Wishing I Could Write About You

I sit here and wish that I could write about you

I’d express to you feelings you thought were lost in the catacombs of my thoughts,

I’d tell you of how much hydration was lost

as tears flowed freely and breath–unable to be caught.

I’d remind you of the night that fate matched us together

When I met you, you were the only one I could picture, and for the better;

You taught me so much, whether it’d be about myself or a game about Settlers.

Life then was paradise, when I looked into your pair of eyes, I was often stuck,

Or you could even say I was–paralyzed.

For you, I know I changed because I would feed you truth,

But to the others it’d often be a pair of lies.

Thus love happened sooner than I had ever realized.

You were my pineapple, and I’d often express

That you were the best, my family loved you, including Juicy (our pet), and to this day I would never regret calling you my fucking sunshine, but damn it,

I digress

This isn’t a love poem, because love here has died without you.

You’ve moved on, I’ve progressed and the world knows no looking back to be true.

Which is why I know I shouldn’t write about you.

 

I sit here and wish that I could write about you

I don’t know another I fought so hard with, or against.

Youth made our relationship fiery, constant nights of arguments.

And then we’d make up. Again and again—and to that, God I repent.

Jealousy in our nature, I’m surprised we survived,

So long together and even years later we’d try to revive

Something that had already up and died.

Every time we are together we always recall

The mistakes that the other made, but we’d say it was “my fault.”

And that same time I sit and wonder in awe

How we got so close by being so far.

No matter the lack of communication

We always find our way back to each other and, thus

invite temptation.

So given the circumstances of our situation

I must bid you adieu—

No more lapses to the past, even though you were my muse,

These be the reasons why I shouldn’t write about you.

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For Play

I really liked ‘er ass, an that’s kinda whud-da met her for,

Had a smile-y on my face that was bigger than a’ albacore.

Approached with a swagger, not an amateur to prose

Had to shoot for the moon, when the chance arose.

 

She didn’t look for attention, yet I stood like a soldier

Intentions no longer concealed, abort covert

And when I caught her eye, like a sniper to his scope

She knew  inevitably  her will would be smote

 

The game I spit was was potent– a cobras venom to mice

And what escaped from my mouth, with a python-esque vice

 

A surreptitiously sweet,

soothing serenade set

to steal her soul

Against her behest

 

With the conviction of a back, I attacked her path

I Ochocinco’d this and Deion Sanders’d that

Touching down the field became my next goal

The ultimate prize–reaching the Sugar Bowl

 

She asks aloud in a heated moment how I’d convinced her to stay

I smirk and reply, “All these game be for play.”

Mushroom Kingdom

Far north of the Cherno Bog and east of Abaddon

Sits my beautiful respite– the Mushroom Kingdom.

The echoes of laughter tease sensually the eardrums

A hypnotic green aura beckons all men to come.

 

Though surrounded by darkness, inside the colors illuminate-

and fuse with each other as they dance and gyrate

creating new hues leading the brain to confusion,

each step through the street seems profusely illusion.

 

Beauty– my Kingdom exudes; but, its denizens are ghouls

Crafted from muck, face distorted as fools—

Only partially exposed, they stand staring behind buildings

Piercing one’s soul as if Death is nearing.

 

Denizens awakened, and now the Overlord sits atop

The clouds in the sky his face frozen as a rock.

The body is numb as the mind begins to race

Colors die down—cold sweat emerges on face

 

Perusing the boulevard is simply no option

They multiply in numbers, to surround as they flock in

Escape from the Kingdom, denizens unnaturally small

or— unnaturally tall—requesting your fall.

 

Your fall from grace, back to reality, back to grips.

Now the tress around are bemoaning your trip.

Burst through the Lost Woods and break her embrace.

Men hung from the branches gnash and berate—

 

The treacherous tress hold not back your departure

As time in the woods elapses, the adventure turning to torture

Exiled from the Kingdom, now sail away on the ship

Boom’r bust, my Kingdom’s a hell of a trip.

Modern day Cowboy

The modern day cowboy doesn’t stress about the trite complications of everyday life.

He stands and watches his herd, his ability to surround his flock in seemingly an instant makes him a god among men.

He wears tattered jeans and well-worked boots, a hat worn low and a plaid shirt, colored blue.

Speckles of dirt on his face are mistaken for freckles and the creases on the edges of his eyes are marked reminders of his battles against the brightly burning future.

The modern day cowboy bypasses his technologically savvy peers by outworking them physically and delving into jobs that others shiver at.

His motto is, ‘Do it first today, then do it faster tomorrow.’

 

He wakes early and starts work, nodding to the waning moon and finishes work with a wave of acknowledgement to the same entity.

The modern day cowboy is a dying breed. He knows that. It takes a drive different from procreation to make the modern day cowboy.

It takes a different type of heart to live this life.

Tears I Cannot Shed

These are the tears that I cannot shed. I feel them well up inside,

I feel the rush up my gut into my throat and to my face.

I feel them get right to the bottom of my eyes.

My heart sinks and my stomach turns uneasily.

The façade of a smile on my face fights to stay in place.

I muster, to the best of my ability,

A laugh.

But instead a sigh from deep within me explodes out.

I can feel the resistance built up over the years begin to crinkle.

My head begins to shake and my throat muscles tighten to the point where I cannot breathe.

I fight for air under the blanket of deep disparity that’s tagged along for years.

I reach for my chest and ball my fist,

I try to control my breathing but the demons inside also fight for dominance.

My mind gets bogged down in thoughts and memories of what should have been

And how things could have gone.

I think about all the times I didn’t care and all the fucks I could have given.

I shake my head.

The thoughts won’t go away, but I shake in hope that somehow I will find respite

I tell myself “let go, please, fucking let go.”

I want to let it out so bad but I cannot. I don’t know why. But inside,

My tears are kept.

3 Short Poems

Kamikaze-

Divine Wind.

Bruising through recklessly.

Accept my careless nature.

Youth.

 

 

My brush-

Myriad of bristles.

Soft,

Palm Friendly.

A dominator of wild follicles.

Calms the savage head beast.

Like a boat captain, it navigates through my waves fearlessly.

Another day looking great.

 

 

Playstation Controller-

Black.

Symmetrical.

Hand comforting

Like the hand of God.

To call it just a controller is a stark understatement.

It is a force that is stronger than a tornado, yet as calm as a pond on a mild day.

Without you, I am useless. Just a spectator to watch.

5/24/12

I’ve been there.

I’ve done that.

I’ve seen it

And, quite frankly,

I’ve shown that.

Disconnected from the crowd

I sit back to analyze.

Approached by few who want to chat and rationalize,

The mistakes they’ve made,

Whether many or few.

They mistake me for a priest,

Which, to the heart,

I am not.

I don’t push them away, I just sit and listen.

What an alluring ability,

To sift lie from truth.

I smile, nod my head and just laugh my ass off.

Together, we shoot the shit into the night.

Lies to the unbelieving and a story for another time.