Gasps of happiness Strung together by long heaves Of wasted breaths
July 20th, 2012
I simply want to be. A simple desire, but no less or no more difficult than breathing truth in every breath or feeling alive with every step. I often ponder what makes me deserving of simply existing, what lets me be. But the longer I spend wondering why I’m not what I have never been, a brain a few bones and a couple of loose teeth; the longer I waste not being what I...
I know I haven't been posting as much lately,
and to those who follow along for my next work, I’m sorry; but thank you for sticking around. I’ll be off to Germany tomorrow for 10 days, so unfortunately if you were looking forward to more poetry I won’t be posting until I return home. I may or may not be merciful and put a few pieces of mine in my queue, but frankly, I don’t have the time I used to. I wish you all...
Anonymous asked: It's as if your prophesing with your poetry. So eccentric, unique, so undeniably amazing. I just want to say thank you. Many people have probably said your poetry is beatiful, but I'm here saying you are beautiful.
After all the king’s men were dead. After all the soldiers had fled. After the sun set its head to rest and the moon drew its pen across the starless sky; beneath the chaos could be found a bit of blood from you and a bit of bones from I.
Perhaps you’re proud of your spiral down. The wind blown past your braided vines of blonde thorns and reflected from the wire wings you flapped recklessly blew back all the clouds behind. And appropriately, as you crashed headlong into the horizon, the sun followed behind clung closely to the hole in the sky from which you’d fell. Perhaps you’re proud of falling...
July 16th, 2012
I brush my teeth against the grain with a bandsaw soaked in the ashes of your name. As calcium flakes and roots and nerves follow through I catch the dust of family trust on the tip of my tongue. The taste of hickory smoke and vodka trickles from each grain of myself as though a long awaited tear; and though you may not be near I still can feel the family you left behind right here...
Anonymous asked: Where do you work?
All I’ve to my name Are a few straggly chin hairs A blank bankless check And a checklist of all Things I’ve to do yet. At the top is to find a God To wrestle hearts with And at the bottom is To barrel through the bowels Of hell and find my lost puppy. I lead a simple life, one of Eternal conflict between man, machine and all those caught Between. My struggle; Deciding...
Anonymous asked: have you ever talked someone out of suicide?
July 9th, 2012
I find no use in dragging my skin across the earth like the end of a wedding dress; I’d rather not track the dust left by others, nor dare I wipe myself across her precious surface. Appropriately, I travel lightly with my feet chained desperately to clouds and my lungs fraught and heavy with the lightest songs of yesterday’s glory. I float along and rarely touch...
I know I missed it this year,
And for that, I owe you an apology. Rest in peace, Pop pop.
Into myself I stared; throat closed and sealed with shame. I choked on the taste of failure and bit my tongue in guilt. I dove through my shadow and found my breath on the face of the sun; the scorch of justice and the sting of the burn enough to open my airways just enough to let out a scream; all I needed to find the voice to speak was enough pain to make me forget what ...
How can I be so desperately devoid of all things interesting. A rich and lavish, pointlessly frantic life I do lead, and yet in all the glamour and glory I bask and breath in, I find no inspiration in all I see. Beauty is around, but none within.
Happy Birthday, America.
To war, for war all for war we are! To battle we trek for battle we work to crush and kill it all. All those who came before, all those who came after, all those who stand before the shadow we cast down upon the mortals that tickle our feet like blades of grass beneath our cast iron boots. In this cry, guttural and vain, we shout her name; America, America, O the listless...
Her skin was overripe; ink stained parchment left out to dry in the glare of the summer sun. Her eyes two flecks of muddy footsteps printed across a porcelain white plane. Her smile the foam collecting at the top of a river of tears flowing from the footsteps sodden with tears trapped within her eyes. Though I never came to know how her smile tasted, and though I never knew the...
Anonymous asked: we are all very mad at you Steve.
As my eyelids tumble like fumbling drunks down a few rickety steps, I pull my pen across the page to scrawl one last confession. Though I am wilting into sleep and the black of my eye has consumed the white, I have just one ounce of strength in me left to say one last thing that I’ll lastly say before I finalize the night: . The murmur of my heart is slow and steady; the...