New Beginnings

We are all dying

Shedding and decomposing

As the worlds spins on

Unforgiving

And you and I

And our broken hands

We have yet to mend

Hold on for dear life

For although we want to die

Life has only just begun

Think Of Me

Think of me often

On days when the sun

Sets lower in the sky

On nights when the moon

Is not there

In times of sorrow

And in times of delight

Think of me when I am

Not near

I Know Not

I know not the countless hours I have waited to hear you speak my name,

to hear your voice dance through my eardrums, once again,

pirouetting its way to my heart.

I know not the number of days I have counted on my nimble fingers,

anxiously waiting and wondering when I might be graced with your encouraging presence,

with your superior divinity.

I know less of many subjects, but of you,

I know well enough.

I know the curve of your jaw,

the touch of lips,

the glint in your eyes,

and the love in your heart,

but I know not where you are.

 

When You Meet Someone

It is only when you meet someone that you realize how lonely you are,

how empty you feel inside,

when you’re alone with yourself,

when you’re alone with your thoughts,

and your memories,

and your pain.

Cigarette Houses

Cigarette houses in concrete jungles wait patiently for 9:15,

when the caffeine surges through the dark veins of civilians

desperately searching for a pick-me-up.

Baristas brew dark roast coffee,

its texture as clear as mud,

its flavor bold and vivacious,

its taste as homey and hearty as Peet’s

served in an oversized cup in the afternoon on an Autumn day.

Citizens trudge through Ashtray Road,

their faces lined with sleepless hours,

their capillaries purple and black from withdrawal,

their hands violently shaking.

The need overcomes the inhabiters,

their stomachs twisting, acidic,

filled with rancid ingredients shoved down their digestive  tracts.

Smoke fills their lungs with a reason to stop,

a reason to breathe free air

and sing without a rasp and a constant guttural tone.

They realize their flaws.

They notice their deadly imperfections,

their own death traps,

and yet they stop not for themselves

or their cigarette houses.

Still, they trudge on down the valley of ashes,

searching for their jolt,

the one simple pleasure that makes them feel alive,

they makes them feel real.

They prick their veins with caffeine needles

and feel the rush,

feel the power,

feel the warning signs.

 

The Unthinkable

I never thought that I would smile,

that I would hear you breathe rhythmically,

in sync with my own heartbeat,

that my hand would reach out for yours

even if you were not near.

I never thought that I could love,

that I could open up my heart and bleed

without feeling ashamed,

that my world would be forever altered by your touch.

 

I’ve Found

*I went to a slam poetry workshop today, and it was absolutely amazing. Anyway, we had to do an exercise in which we started to write a poem, and after a couple of seconds, random words were thrown at us that we had to immediately incorporate into our pieces. It was very strange, but I suggest this activity to anyone, poet or not. 

I’ve found that the beautiful and the untamed go hand in hand, their fingers laced and intertwined.

I’ve found the darkness reach the sentiments of my own heart, its genuine history developing a new connection.

I’ve found that love can take many speed bumps, or heart can take the logic away from the level head.

I’ve found that Georgia is a lovely state, with mean and funky twangs described as accents infusing a different dialect.

I’ve found that dictionaries are very thick, the pages close together filled with words upon words that nobody knows.

I’ve found open spaces develop between the queen of my heart, the gaps empty and statistical.

I’ve found that dreaming is a simple task, but one with an elemental purpose, its use abundant and homeward-bound.

I’ve found that once I fell in love, my interpreting colors as signs, my brain unadulterated.

I’ve found that reason is not good enough when wibbly wobbly feelings are fleeting away.

I’ve found that hawk eyes look strange in the daylight, they mangle in the resemblance of my yesteryears, churning away at my

insides, their nitpicking voices cheering.

I’ve found that antibiotics don’t really work when your brain is sick, chiding away at your conscious, its comebacks unamusing.

I’ve found that  wrongs can make great rights if you spin the details a little.