Love Discarded

I have issues, this I know.
For my history tells me so.
But you were different, never the worst,
never thinking I was cursed,
or flawed.
Maybe if I still believed in God.

But it’s painful, sometimes,
you and me,
the way we be,
is it heaven or hell
(it hurts so bad I cannot tell).

And I still love you.
Or I think I do, or did;
split apart, god forbid
in hide and seek if I hid,
because you would never search for me.

It’s leaves on the branches in a tree,
our love the breeze,
our bodies dashed on the ground,
broken skeletons of plants dissolved,
so I let you go.

At The End

At the end
or perhaps, the beginning,
there was me
and you,
a boy,
a girl,
stuck on the edge
of a wheel,
feet skimming the grass,
hovering,
staring.
Hands itching closer,
closer,
fingers stretching
as much as fingers can,
bones pressing at the fabric of skin
until nothing
except a spark,
static,
the universe itself,
lay between the outstretched hands
And the wheel turned,
grass brushing
bare feet,
soft skin,
and the distance grew,
shrunk,
melted away
in the mist of the day
that had become night
in the time it took
for two hands
to touch,
for fingers
to brush,
for a beginning to end
and an end to begin
and a wheel to turn
the cycle again.

I Can’t Sleep

Something’s wrong.
I can’t rest, can’t sleep
can’t find comfort
in a bed and sheets,
or warmth, safety,
a pillow beneath my head.

I can’t sleep.

I’m in a perpetual state
of pure exhaustion,
eyes a desert,
on fire,
burning eternally.
My mind stops,
a fragment of thought a refrain with no end,
half-finished stories, prolonged ideas,
persisting,
day in, day out,
no rest for a wicked mind,
and
I can’t sleep.

Podunk Pirate

I wanted to be a writer.
A no-holds-bar,
every word counts,
change the world writer.
I admired the greats,
the worlds they built,
the way their sentences flowed
and ended.

But now I’m a podunk pirate,
pilfering phrases and words to create
half-baked plot points
and struggling prose,
poetry falling flat,
falling deaf,
flowing wrong.
I’m stealing the English language
to twist it
and spin it
to make it mine
for now.

This isn’t what I want to write. I want to write tales, tales of adventure, of love. Of loss. Soaring epic fantasies that span worlds.
Yet I can’t.
I can’t find a voice, one that fits the stories that I want to spin. A voice so full of magic and wonder that it makes you pause.
Yet I can’t.
I find myself writing half-baked stories, ideas that don’t feel right. Ideas that, in other hands, might be beautiful. Might sit on a shelf in a bookstore, someone else’s name emblazoned on the cover. But not my name, never my name.
I used to dream of my name on a book, one that people loved. Growing up, I was to write the next Great American Novel, so much so that it felt a part of who I was supposed to be, who I would become.
Now I don’t dream of that, because dreams are jinxes that haunt my waking moment. If I dream it, it won’t come true, because nothing I’ve dreamed has come true.
And the secret dreams, the ones hidden behind the curtain in my heart, those have.
Maybe I don’t want it enough. Maybe I’m not trying enough. I’m not skilled enough. I don’t read enough, write enough, think enough for this to even happen. Maybe I should stop trying.
Maybe I should stop trying.
If the thing that I was supposed to grow up to become hasn’t come true, and I am grown, does that mean I am living a lie, breaking every promise I ever made to everyone I looked up to in life? Does this mean I am the embodiment of failure? Does this mean I am lost?
Maybe I should stop trying.
But I don’t think I can.
Sure, I might have fallen far from what I thought I would do. Perhaps I will never find that voice. Maybe stories aren’t in the forecast of the future.
But I don’t think I can stop.
I like writing, and reading, and hearing what I write and hearing MY voice. If I can’t fit the stories I want to spin, then I’ll have to find the stories that do.
And maybe, just maybe,
My name will be on a book.

Dream of the Sky

In the summer nights,
when hopes run high,
when dreams appear
and fade and die.
When grasses rise
and sway and grow,
and monsters lurk
above and below.
When people fight,
drinks tossed aside,
and crime is created,
illusions a lie,
and safety becomes
a secondary side
to the fun and the life
of the son and the bride.
In summer nights,
when hopes run high,
when dreams appear
and fade and die,
when you sleep in the dark
and are forced to comply,
I look out at the city
and dream of the sky.