Viewing: Poetry - View all posts

Let Me Show You 

You are not regular 

You are not plain 

You are a blooming triumph 

the most wonderful 

and unique person I’ve ever met. 

You are the recipe for filling the hunger of my soul. 

You fill me to the brim and I overflow. 

What you consider flaws are unquantifiably beautiful. 

You are not selfish, 

You are not ugly, 

You are not plain, 

or undeserving. 

You are a beauty that fire can aspire to. 

You are what kindness became thankful for, 

and what wisdom calls true. 

You are what the universe watches through a telescope. 

The stars gather at night in awe of you. 

They light your countenance, 

so the darkness cannot touch you. 

Your smile is the craftsmanship of your heart 

your kiss soft, and electric. 

and your embrace?...

to be wrapped in your embrace 

is to be wrapped in eternity. 

 

My only love, 

My only temptation, 

My only satiation, 

My only words, 

My only admiration, 

My soul’s only desire, 

Just my only. 

Let me show you, 

everything that you are.

Barely a Man 

I am a better man 

and a terrible one 

I am a genius 

and a contemptible fool. 

I am compassionate 

yet disconnected 

I am warm 

I am cold 

I am kind 

I am cruel 

I am mentally sound 

and howling at the moon. 

I am society’s disease and cure 

The culture's most despised and most endeared 

I’m everything wrapped in nothing 

I want to live forever, 

I want to die tonight. 

In peace, and in pieces. 

 

I've known the breath of eons that barely existed 

I've known the torment of what is everlasting. 

I've sobbed tears 

of defeat and maniacal triumph simultaneously.

My face in my hands, I tell you now 

what you already known. 

I'm barely a piece of the man I was,

but sometimes I'm a thousand times the man I ever was.

A Lucky World 

Meadows grow tall, 

and Rivers overflow 

so seeds grow. 

Stars shine carefully, 

and Bluebirds wear blue dresses. 

This is one day.

This is the world.

A Lucky world.

Define Beauty 

A fan called me. 
She had recently read one of my poems, 
and she wanted to know 
how I would define beauty. 

I told her that, “Mankind has tried to quantify 
this very concept since alpha, day one!” 
I joked that I would write a piece, 
said I'd do my best to describe beauty, 
goes something like this… 

eh hmmm… 

To the crackhead, 
a new pipe, carefully crafted 
is a thing a beauty. 
Especially if it's got crack in it. 

To the dung beetle, 
a steaming pile of excrement 
is a thing of beauty. 
The more pungent, the more beautiful. 

To the monk, 
a single blade of grass 
may have the answers 
to eternal beauty. 

To the rich, 
numbers arranged on a screen, 

and their mastery of them 
is a thing of beauty. 

To the poet, 
words arranged on a page, 
even just the look of it, 
is a thing of beauty. 

To the starving man, 
a sandwich 
tastes better than any meal he can remember, 
and is a thing of beauty. 

But to me, 
you, 
and the hope that you bring, 
are truly 

beautiful.

Everyday 

I love her like magnolia wishes 

and children's laughter. 

Like a bee's dance in white daisy fields 

and a gentle moonlight shining on twilight's doorstep. 

I love her like that bird hopping in the snow 

like a good wine's warm company 

and embraceable darkness. 

I love her like a black velvet midnight 

and the smell of a breezy lilac meadow. 

I love her like time's first flight 

and violet skies over Alaskan lakes. 

I love her open spirit. 

I love her lines, smells, and tastes. 

I admire her 

I love her 

I just love her, 

everyday.

Reason and Madness 

I think that love is a reasonable madness. 
How awful life must be without a reason for madness.
I did not forget, celebrate tomorrow, 

but today is reason enough without it.

The Meaning Meets It's Costs 

These old artist stereotypes are alive and well.

Cleary the culture can't support human values

without twisting them down into the uncanny valley,

but it's too late to complain, isn't it?

I chose it.

It's Wednesday and I have $19.02 in my bank account,

that's fine, I guess,

just enough for food and gas to get me to the weekend's gigs.

 

Deadly thoughts come artistically now 

poverty, distractions, romantic sentiments, and addictions 

all cause and prevent what feels inevitable, yet is impossible. 

The seeds I've sown, bare the fruits I've earned, 

and they are ripe with a sadness sickness 

that reveals itself most pointed when meaning meets it's costs.

 

My emotions were manipulated by dogma for so long

They still terrify me, all of them from then,

but I wonder what minor god I seek now in my suffering.

Tumbling the rabbit hole of the artist's life,

the will to really live finds me again.

I find the beauty of it all in a wider frame.

It's there waiting for me every time.

The Morning Book 

I lay here with the book that is my memory,

left opened by my dreams,

opened to where I’ve earmark,

to where I have gilded the pages,

where each smile is inked in red letters,

and all the notes she wrote in the margins remind me of her limerence. 

They say a man can never give the same love twice,

and that someday somone will light a fire inside of you that can not die.

“They” whoever they are, have never said a thing more true.

In the dew of morning hours,

in my daydreams,

and when twinkling stars brighten an otherwise despondent sky.

I love her,

and for the rest of my life I can not wait to love her,

I can not wait to live for the dream of every terrible pang in my heart.