Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

He loves me; he loves me not.

“He loves me.”

He shared with me his secrets,

Hidden between kisses.

I stockpiled every last one,

Treating them like stained glass;

I avoided touching them,

But I loved watching the world

Through his colorful view.

 

~He loves me not.~

He only ever looked at me

Through a rainbow lens,

And it leaves me to wonder

If he saw me for who I am

Or for the person he wants to see?

Because through his kaleidoscope

Even a gray sky

Can be mistaken for

A perfect, cloudless blue.

 

“He loves me.”

He knew my body,

Ran his fingers over the war

I had scratched across

My wrists, shoulders and stomach.

His hands never shook,

And his warm touch

Felt like it was melting away

Every mistake I had made.

 

~He loves me not.~

But those scars weren’t mistakes;

They were choices.

Regardless of regret,

If I just let them disappear

Without confronting the reasons

I made them in the first place,

I’m not learning a damn thing.

In the end, his hands

Weren’t trying to heal,

But instead hide the truth.

He couldn’t love the scars

So how could he love me?

 

He loves me, he loves me not.

He loves my potential; he loves the thought

Of what I could be, the perfect future he sees.

He loves what might come, but he doesn’t love me…

 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“My heart feels like it’s swallowed up in Autumn, even as the first storm of spring is right outside my window.”

My body aches for Spring winds,

Their tips curled with cotton embers,

Holding just enough of a spark

To thaw the azure April sky.

I love watching that air jitter,

The crystals of swirling snow

Pacified into sleepy puffs

Of sailing Dandelion clocks.

My once bloated, spiked steps

That would crunch and crack

And crumble under my course

Are renewed as thin, mossy lines,

Graceful and unburdened,

And I am able to dance

In the thunder and lightning

Of blossoming beginnings.

In that wind I feel a hope,

So trying doesn’t seem pointless

And I can find myself,

Maybe even dream again.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, Uncategorized

The rain against her window echoed through this hollow room with every drop, loud enough and long enough to drive away rational thought. If he was ever going to do it, tonight would be the night to tell you, my darling, sweet dreams.

Slightly, as if by pure coincidence,

This door on her right creaks open

Filtering stale light, pale dust,

From a lifetime set in mellow tones;

Dimming lamp shades that still reflect

Mistakes she wears upon her sleeve.

Her selfish thought today?

“I wish these scars would just fade away…”

 

Is freedom being able to make your own choices, then living with the consequences of those choices? Then why does it feel right to make this decision, when it’s the coward’s way out, free of consequence? Must be because I’m so fucking pathetic…

 

I am not the flower that touches delicate skin

I am the thorn of shadows the clouds rain in

I am not the bristling, inviting spring wind

I am the cold winter whipping at all your barred sins

I am not comforting hands that feel the same as home

I am the darkest roads abound; forever left to roam

I am that falling, failing feeling in your gut

I am that gnawing, aching pain of a cut

I am that harlot, that distasteful slut

I wish to be free, yet I am anything but

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry

I’ve spent the past 4 years surrounded by nothing but noise, yet it’s still her silence that speaks to me the loudest.

She kisses with that glowing touch;

A muted, thin breach of confidence.

A kiss laced with smiles,

Wrinkled noses, a million words

Expressed in two lips

Meeting over an exchange of hearts.

The sort of kiss that fills you up,

Rushes blood throughout your body;

A kiss to replace the rhythm in your chest

That forever now skips a beat

With every glance she gives,

With every look you steal.


Now do you understand?

Love come to pass starts with a stolen heart,

And when the sun you share

Finally begins to dim

You are left as the moon; 

Stealing light as you try to become

A beacon in the sky once more.


Her kisses gently revealed

How much a fool has to lose.

Searching for answers now

Is stumbling through the dark,

Reaching out for hands to guide.

The problem with that is

Only those looking through the dark

Can now see as you try to shine,

Truly the blind leading the blind…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

Everything is possible with enough patience, yet I find time has whittled mine to a fine, fragile point; try to hard and I’m sure to shatter, but remain as I am and I’ll have nothing left but a speck.

I want to say that you are my only family, but instead I find myself telling you about the first time I ever rode my bike without training wheels on it, how amazing it felt to manage the feat a year faster than my older brother, only to look back years later and realize I only managed it because he was there to help me..

