Irrelevant

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Can you hear me!?

Are you listening?

I am shouting, screaming

my lungs are burning

Why don’t you see me?

 

I am stuck,

glued to the floor

my lips open

bu no sound escapes

this prison of my

psyche

 

I am not moving

but lost, as if blinded

the world shifts around me

in motion but not

and I am stuck

powerful beyond measure

but locked deep

no focus

 

I am not bored

depressed

angry

sad

 

no

 

I am simply.

irrelevant.

The Tide is Rising

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Sweeping over me, the rising tide

batters my barriers, beckoning

grasping fingers clutching at me,

tugging at my essence and pride

The flood threatens to overwhelm

and drown me so I struggle to breathe

clutching at air and clarity, silently

wearing a smile, no one to confide

in because I have no way to explain

the dark waters licking at my body

blessing me with the cold ache

that tracks like an roaring avalanche

across my psyche, I’m unable to decide

how to react, moving in slow motion

running in the water, slipping under

hard learned lessons forgotten in favor

of flailing, hoping to say at least I tried.

It’s not enough to save my sinking self

my anchor floats like a butterfly

and the salty water stings my wounds

a baptism but I’m not left purified

rather sullied by the constant grey

as the water now runs in my veins

so I must bleed to release the toxin,

trying to live like this is suicide

The dark tide rises, relentless

But my faith holds strong, endless

Casual Encounter

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I had a casual encounter with death,

robed in a red velvet bag,

strapped to the cold metal gurney

advancing through the doors

elevator arrow pointing up

as the squeak of the wheels faded.

The doors whispered shut

as if to echo the closing

of more celestial portals

as my breath continued unabated.

Death walked past me,

no more grim than the face

of the suited men carting the carcass.

The silence that reigned underlined

the casualty of the casualness,

result of carefully crafted callousness

causality clearly kept secret.

A moment of momentousness as life

passes reduced to a simple event

to remark upon in the passing

fancy of idle curiosity, casual cruelty.

I  met death today, a casual encounter

somehow more haunting

for the lack of portentousness.

 

When the Moon is Hidden

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On nights like this,

when the moon is hidden

from my blinded eyes

and the foggy kiss

of memories unbidden

release from me a thousand sighs

I can’t help but hope.

 

My heart is holy, like swiss

but my mind is riddled,grief-ridden

by unholy hell hounds, spies

from the past that I miss

even though I know it’s forbidden,

I can’t help but hear her cries

and I don’t know if I can cope.

 

I yearn for it, for that bliss

as if I deserved it, though I didn’t

on account of all the lies

though truthfully I would be remiss

to forget that I was overridden

by the fact I couldn’t compromise,

unable to explain to her the scope.

 

 

 

 

 

Broken Girl

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Broken girl.

I loved you for your imperfection,

tracing your scars

and following your flaws

like Perseus followed the yarn.

 

Broken girl.

You were a perfect specimen

of how beautiful humanity

can be, once it’s taken out

of the box.

 

Broken Girl.

I tried to fix you,

patching your broken heart

with words and a shoulder.

Only now do I realize you

weren’t broken at all.

 

Strong warrior.

Forgive me for my pity.

For it lessened your sacrifice.

Wear your scars proud,

because you are not broken, girl

but a conqueror.

Breathe, Let Peace Descend

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For those moment late at night,

when you overflow with emotions.

When you need to speak

but there is no one to listen.

When you shout into the silence,

but your lips don’t move.

When your heart is like a boulder

sitting in a raging river of thoughts,

unmoved by the inundation.

For those lonely moments

when melancholy beckons,

sweeter than siren song and deadly,

and you can’t help but answer.

For those seconds turned hours

spent on the edge of something more,

almost grasping but not quite.

For those heavy moments

when air seems a precious commodity

and silence is much too loud.

When the past escapes its confines

and climbs into the present,

wreaking havoc in your zen garden

strewing regrets like dead flowers

and uprooting forgotten moments,

bright splashes of color to illuminate

the endless grey of this eternal hour.

Then let your heart speak.

Let it bleed ink unto paper

or sing color unto canvas.

When you are overwhelmed by lack,

create and let the wound drain.

Sing and let your heart reign,

cry and let your heart rain.

Remember the air and breathe.

Breathe, and let peace descend.

Breathe, and let peace descend.

Poetry is God

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God is poetry

Poetry is God.

 

In the beginning was the word,

and the word was with God,

and the word was God.

 

Words, spilling frantic from my fingers,

a whirlwind of creation and destruction

almost mysterious in meaning

but the sum is greater than the parts.

 

God is poetry,

the creator of humankind in it’s glory

and the creation of human kind,

we created poetry and in the process God.

God created us and in the process poetry.

 

Poetry is God,

all encompassing and powerful,

swifter and keener than a two edged sword

slicing away artifice to reveal Truth.

 

Poetry is inside each of us,

the outward expression of our inner soul.

A painters brush carefully caressing canvas,

an athlete’s body in effortless motion,

the heartrending timbre of a singers voice,

the harmonious laughter of mother and child,

the weather worn and leathered palms

of men and women across the ages

writing the poetry of humanity with

sweat and blood across the earth.

 

God is in all things,

from the red wheelbarrow

to the mystical raven

and even in the frozen depths

of the human heart.

He is in the hellish rage

and in the tender care.

 

Time slips past and we forget,

our hearts grow calloused by pain

and regret clouds our vision

But when poetry speaks!

 

When poetry speaks,

shattered hearts are mended

disbelief is suspended

and the chaos is ended.

 

When poetry speaks!

Oh when poetry speaks,

the blood boils in the heart of all who hear,

casting away doubts, shadows and fears

breaking boundaries

not caring for race, sexual inclination,

gender, financial stitutation

but simply gutting the beast

and reading the future in it’s entrails.

 

When poetry speaks,

we fall silent.

Hushed and waiting.

 

When God Speaks.