Wow, that word again used so frequently
yet understood so ineffectually
because it is not to be believed just after you cum
but rather when you’ve endured some unbearable torture and
still can feel it through to your core for someone else,
maybe even for the one that tortured you.
That is the bone in it, the marrow of it.
What you give,
rather than what you have received.
There is a long line to get it but an emptish field where it can be found.
This action is wrought with difficulty,
but the payoff – sublime –
to love where wronged,
to wish for the welfare of those that harm you.
Incredible as it seems,
it is attainable and once that goal is reached,
understanding is genuine and love is real.
For V, inspired by JC
I guess I have hurricanes on the brain among other things…
only the slightest offering
to tempt even the truest
nothing compared to the fullness of youth
a dying sun
barely a lingering radiance only a slight glow
wandering to and fro
bare feet on tainted soil
how long in this state of disrepair
where once everything seemed so fair
ancient and entombed
decaying galaxy and distant moon
feast your eyes on the settlement
nothing fine anymore barely a sparkle like a glistening rock in a damned stream
insulted by it
throw it back in their face
how can this little rock
compare with the vastness of a hurricane
This poem is for my father. The only person in the world that when he speaks
I crave someone would just sledgehammer in my brain in an audacious attempt at quietude
from the man that rambles tangentially about my shortcomings until I leave him.
Can you hear me?
Did you hear what I said?
Are you even aware that I am speaking?
Is the hum between your ears too much noise to hear
that I am telling you just how I feel
or do you simply not care
There are times when you speak that I would sell
my soul to the actual devil
in the hopes that he could stop you from speaking.
What need do I have for a soul?
When I can’t even feel it
because the pressure from your speech
renders me invariably worthless.
In the end, I’m begging, for the love of God and in the name of all that is holy,
please just this once –
and in your silence let me feel golden.
I love my dad. I just wish he could control the urge to tell me about how wrong I do things all the time. I’m resolved there will be no resolutions with him. All I want is for him to shut up sometimes. Is that so wrong?
In reference to my poem, “ILK”, starting with a few words
“linked yet distinct” humming in my mind, the vibration ensues
creating thoughts that relate to the original idea
as the churning in my brain begins to augment words
into expressions that rhyme, the swiftness of time
creates a whirlpool in my belly
As the emotions that are evoked get stronger the rhyme sets off a torrent
where the pressure from the storm makes me feel trapped by words
that can only be released by taps from the tips that
leak onto a monitor that bring a sort of release
so that I’m able to relieve myself from this rant
that takes me over and sustains tappy tips through
the next few minutes
which is as long as the tempest lasts in my mind and the well of my belly
where now a calmness has replaced a short-lived chaos
and a poem is born from the minutes of labor
where thoughts and emotions cannot be restrained.
Beating, like a heart, racing through a forest
at a gallop, as a trace of hope might spark
Do you know me, my friend?
Are we the same?
Do you see the buds on the trees?
Or abandoned homes left in flames
I need kinship in my lingering despair
frightened from toenails to a head full of hair
shirking off the gazes that lapse into disgust
about neurological disorders that should never be discussed
Are we born to this world with similar skin, flesh, bone and character?
I desire relations without dominion over my soul that would rather
share a notion, puzzle pieces, pen and paper
discernment between your mind and mine own
to live together separately and distinct
yet loving, without condescension, forever linked
I’m in a wedge of a crack of a hole.
Life pressing in every direction; I’m questioning my soul.
Yet you feel it necessary to unburden your fold
or YOU will be confined?
Let me tell you something Joan of Arc on crack du jour
You’re already headed out the door
leading deeper into your psychosis.
You angle every play to defeat my spirit
to make me bitter to my sinew.
I defy you! I’m not like you.
I’ve never worshipped you and hated you the way you do with me.
The rage I feel for all these years I must suppress for father’s sake
but heartless sister, my affection is all spent.
I wish I could display this poem as words on paper
to shove down your throat so you can choke on the
significance of your torture.
I can’t believe I loved you.
Wasted years on caring about you.
It’s too hard. I’m defeated.
You win, nut job, you have no sister.
I wrote this last night. So today, I’m looking at it thinking post it or delete it. I want to make it all go away. For me, rage lasts in moments. It’s not sustainable. But when it hits me, it hits me hard.