I will shoot out
into the black canvas
speckled with paint drips
like diamonds.
I’ll tow a line of fire and smoke
through the glittering sea of open space,
leaving breadcrumbs of heat and fumes
for following
or for leaving.

I will seek and search
and wonder and laugh
at nothing
and at the nothingness.
I will cry at the somethings;
the drifting, the floating, the wandering ones,
I will see them and know them
as intimately as lovers who left.

I will call out and receive no answer
and that will, for once,
be a blessing.
I will stare without blinking
and absorb old light
with stories like time.

I will be alone,
but space will almost be you.

Maybe I grind my teeth
because the enamel has closed around my future.
My gums are pink waves
lapping on shores of imprisoned hope,
and the screams in my head are the parts of me
that raised those dreams.
They need them like oxygen,
like parents,
like children.

Maybe I grind my teeth
because you need me,
but the more I try the more I waste your time.
I’m a madman with a hot glue gun
soldering shut your wounds
with stringy plastic words
stretched thin over scars like canyons.

But I think I grind my teeth
because I’ve always felt
like I was packing my bags.
I’ve got a train to catch and I’ve been waiting
twenty years,
packing up,
packing up my life.
The more I pack the less I’ve got to give.

Now I’m tired
and my train’s late
but my bags are packed
so my teeth just gnash.

Woo! Yay poem! It’s been a long time, but I finally managed to finish one. Let me know what you think!

I know this isn’t poetry, but yeah, I think I’m expanding my blog to all my writing now. Here’s a little thing I did for class, it’s an extension of a short writing exercise into a page-long short story. Let me know what you think!

At the starting line, Mike had not been able to reign in his frantic thoughts and worries about the race. The possibility of a heart attack had seemed all too real, and he had considered his odds for survival to be tenuous at best. Decades behind a desk and in front of the television had left him out of shape and out of touch with his body’s capabilities; a state which he once had found laughable in others, even detestable, but had long since come to understand. Mike had not, however, learned to accept such an existence as permanent, so when he saw the ad in the paper for the local charity and their tenth annual five kilometer run, he knew how his next Sunday morning would be spent.

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I’ve had pretty bad writer’s block this Summer. SO! My idea is to ask tumblr for writing prompts! Give me a prompt for a poem, and I will write it! You could give me anything; a word, a phrase, a sentence, a concept, a character, a picture, a song, whatever you fancy! You can even specify the type of poem! (sonnet, iambic pentameter, free verse, etc.) Be as specific, vague, or as ridiculous as you want! I will write the poem, and tag you in the finished product.

Alright tumblr, have at thee! =D

I have tired of creating
carbon dioxide and heat
in languish on this snug, worn
floral print sofa. I ache.
To stand is not to escape
this rushing, gasping collapse
towards a central moment;
in my chest, my soul whispered,
“No more.”

And the soft disruption spread
filling bones filling organs
and I could feel the pulsing
hidden next to my heartbeat
for years. My arms are taken
up in my name, they quake in
readiness now, to imbue
self into its mediums
long left blank or filled halfway,
waiting.

Revolution’s cool ripples
reach patient fingertips and
heavy sedentary head,
so long basked in doubting gray
shadowy mire, consumption-
wracked, staying back to function
in cold distance without pain
or shame. Compacted, bursting,
I am all taken inward
to explode in growth again
and find myself for the sake
of me.

WOW it felt good to write again. I’ve had serious creativity block this Summer. I’ve been kind of catatonic for a lot of it, and kind of started being a shut-in. Glad that’s over!

Whew, I wrote this over the span of the past like hour or hour and a half. I feel awesome. Posting it before I start hating it, because right now I really like it. XD I hope to post a lot more over the rest of Summer!

I sit and look through window screens, the dunes

beyond made grainier to see. My ears

make company with sounds of wind and waves

and people mingled closely, woven tight

in summer symphonies. The wicker marks

me; curvy lines I know so well, like swells

and gusts, they greet my forearm like old friends.

The scratch of sand between my toes unlocks

cascading memories: unspoken words,

my conversations witnessed by the wind

alone. I listen to myself from years

ago, the sounds and smells and sights almost

the same. I am shrouded in remembrances

as clear, but closer than, reality.

I smelled wet towels hanging loose from hooks,

the smell of bodies intertwined with salt

and water, furniture passed its prime, bare feet

and family. Subtle scents familiar, dear;

so intimate as to defy report.

This yearly smell is with me now, it hangs,

it pulls me in, to commune with myself.