I want to say that you are my only friend, but instead I’m boring you with stories of days I spent with my old baseball teammates at the local rec center, swimming and playing basketball and chasing girls, eating subway afterwards and thinking “I can’t wait for next Sunday to do it all again!”, only to look back years later and realize those memories only exist because I had such great friends to share them with…

I want to say that I’ll never smile without you, but instead I’m thinking back to my first kiss with that cute blonde girl I had a crush on for over a year. I took her to my first Winter Formal, spent 2 months wanting nothing more than our warm hugs in the snow and hand holding while skipping class, literally the most innocent couple you could imagine; and then it happened, in my parents driveway, the most perfect first kiss, that took over 5 minutes of having our noses touching before actually happening, and the crazy, big smile I had on my face that she mirrored back at me. Looking back years later I realize I’ve smiled just as big since that day, even when I never thought I would…

I want to say you are my future, but instead I’m looking at my first acceptance letter into college, saying I would study Civil Engineering and take morning classes starting at 7AM every single day, that I would spend Wednesdays with the other students who received the “Minorities in Engineering” Scholarships and that I would live with my Best friend from High School on campus in our very own dorm room, only to look at my transcripts to find that college isn’t even listed on them, that my major is “accounting”, and that my best friend isn’t even listed in my phone anymore, yet I was so sure of my future…

You see, I want to say you were my family, my friend, my reason to smile and my future to strive for. Then I look at where I was and where I am and I see that I’m not even close to the person I started out as, that none of us on this planet are the same today as we were even yesterday. I want to think I have reached the end, that I have nothing, so I can give up as if this was all I was ever going to achieve… But that’s the cheap way out, and I know it. What would really hurt would be to continue, even if I think it’s all pointless..because if I had a family before you, friends before you, smiles before you, and a future set in stone before you, then why would I assume that I won’t find all of those things after you? The after is what hurts, because it means memories, and memories can burn. But see what time has done? It has turned all of my memories so soft, like the first snow in February we held hands in…that memory stings, but I remember how soft the snow was in my hands that night after I dropped you off, and given more time I’m also sure that the sting will wear off and the entire scene will be as soft to me as that snow…just gotta be willing to wait it out…

~Time, you are a fickle friend, but please, keep hold of my hand till that snow is soft again…~

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, Uncategorized

It’s not so simple, black and white and shades of gray. We exist as light, and can be bent to reflect the colors of the heavens themselves, at least in the right persons eyes.

My body lies still in sleep, unlike my insecure soul. My dreams carry weight; they are the leaves after the autumn downpour, so common nobody stops to stare, but to each tree it feels like a lead weight just shifted onto the branches, making each leaf cry out in turn:

“It’s now the time for my colors to bleed,

Coerced into the season of letting go.

Embrace this slumber that takes us together

Into this living death we welcome as home.”  

I’m not soaking in the sun anymore; the light dissipates faster and faster and comes later and later, and my back feels a little bit heavier with each passing night left hoping for the sun and living with the knowledge that it’s going to take longer today to see it than the day before. My time feels insanely short, like it’s skipping the even numbers on the clock, like the “tick” is not followed by the customary “tock”, and so somebody must be stealing my time.

~Or maybe you’re just done stalling…~

Disconnect; that’s the issue, so he can’t feel okay because he can’t connect the thought of “okay” with the corresponding emoticon on his smartphones obtusely glaring screen. The mask that he wears remains a deceitful facade; He is neither a hero nor villain, his dreams not so grandiose as to require such lofty titles. He is simply a loser who lost his own face in the crowd, so now even as he searches for some hint of recognition, every mirror becomes a window into a stranger’s world.

~Because seeing the pain from an outside perspective lets him pretend that pain isn’t his own…~

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry

Melting this craving into true hunger, I now starve in my cyanide affections.

Pierced through my skin, as sudden as a hornet’s sting,

The lingering sensation left on my hands by his stroke.

My lips wither outside of his taste; O does my body know

How to turn desire into true demand.

What once was a wish now boils in my blood,

Looms over my waking dreams, cradles in my gut,

Burning holes in my humanity..