Tag Archives: floating

Searching, Finding

I’d like to say I’m looking. It’d be nice to see the end of the line, the light in the end of the tunnel, but no, I find that I am simply existing and unsure of which direction to go if I even go at all. Any ideas? Please enjoy the poem, friends.

White Whale

A burning sea

and smoky sky.

Cleansed by fire

and ash and lye.

No boats,

no masters.

On the open ocean now,

only hope you’ll move faster.

It’s coming, you see.

That thing you sail away from.

It always seeks and always finds

those who feel but numb

in a world that often blurs the lines.

Not hunting,

but being hunted.

There is no hope

to fight back,

only ways to clean with soap.

The time and place is never, nowhere.

Feeling Sick But Doing Fine

Good morning, everyone! The poem today is one of my favorites from the past couple weeks. The way it comes together is like a forlorn love letter, brimming with nostalgia and pain. It twisted my heart to write it. I only hope it helps you feel too. Without further ado, I bring to you…

Munchausens – An Eleven Letter Word

Do your eyes grace the pages

that fill beneath my pen,

every inkblot a kiss,

every stroke a love letter,

just for you, my dear?

~

Does your mind wander

on over to me

where I fill your head

with lovely and sweet things,

always bringing back

my amnesiac?

~

Alas, my love,

these starry eyes,

in all their seeming candor,

bely that feeling most unkind.

~

And then you see

these tired eyes

and their bags of lies

Filled all to the brim with flies.

~

To feel rotten inside,

a feeling most sour

and nigh unfairly dour,

it eats at the psyche,

the ego its bread

and the id its cheese.

~

It makes a man unwholly holy,

and perhaps leaves him feeling wholly unholy

with but a sprinkling of that reminder

of being wholly unwhole.

Shifting Sands

We exist in a constant state of change. Any attempt to avert or subvert will only result in the same or another change, much like a single individual and their attempts to divert the sea. No matter the effort, no matter the expenditure, no matter the time, it continues. There is no such thing as a constant. Please enjoy the poem, I think you’ll like this one.

Those Deserted Places

A diary,

worn and faded,

old and tarnished,

its mothballed pages

and belabored words

bely importance lost to time.

That one whose thoughts lived between the covers,

in the binding,

and at the margins

now withered and old.

Closer now to dust than bone.

A child then,

so pure and true,

alive and well,

ancient now,

so cold and blue.

Those feelings

and those motivations

now part of the sand

that covers this land.

What secrets might be found in the dunes?

A Hiatus Duly Taken

Afternoon, friends and readers. Apologies for the brief hiatus I had to take the last few days. I’ve been sick the past week or so and I didn’t have it in me to post every day. My poem today comes from a place of wanderlust. I cannot help but feel as if my time is being wasted not having adventures. Trying to ask myself what I want and how to get there has become a daily task. Please enjoy the poem.

La Isla

As the days and weeks and years

pass between my ears,

I find myself awash in wishing

for a place to go missing.

I’ll fly a plane over the jungle,

go insane when i bungle,

castaway on some deserted isle,

missing my bathroom tile.

I’ll sail a ship to distant shores

and find that place away from bores.

A man of adventure

whose service could never be indentured.

I’d live for me and all my vices,

a selfish world and all that entices.

Apart from the rest

even if I’m not the best.

I’d be me and mine,

finally over the line,

past the point of crying

and surely now,

no longer dying.

I’d be put through my pace

with a smile on my face

and I might now know the taste

of that one displaced…

Ein Herz aus Stahl

If only my heart were made of iron. If only my mind were made of steel. If only I could be the man in the moon, hiding away a million miles away, far from all the things that have been transgressed upon me. Enjoy the poem, friends.

The Book

A book of truths

and of lies,

bound in skin,

threaded by sinews.

Its ink is bloody

but pages paper.

May your fear never taper

and may your vision be muddy,

for your falsehoods here are written.

I only wish I could be smitten.

How the pages tell the story of my heart,

its every pump and every artery

in its every part.

Reading, you can almost hear the beating.

Oops… A paper cut.