Poetry

Origin Story

I know you

I walked with you

once upon a dream

or so I thought anyway–

it all grows confusing

when I stop to think about it.

So I try not to stop and think about it

but I do

every now and then.

I’ll take a detour

on a road, a path,

an avenue

of questionable memories

in my brain.

Disorientation takes hold

and it all grows confusing again.

I know you

but it isn’t fate

and it wasn’t the past

and my mind never could have

come up with a dream

like you.

Poetry

When the Poets Run Out of Things to Say

The saddest word

I ever heard

I heard of just today

that loving her

was to defer

more love to self some way.

How crude,

how worn,

how deep forlorn

that view of love so flawed!

How evident

of life that’s spent

in vanity’s own fraud.

If only you

could see right through

that lie you’re holding close

then you might see

despairingly

it’s not love that you’ve imposed . . .

Poetry

Etymology

Answering machine.

So basic in meaning and function:

a machine that catches answers

when the phone is left to ring.

Words are simple.

Andswaru, Old English. Against. To swear.

Machina, Latin. Expedient.

I learn such things waiting.

I go through old books

and my fingers gather dust.

There are thousands of words written

on those dictionary pages.

Even dictionary has a definition, even word,

even reading.

Where do they come from? Where do they go?

How do we know to look? How do we find?

I have questions but the answering machine

has no answers.

But I learn such things waiting,

waiting on the phone to ring.

Words are simple. Silence too.

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Poetry

Don’t Play the Game

I hate for you to see me like this–

not weak, but vulnerable.

You may wonder what the difference is

and to be honest,

maybe there’s not much of one:

I would be just fine

with a kick or ten when I’m down.

I’m weak, you know that.

But for you to see that a stray word

richocheted and grazed

this heart I try to hide on my sleeve,

wounding me,

would break me.

I’m not strong, you know that.

Is it pride? I don’t know.

I’m just sorry you had to see this.

Let me rest my eyes,

lay down my head;

you can throw me out with the trash

come morning.

I’m vulnerable, didn’t you know?

Poetry

Something in the Air

Other things would make more sense,

would work out more, be far less tense,

and still I’m reaching for a star

to fit a hollowed puzzle’s scar,

to cauterize my wounded heart

by poisoned lips disguised as art

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Started writing a new story, which sounds great until I think about all the other unfinished ones. Also, this will probably be a busy week so you’ll get one of two extremes: either I’ll be procrastinating and spending too much time here or I might potentially disappear for a few days. Seems there is no middle ground 🙂

Have a good week either way!