In the
Heat of the moment
You really don't realize what types of things
Are going on as I the sickly black disregard
Latch on to the center of your being, your mind, your soul
Continuing to escalate pushing you further further further
Along an increasingly destructive path: "More! More! More!"
I speak the words that weigh enough to make quite a
sound when they come down
I raise the weapon: your own thoughts, not wishing to take part
but already an accomplice in matters of your heart
I bring them down again, again, again
Again,
Again;
Again...
Again.
Whose thoughts? Your thoughts.
Stained tainted... my touch!
No where. for them. to go. but down.
Bloody mess, they.
"*sigh*"
Come spiral down with me.
Oh yes, you know it's down.
Down, down, down we go!
C'mon! Give us a frown!
... sure, share your saccharine semi-circle with the masses.
Keep me a secret.
I'll be slowly, subtly shifting you to step in sordid directions
Shell out pessimism, sell out sanguinity
The show I'm putting on solely for you!
Stinging, acidic words about how unsatisfactory you are!
"Stupid failure! Quit! Fuck success, assuming you can achieve
anything! *scoff*"
All sent to you spectacularly shining through as the set plays on,
Me: the singer, you: the ensnared crowd
Mind too sullied by what I'm saying to separate from the speech
Let me play on your organs,
making beautiful, dark, music in your halls.
Strumming the strings of your heart
Sucking the marrow of your bones
Seizing the small of your chest
Your lungs! How rapturous the notes are!
My pluckings rise up through your windpipes as exasperated sighs
or compressed sobs
Complaints that might interest the coroner!
A true beauty, true art, these sounds are to me.
They inspire me to keep playing.
And sure, you might become aware
You might just realize I am there
And then I will be willed away
Pulled sadly from the instruments I play
But mark my words and mark them well
As surely as old "time will tell:"
Your emotions will one day sink too low
And I'll be back again for another go.
Sleep well, my silent symphony.
Monday, February 6, 2012
"Hello?"
A buzzing, buzz, buzz
Grasp thrown into the pocket
Grabbing the hornet
The cellular phone is something quite strange.
Is it a device to be revered or feared?
After all, what other invention of man
is a mouth whispering into anyone's ear?
"Hello!" "Hello there."
"How are you?" "Fine, thanks! Yourself?"
Then the call was dropped.
Shell full of buttons
That we constantly open and shut.
Look! Look!
What has he said?
What did we say?
May I ask who is speaking?
May I ask whose shirt the buttons belong to?
Obviously someone important.
Someone who demands attention constantly.
Someone who's always asking us
"Have you seen my buttons?"
Must be why we're constantly playing with
a shell full of buttons.
Four in the morning
*ding ding ring ring ding-a-ling!*
Who the hell is it!?
She keeps crying for attention when she has it;
My silicon girl with her thin body of plastic.
Sometime it seems like she's a bit slow.
I'll push her buttons and she'll cry out in glee
Because she knows they're going through her to get to me.
She knows I'll take her everywhere I go.
Why have we given
so much power to the phone?
My voice is not me.
First, man had fire and lanters with oil
Moved to bulbs made of glass; the night we did foil.
But what do we do now when the fuses have blown?
We reach in our pockets and pull out our phones.
Transcend the wires
Criss crossing our fine nation
Speak through the airwaves.
There once was a man named Dariell,
Who tried getting numbers from the belles
Though he was quite intense,
No, they'd never dispense...
Yes, Dariell never worked on his cell.
Ever wondered where
On Earth the watchmakers went?
Well, what time is it?
The really astonishing thing though
is that we each share a link
which travels to towers or satellites
and into the digital world.
Deliniating droves upon droves of our data.
Dredging through our daily dumps.
Memorizing our memories and making maps.
Stealing away our secrets,
storing away our secrets,
sharing our secrets unsubmissively
Who the hell do you think you are, me?
Computer databases speaking my name
Telling everyone what I think;
What I should think.
"Speak into the mainframe, quit your play.
It can't hear you. What did you say?"
It thinks it is me.
And so do others.
They think I am it.
My voice reproduced on the end of a "My voice"
And for all we know, we're being recorded!
So give your samples
and feed its brain.
Connect to people through its networks.
I'll sit here and cower a while
wondering if that really IS you
on the end of the "wondering if that really-"
"What's in my pocket?"
"Hands? Knife? String? A ring?"
"A cellular phone."
Grasp thrown into the pocket
Grabbing the hornet
The cellular phone is something quite strange.
Is it a device to be revered or feared?
After all, what other invention of man
is a mouth whispering into anyone's ear?
"Hello!" "Hello there."
"How are you?" "Fine, thanks! Yourself?"
