Poems exploring whether or not we create our world, through reflections past and current .
Periods of personal upheaval, no matter the degrees of their importance, often make me wonder: Are we creating the world we live in, or to what extent is it predetermined based on the birth lottery we won/lost? How much of what we do is merely adapting, as opposed to building something new? I wanna use these ideas as the loose basis for this collection.
I expect a lot of these pieces to be personal yet vague; real yet surreal. Dark at times, but hopeful. Odd and poignant. Disturbingly therapeutic. While I have no shortage of life experiences to mine content from, confronting them and filtering the thoughts and emotions will at times be difficult- not just for me, but occasionally for the reader as well. The goal for this project is to dig a little deeper into myself, using the momentum from my recent collections to cut new grooves into the framework, I suppose...and if it's readable, that's a bonus.
Edit 11/2020: Are we living in a world created for us. or are we creating it as we go along? Is there an answer? I don't know if I know, or if I'm the one to consult on that.
Comments, compliments, and feedback of all kinds- good or bad- are most certainly welcome. It's not just my journey; we're in this together.
they get away from me.
Like a priest who refuses
to work Sundays.
What have I been up to?
I do not know.
It's a belief I cannot
contain, or explain.
Just pluggin' in bits
and pieces of all of
the yous and mes
I know, with just enough
emotional garbage for you
to let me go with
a hi or hey or
just on my way.
And wherever that is,
I'm here, on
my own way, these
Your whole southside got me feelin' nauseous.
Cut like a deck of cards to recharge,
I can't escape the pulls of embargoes.
They leave me punched in the M-O-U-F mouth
when I can't see what it is you're all about.
I dance shitstorms. I go overboard.
I get analytically reformed and I explore.
I'm what you can't uncover in the undiscovered
and I do it all over again to get up under
the skin of your dramatic over-actionism.
That's why love is better than (or on) television.
Is the juice worth the squeeze?
Are the answers appealing to be revealed?
I think I've crossed out too many lines already
to be so blissfully unaware of your southside.
I feel like a child
about to get his
heart broken again.
This city's drowning in concrete
being crashed on by footsteps
of those I'll never meet.
I want to read your heart.
Tell me its stories
like no one's ever heard them before.
And I know one of two ways
this'll end, meaning there's a crazier
third way I haven't thought of.
Let me sing for you the song of my people.
Everybody in the house say "HO!"
Oh that's right...
It's not easy doing life unequally see-through
when you feel like the strangers of the world
are against you.
Let me flip that around and rephrase it:
Laptop, party of one, accidentally transcendent.
I turn the plastic into pavement with ink
and paper into pages where I'm on the brink
of emotions you forgot how to think
and feelings that cling like stink.
But I don't know how you feel
like I don't know how to feel.
so let's make life simple and not feel
and separately conceal
our opinions like filthy justice sealed
in a courtroom of our enemies, revealed.
I don't know how to end this, so
everybody in the house say "HO!"
so I can see how alone is
There was something-
An uneasy wire to an
unwelcome TV set.
A broadcast misplaced.
Information cast out
three space shuttles
into the great, unknown void.
If these are rules, you're not allowed.
No one can tell me to turn it down.
I threw you a line that didn't catch.
Maybe now you can think for yourself.
I said there was something
while I took a wicked piss.
The thoughts were so demanding;
so much more than this.
But how did I get here? And
why did I try?
Example: one and two and one and
When you say when, I say how.
All that's left is to figure it out.
Come with me and go nowhere fast,
unless that's what you're unable to ask.
Don't bite the shell.
Raise the flag.
Celebrate your incompetence
by shooting holes in
anything you thought you had.
Man, there was something
and I thought I'd remember it.
Same, but not the same,
but the same, but
not the same.
This ain't our world.
It was given to us by
people who had ideas for it
when it was given to them.
We've all graced that
mental chalkboard with
our own thoughts of
how it's gonna end up
(if first it doesn't end)
and determinedly made something
from what we found
we were given.
Some thoughts are better than others,
and some walked into more elaborate
situations than most could imagine.
Who is working to ruin existence
for those who were given nothing to work with?
Raise a hand.
Raise a voice.
Raise a people
before they're razed
from a planet they thought would raise them.
to do better than before.
Is this our world-
the one we're born into-
or is it someone else's
we've acclimated to
in an effort to make it our own?
Is it? Is it? Is it?
We're too busy being pieces
instead of a whole
if anyone notices
we're of any use or
to whatever the world is
I dug a pond
to bury you in.
It took me twice as many months
as there are of you, and
We can't always eat what we kill.
And being on fire
is one way
to not get anything done.
If I'm the disease,
please own your symptoms.
Life plays for keeps when you're
and it loves takin' chances
when I'm dyin'.
I dug a pond
for us to play in
until you uninvited yourself.
The frogs don't miss you
and won't even after
death comes a-callin'
but it was always
about you anyway.
Please don't mistake this
for missing you
because the good times get forgotten
when your mind gets rotted by
every mistake I've made.
I dug a pond,
and no, I'm not sorry.
Let me go just to go,
instead of puttin' on a show
of faux decency in my wake.
You wouldn't mean
the words you don't say,
so why can't I just get over it?
A rattlesnake with two tails
can only bite once, but
I'm more scared of the sounds
you can't make.
Let it be known...
I've gone and grown
and don't need help of sympathy.
Any advice, refiltered thrice,
you offer is worth throwing away.
Let it be known...
your actions have turned you
from clay to rust.
I dug a pond.
I am beyond
all that matters to you
You and I in hot pursuit of
something we don't know the name to
are yanking in opposite directions
and I can't bear to tell you.
When the cops pull you over
in front of the church again,
are you praying, or
do you take my name in vain
blindly as if you know I'll care?
Because you know I'll be there.
I reappear like a broken obstacle;
a flat tire. A leg missing its chair.
There's clay in your fingerprints
and a scar on your dress
from when I hugged you last
that you can't trace or guess
when I'll be back next.
You say you want me around;
you've got me looking for answers
but you don't want to be found.
Are you some kind of new Idealist?
Afraid to speak the word "Socialist"
when you don't know clearly what it means?
Why does it sound so obscene?
For mishandling the management of fractions
and getting lost in factions,
I will bring you with me.
There's more to life than
your personal currency.
More than your beliefs.
More than waiting
I will bring you with me.
It's not a first impression if you make it all the time.
Call it what you want;
we're all the name-brand
version of wanting to die.
When there is a home for it,
we're not family or friends
or family friends, but a
mismatched hand of aces
in the full house of broken diamonds
whose meanings are lost in the flush.
The argued bits of canonical bliss.
The hype of the deal that became
a 52 Pickup consisting of only jokers.
I see you. I see you. I see you.
All in the same suit, a
fashionably sterile hospital blue.
Don't deal me in; I'm not here to win.
I'm not ready to talk; just watch.
Our failures come in spades
multiplied by a system
of minimal success; a chance
at odds with the odds.
No one is paid enough or makes enough
to see the game through. And
as the losses mount (on top
of everything you've already lost)
your haven is no longer safe.
How many times must we fold?