I came to this oasis, finally,

relaxed and soothed in sacred dwelling, full

with hope, respite in reach again. One week,

one awe-filled week in which I could at last

exist on my own terms. My loved ones joined,

we gathered all together to become

acquainted with ourselves anew. Away

in isolation free from shackled days

we came each year to seek identities,

to find that self, obscured by constant fog

of obligation, meant to be our own.

This year my task is daunting. Struggle plagues

my efforts. Shifting clouds so thick requires

a diligence made brittle, showing wear

and stress unusually strong. A haze

remains, a veil blockading progress; breeze

across my face unleashes floods, the dam

is out. I stand, walk down the ancient stairs

to bury feet in sand. Resolve possessed,

renewed; I take the flowing air, the touch

of wispy dune grass, pokes of pine needles,

my senses and the music of the sea,

I store to cloak my self when I am lost.

This is a poem about Bethany Beach in Delaware, where my family spends a week every summer. As always, feedback is welcome and very appreciated! 

I lived in vines, in tiny spaces where

the thorny bushes parted. Smelling dirt,

my body low and crawling, dark brown hair

untraceable, mud hiding pants and shirt.

Bubbles in the brush, between shady trees

these small clearings connect beside a brook.

Complex pathways, but passage made with ease;

lanes memorized like hallways, every nook

known. Sunlight speckles leaves and greets the skin,

a bootless boy is helped to hide and hope

for rays to light where loathing lies within.

Choking, enthralled by doubt’s tightening rope;

still waiting, now, I lie as I once lay.

I only lived in vines, and there I stay.

So yeah, this is a Shakespearean sonnet I wrote for my poetry class. It’s about the woods behind my house. When I was little they were really thick with vines and bushes, but around maybe 4th grade the morons that work for my town decided that criminals and whatnot could be hiding in there and cut down half the trees and cleared out all the underbrush. The only “criminals” in there were teenagers getting drunk. Anyway, the poem isn’t about them getting cut down, it’s a memory of my time spent there. As always, feedback is lovely!

Eyes full of luster, glinting and hard,

Brim over with curses and sharpest words.

Authority masses in motionlessness

and monotone scathing monologue spurns.

Hands rough at tips, with knuckles wide,

A throne on aching knees will keep.

Voice booms and sprays with feather and tar

a shame not purged from skin by sleep.

I try to explain, to placate, but,

This fucker’s a train, derailed and enraged.

My pensive, awkward, witty dad

becomes a demon once he’s changed.

Brown eyes that, calmed, show care and concern,

Spew fire that scorches all they see.

The red blooms, bursting off his face

to throw hot oil on what wounds me.

He’s at it again, he’s trying to help,

the only way he knows; attack.

This love is hard to bare, and I

just wish he’d stop, and have my back.

The latest poem from my poetry class this quarter. We had to write in quatrains, using iambic tetrameter. Well, it was either that or iambic pentameter couplets which I just really have an aversion to. So yeah! As always, feedback is ultra-appreciated. =D

wewillnotgoquietly:

fivepointpalmexplodingpoetry:

Well hey people! So, I’m in a poetry class this quarter at University, so that means I’ll be posting a good deal of content.

To kick things off, here’s the first draft of an imitation poem I wrote. I’m supposed to be copying the style of “The Fish” by Marianne Moore, but with my own subject matter. So, here it is!


The Birds

sing
sharp meaning.
    Among the bark strips, faces take shape
    and struggle to escape;
        straining towards recognition

or
space to soar.
    When leaves that gild the windswept treetops,
    reaped as Winter’s crops,
        let go, the flitting of wings is

gone
to green lawns
    while the barren wood awaits bright skies
    and rich color for eyes
        that, though fickle, remain faithful. 

So, yeah. As always, feedback is much appreciated! Peace out.

My newest writing, check it out if you please, and feedback is welcome super dee duper appreciated!

Just wanted to reblog this at a time that isn’t the middle of the night. XD

Well hey people! So, I’m in a poetry class this quarter at University, so that means I’ll be posting a good deal of content.

To kick things off, here’s the first draft of an imitation poem I wrote. I’m supposed to be copying the style of “The Fish” by Marianne Moore, but with my own subject matter. So, here it is!


The Birds

sing
sharp meaning.
    Among the bark strips, faces take shape
    and struggle to escape;
        straining towards recognition

or
space to soar.
    When leaves that gild the windswept treetops,
    reaped as Winter’s crops,
        let go, the flitting of wings is

gone
to green lawns
    while the barren wood awaits bright skies
    and rich color for eyes
        that, though fickle, remain faithful. 

So, yeah. As always, feedback is much appreciated! Peace out.