I took the pictures down
frame by frame,
leaving behind nothing but a bare wall.
Like peeling a bandage back,
revealing a healed wound,
still raw and sore,
I spied my forgotten injury.
the skin is still healing,
I then remember.
So many scrapes and bumps
covered and hidden.
Tears cried and hearts broken.
Now dug up and exposed.
Through the pain(deep breath)
I strip away my protection(closed eyes)
and move forward(exhale)
The walls are bare and the future bright.
No more history crucified to the wall.
No more dark and concealed past.
Just faded memories.
A string of pearls, listless and bemused,
hangs languidly from the hands of the clock,
striking slowly with little intent.
Pointedly, the hands drag and stalk the Hours,
marking the March of Minutes.
And I wait.
I take a step, with precision and exactness.
Then I wait some more,
the tightrope I walk swinging and swaying.
Slender beneath my feet.
I inch forward, tickling the wire a fraction at a time,
then I stop. I am poised. Listening to the creak of the string, swaying.
And I’m waiting.
I crossed the finish line so many times, and every time
he was there.
To urge me faster, to cheer me on.
He was there.
Maybe I asked to much. Maybe I did too little
but another finish line came into view
and he wasn’t there anymore.
He wasn’t there.
The crowds cheered and people smiled,
but my eyes searched for the one face I wanted to see.
The one face that meant the most to me
and he wasn’t there.
From here on out, I’m on my own.
I asked too much and listened too little.
I sealed my own fate
and now I walk alone.
On my own.
It is one of those days,
one in which I am faced with all
A day I will spend overanalyzing
my Self (or lack thereof).
In searching for the spark
I find incomplete sentences
and discarded dreams.
I find my Self as nothing more than
a collection of disorganized hopes and
(the dust of artistic stagnation
piling up at the foot of my bed).
I, my Self, am brimming with
wasted wishes and
a trashbin of disposable attempts.
My creative frustrations well within me,
seeking an outlet.
Dream away with me.
Tell me things that aren’t true,
and make me believe.
Sell me on cotton candy clouds
and silver castles
and moonbeams made of tears.
Dream away with me.
Make the velvet sky of night
wrap around my smiling face
and pretend that life is as bright
as the stars between my eyes and
that everything will be alright.
Take me away
and help me forget
that life is a series of
dull Facts and Details.
Make me promises that we’ll never keep
but that we’ll always be able to come back to
when the days are dreary and
Life gets too involved.
Let’s close our eyes and dream away the day
and make-believe that life is fuller and more
in our bed of sheets and blankets and pillows.
Let us dream away…
In January of 2012 I promised myself that I would get my shit together and finally get my poetry published.
So I wrote about it, started collecting everything I’ve written over the past two decades and began compiling them into a neat little folder on my computer to be published.
It’s been a year and a half since I made that goal and today I officially submitted my files and cover for my first book of poetry. Eeek!!
Am I going to be some world famous poet? Pfffffft, no way. Will I make millions of dollars and be able to finally have that dream kitchen I want? Hell no! But to see all my hard work culminate with a printed copy, bound all pretty with my name on the cover, is one of my biggest dreams and will be worth all the tears and sweat that went into it.
Now we wait. Wait to see if my files comply with the regulations and if my work is printable. I’ve got 24 hours to twiddle my thumbs and fret over whether or not I can handle the criticism I’m bound to hear because, while not everyone is a poet, everyone is a critic.
Here goes nothing…