11th
Good Poetry for thought
I have a friend, he’s mostly made of paint. And he wakes up just to work, then straight back home again. He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper. I thought it was beautiful and I put it on a record cover. and I tried to tell him he had a sence of color and composition so magnificent. And he said, “Thank you please.. but your flattery.. is truly not.. becoming me.. your eyes are poor.. your blind you see.. no beauty could have come from me….
I’m a waist.
Of breath.
Of space.
Of time.
I knew a woman, she was dignified and true. And her love for her man was one of her many virtues. Until one day she found out that he had lied. She decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a lie. But she was grateful for everything that had happened. And she was anctious for whatever will come next.
But then she wept..
what did you expect.
in that big old house.
with the car she kept.
and such is life.
she often said,
“with one day leading to the next..
you get a little closer to your death”
which was fine with her.
she never got upset.
and with all the days she may have left.
she would never clean another mess!
Or fold HIS shirts
or look her best!
She was…
FREE!
To waist.
away.
alone.
Last night my brother, he got drunk and drove. And this cop; he pulled him to the side of the road. And he said, “officer, officer, you got the wrong man. No I’m a student of medicen, the son of a banker.. you dont understand.” The cop said, “no one got hurt, you should be thankful. And your carelessness. it is something awful.
And no I cant just let you go.
and tho your father’s name is known.
you decisions now are yours alone.
Your nothing but a stepping stone.
on a path..
to debt.
to loss.
to shame.
The last few months i’ve been living with this couple. Yeah, you know the kind who buy everything in doubles. They fit together like a puzzle. And i love their love and I am thankful. that someone actually recieves the prize that was promised. By all those fairytails that drugged us..
And they still DO me.
I’m sick lonley.
no laurel tree.
just green envy.
will my number come up eventually.
like love is some kind of lottery.
where you scratch and see.
whats underneith.
its “sorry”..
just one cherry..
i’ll “play again”..
“get lucky”..
So, I’ve been hanging out by the trains depot. No I dont ride, I just sit and watch the people there. And they remind me of windup cars in motion. The way they spin and turn and jocky for positions. And i want to scream out that it all is nonsense. All your life’s just one track, cant you see its pointless.
But just then my knees.
give under me.
my head feel weak.
and suddenly.
its clear to see.
its not them, but ME.
whose lost my self.
identity.
As I hide behind.
these books i read.
while scribbling.
my poetry.
like art could save.
a wretch like me.
with some idealide
-ology.
that no one could hope.
to achieve.
and i’m never real.
its just a sketch in me.
and everything i made is.
Tright.
and cheap.
And a waist…
of paint.
of tape.
of time.
So now I park my car down by the cathedral. With the floodlights point up at the steeples. Choir practice is filling up with people. Can you hear the sound escaping as an echo. Sloping off the ceiling at an angle. when they blend.. the voices sound like angels…
I hope theres some room still in the middle. When I lift my voice up to reach them. Their range is up to high, way up in heaven.
So I hold my toung.
forget the song.
tie my shoes.
start walking off.
And I try to just.
keep moving on.
with my broken heart.
and MY ABSENT GOD.
AND I HAVE NO FAITH..
and so..
i want..
to be loved.
and BELIEVE.
in my soul.
IN MY SOUL………..
