All posts in poetry

who
what
when
where
why
is I?

who
what
when
where
why
is Love?

who
what
when
where
why
is You?

how can the heaven’s permit us to say

I
Love
You

without knowing the words?

Every night I sleep in heat as if I’ve gone back into the womb. Nothing hurts, and everything feels good.

But every day, I am born again, and I exit the womb crying, feeling the coldness and the pain that comes with it; the pain of life, the pain of reality. And yet I know I must feel this pain. For I must live. For staying in the womb is not life, it’s avoidance.

Staying in the womb for want of not being hurt, of not losing joy, or of not growing up hard, without laughter, and without love, is very tempting. And yet every day, despite all that, I leave, for the gelid reality.

And every night I do it backwards; I go back to the place where all my dreams are true – my mind, my womb. Back to the place with infinite warmth, comfort, and food. All attained without ever having to lift a finger, the ultimate vacation.

All renounced in the morning, for a world which hates, which pummels, and which freezes to death. Freezes with it’s unkindness, it’s shunning, and it’s underlying cruelty. All forms of unhurried torture that make one forget the warmth of the womb too soon. Yet all making you remember it the more, for yearning of it. The only thing holding you together being the realization that hypothermic is not something you want to be.

The only thing holding you together being the daily routine; walking forward towards the cold, doing it backwards to the warmth, doing it again tomorrow, and through it all desperately hoping that the temperature change doesn’t break you.

some of us live holding our breath.
blood roaring in our ears, lungs stretched to bursting,
counting the seconds with our heartbeats
for day, months, years,
before we’re forced to exhale.
before the harsh waters of life come
rushing into our lungs,
drowning us.

some of us build scuba-gear.
smiling at our ingenuity
consciously,
really smiling at our self-delusion
made reality
subconsciously.
the self-delusion being that the ocean is tameable, handleable,
graspable.. by Man’s hands.
and that the waters of life really aren’t that harsh afterall.
too late do we realize that
sharks swim behind us, that
the air in our tanks is depleting, and that
eventually water rusts all things,
including scuba-gear.

and some of us learn how to breath underwater.
but it’s not easy.
Man is a land animal.

the stories were true,
the great flood is real.
it came, and it stayed.
noah’s ark is the myth.

her love was a tin cup.

she held it out to her sleeves.
farther even!

she shook and rattled it.
look at it! look at it!

her love was a tin cup.
a beggar’s kind of love.

demanding attention.
demanding affection.

demanding charity.

her love was a tin cup.
and I found out that

my pockets were empty.

baa, baa, black sheep,
have you any wool?
no sir, no sir,
i have no wool.

i gave it to you master,
i gave it to you dame,
and I gave it to you, little boy,
i felt to, i knew your pain.

black sheep, have you any love?
no sir, no sir, i have no wool.
i am naked, i am cold, i am dead,
and you were cruel.

there’s this poem I’m writing,
about why i love you,
it’s not finished yet.
it never will.

there’s this other poem I’m writing,
about why i hate you,
it’s finished.
it’ll certainly kill.

i’ll give you one.
i probably will.

my tragedy is that i’m too smart.

i learn too fast.
i get out too right.

my tragedy is that i have no tragedy.

i get out too light.

smile, put on the front that you’re better, even when you’re bitter.
they say.

don’t be a rebel, don’t be a dick. get on board, get on deck.
they say.

you’ll be fried trying to be freed. stay where you are.
they say.

you want to get fitter? oh, we’ll stop you – we have fetters.
they say.

stop trying to pick a better future for yourself. stop trying to pick a better future for yourself.
they peck.

that writing you do with your quill pen, quell it. now. or else.
they say.

those words you write, they’re six six six. those words you write, they’re sex sex sex.
we are religious. you are blasphemous.
they say.

stop writing your tails, you’re barely making taels. stop your foolishness.
they say.

your wrists, just try to wrest them from our grasp. just try!
they finally say.

…e before i, except after c.
they say.

He was a born again, gone again man.
He was a scorned again, soar again man.

He said “I have things that haunt me so.”
Please just leave, I’d rather stay than just go,
I’d rather pray than just know.
… And can’t you see I’ve got my cross to tow?

He was a born again, gone again man.
He was a throne again, thorn again man.

Can’t you see he’s been saved?
Can’t you see he’s been raised?
He’s been shown the light,
And it’s awfully bright,
And it’s an awful sight, to be beside.

Oh, he’s a born again, gone again man.
He’s an atoned again, alone again man.

photo credit: petesimon