Then the call was dropped.
Shell full of buttons
That we constantly open and shut.
Look! Look!
What has he said?
What did we say?
May I ask who is speaking?
May I ask whose shirt the buttons belong to?
Obviously someone important.
Someone who demands attention constantly.
Someone who's always asking us
"Have you seen my buttons?"
Must be why we're constantly playing with
a shell full of buttons.
Four in the morning
*ding ding ring ring ding-a-ling!*
Who the hell is it!?
She keeps crying for attention when she has it;
My silicon girl with her thin body of plastic.
Sometime it seems like she's a bit slow.
I'll push her buttons and she'll cry out in glee
Because she knows they're going through her to get to me.
She knows I'll take her everywhere I go.
Why have we given
so much power to the phone?
My voice is not me.
First, man had fire and lanters with oil
Moved to bulbs made of glass; the night we did foil.
But what do we do now when the fuses have blown?
We reach in our pockets and pull out our phones.
Transcend the wires
Criss crossing our fine nation
Speak through the airwaves.
There once was a man named Dariell,
Who tried getting numbers from the belles
Though he was quite intense,
No, they'd never dispense...
Yes, Dariell never worked on his cell.
Ever wondered where
On Earth the watchmakers went?
Well, what time is it?
The really astonishing thing though
is that we each share a link
which travels to towers or satellites
and into the digital world.
Deliniating droves upon droves of our data.
Dredging through our daily dumps.
Memorizing our memories and making maps.
Stealing away our secrets,
storing away our secrets,
sharing our secrets unsubmissively
Who the hell do you think you are, me?
Computer databases speaking my name
Telling everyone what I think;
What I should think.
"Speak into the mainframe, quit your play.
It can't hear you. What did you say?"
It thinks it is me.
And so do others.
They think I am it.
My voice reproduced on the end of a "My voice"
And for all we know, we're being recorded!
So give your samples
and feed its brain.
Connect to people through its networks.
I'll sit here and cower a while
wondering if that really IS you
on the end of the "wondering if that really-"
"What's in my pocket?"
"Hands? Knife? String? A ring?"
"A cellular phone."
Monday, January 23, 2012
On the Value of Exhaustion
To work myself tired, be exhausted
The feeling: I enjoy it greatly. Whose
Well-worked, sore muscles don't enjoy the shred?
That burning feeling that sits in one's shoes....
In works of mind the strain is valued as much,
Perhaps almost doubly so, mentally.
Creations, musings, worlds one can not touch
Made concrete through exertions privately!
Yes through the pains of much, the work's done well
Exhaustion sets in once more. Body burning,
My brain is bumbling, but my acts shall tell...
They're worthy. I'm pained; I don't mind the lurching.
Through toil and thinking we become creators
Fatigue: the last course that creation caters.
Author's comments:
This poem was written for a poetry class. We were forced to use a traditional form. Please note, it was published in the class first. I am reposting it here as a form of public publication.
The feeling: I enjoy it greatly. Whose
Well-worked, sore muscles don't enjoy the shred?
That burning feeling that sits in one's shoes....
In works of mind the strain is valued as much,
Perhaps almost doubly so, mentally.
Creations, musings, worlds one can not touch
Made concrete through exertions privately!
Yes through the pains of much, the work's done well
Exhaustion sets in once more. Body burning,
My brain is bumbling, but my acts shall tell...
They're worthy. I'm pained; I don't mind the lurching.
Through toil and thinking we become creators
Fatigue: the last course that creation caters.
Author's comments:
This poem was written for a poetry class. We were forced to use a traditional form. Please note, it was published in the class first. I am reposting it here as a form of public publication.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Friday, December 9, 2011
How do you hold a rose?
How do you hold a rose?
A precious and beautiful treasure
When it's pressed into fingers, gently it clings there
Thorns quietly pricking into the skin
How do you tear apart your heart?
Such a valuable, vulnerable thing?
And offer it to others besides fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers?
In their tight grips, your heart will rend.
And what will you do when she takes off?
And wanders away with the thing?
Her vice-like clamp tugging each time that you see
She's thrown your red offerings down to the gutters
How do you hold a rose?
Do you cut into fingers so it may not dislodge,
Slice into flesh when you pull it from your palms
Study it, say "Nay, this rose I cannot keep.
It's no rose of mine; it's another's joy."
But despite all of this, offer it your heart
Though you know it will prick, you just cannot stop
For a treasure this precious just cannot be left
Though this flower rose to root in some other's chest
Leaving nothing in you but thorns where beauty grew
Memories of happiness... "Once upon a time, not so long ago..."
