They're golden too.

But are they sweet? That is not for me to say, but for you.

What do they taste like, dear girl?

Do you accept them with silver spoon,

Drizzle them upon your feelings and consume?

Forget, forgive? Go on to live?

For they have covered my mind in dread

And sat unsaid for far too long.

But like all good honey, an apology must ferment.

And like all good honey, an apology makes cavities.

In the mind, in the soul, in the heart.

But never the teeth.

It is always a pleasure to bring the syllables out

But never one to see them received.

And as I contemplate what I have done,

I hope that my honey has fermented long

And is pleasing to your pallet

Because I feel that I have done wrong.

But I know not how your buds arrange

To taste that of which I am about to say

So please, dear girl, if you would please

Take a minute, hear bee's food, and stay.

For I have missed you in my life

Though you stayed far distant from me

And to talk with you once again

Fills my hole-ridden soul with glee.

Shoving Knives In

Walking my way down a straight corridor,

I spied a view that I had never seen before.

It was on a face which I knew too well

It was sitting, drooping, born from hell.

Upon the mask was a look of fear

Combined with surprise at my being there

As if in another situation we had been.

She seemed to be saying I was shoving knives in.

First reactions are always the truth

Because emotions are wild in their youth

As they age, they can all be guised

Behind fake smiles and averted eyes.

Though your blades fell heavy on me too,

I'm sorry, dear girl, that I've hurt you.

It's too damn quiet around here

It's too damn quiet around here

I realized venturing into the night

And listening for fear of nothing

I soon found my fear was right.

No noises of the night owl,

No blowing of Zeyphr's breath,

No murmurs among the mountains,

No sounds but quiet regret.

And there I sat a-brooding

Atop my tarnished tree;

My mind fell through the present

Into the past of you and me.

The nights were much more noisy

Filled with the sonorous coo

Of two night owls flying

Now utterly silent, me and you.

It's too damn quiet around here

If I may say it again.

I had to lose a lover,

But I feel I've lost a friend.

Words to a Night Owl

The night owl, in the tree, cooing softly

To the moon? To the stars? "Who? Who? You?"

Yes, night owl, it is you that I see:

Golden beak, glowing eyes, as you flew.

Oh night owl, words succinct, why do we

Try to give such a feeling imperfect words?

With a grace unmatched, you fly so free

With your solitude, you stir me, bird.

Which brings me to a matter of heart

When asked why do I try to describe

The emotion I feel when I start

To set eyes upon your person, alive.

I must end with a word on the truth of these words.

They degrade. Too much beauty for such wretched herds.