So when ever you reach in to remember sweet love
Your hand returns bleeding from what once was a home
How do you hold a rose?
A precious and beautiful treasure
When it's pressed into your heart, then tears you apart
Once it's left you to bloom somewhere else
A precious and beautiful treasure
When it's pressed into fingers, gently it clings there
Thorns quietly pricking into the skin
How do you tear apart your heart?
Such a valuable, vulnerable thing?
And offer it to others besides fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers?
In their tight grips, your heart will rend.
And what will you do when she takes off?
And wanders away with the thing?
Her vice-like clamp tugging each time that you see
She's thrown your red offerings down to the gutters
How do you hold a rose?
Do you cut into fingers so it may not dislodge,
Slice into flesh when you pull it from your palms
Study it, say "Nay, this rose I cannot keep.
It's no rose of mine; it's another's joy."
But despite all of this, offer it your heart
Though you know it will prick, you just cannot stop
For a treasure this precious just cannot be left
Though this flower rose to root in some other's chest
Leaving nothing in you but thorns where beauty grew
Memories of happiness... "Once upon a time, not so long ago..."
So when ever you reach in to remember sweet love
Your hand returns bleeding from what once was a home
How do you hold a rose?
A precious and beautiful treasure
When it's pressed into your heart, then tears you apart
Once it's left you to bloom somewhere else
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Luna
Is it awfully hot up there on stage, my dear?
After all, you've got the brightest lamp of all
Trained upon your face at all times
Illuminating those wonderful dimples of your's
Does it make you nervous, my dear?
To know that we all might be looking
Even though most of the audience isn't
They just sit back and poke and prod one another
Too concerned with their own goings-ons
To enjoy the show right above their noses.
And how many of those stare, my dear?
See you turn away, then back again; your graceful movements
Flowing through misty veils, dancing amongst a thousand splendid specks of light
As you smile down upon us, in the brilliance of your visage
Even the clouds find it hard not to glow in your presence.
How many of those actually see what you do?
I just wanted to let you know that I do stare, my dear.
And I hope that you do not find it rude.
But you've had me enraptured since the beginning of the show
And have me rushing out to your every appearance
In the dead cold of winter, or the temperance of a summer's night
In the fade in of a blue wash illuminating the whole of your stage
Or the darkest black where you take your soliloquy
I'll be there to see it all, you wonderful performer, you.
Seeing you, and smiling.
After all, you've got the brightest lamp of all
Trained upon your face at all times
Illuminating those wonderful dimples of your's
Does it make you nervous, my dear?
To know that we all might be looking
Even though most of the audience isn't
They just sit back and poke and prod one another
Too concerned with their own goings-ons
To enjoy the show right above their noses.
And how many of those stare, my dear?
See you turn away, then back again; your graceful movements
Flowing through misty veils, dancing amongst a thousand splendid specks of light
As you smile down upon us, in the brilliance of your visage
Even the clouds find it hard not to glow in your presence.
How many of those actually see what you do?
I just wanted to let you know that I do stare, my dear.
And I hope that you do not find it rude.
But you've had me enraptured since the beginning of the show
And have me rushing out to your every appearance
In the dead cold of winter, or the temperance of a summer's night
In the fade in of a blue wash illuminating the whole of your stage
Or the darkest black where you take your soliloquy
I'll be there to see it all, you wonderful performer, you.
Seeing you, and smiling.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wanderlust
I can't help but feel I have somewhere to go
As though my body's pulling me to see the sights
It's a feeling right I have in my gut
I just can't shake this sweet afternoon
To set out walking and never look back
Cross mountain streams and desert flats
With the wind wandering through my tracks
And my eyes always staring forward
Casting gazes on scenes sublime
Canyons and hills covered in pine
Or thrown over great plains, mine
Gaze would gladly go.
My body willing, it hungrily would step
Through all great wonders, as some have crept
Down the blazed trail that many have kept
Or into new places that none have seen
And I'd sit there and breath wonderfully
Taking in beauty some choose not to see
For this is what wanderlust does to me.
And I'd not have it any other way.
As though my body's pulling me to see the sights
It's a feeling right I have in my gut
I just can't shake this sweet afternoon
To set out walking and never look back
Cross mountain streams and desert flats
With the wind wandering through my tracks
And my eyes always staring forward
Casting gazes on scenes sublime
Canyons and hills covered in pine
Or thrown over great plains, mine
Gaze would gladly go.
My body willing, it hungrily would step
Through all great wonders, as some have crept
Down the blazed trail that many have kept
Or into new places that none have seen
And I'd sit there and breath wonderfully
Taking in beauty some choose not to see
For this is what wanderlust does to me.
And I'd not have it any other way.
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