My brother and I share handwriting.
An unfortunate hand-me-down.
Our father could have taught us fighting,
But instead gave us sloppy lines to decipher.
A gifted mind ignores fashion.
Imagery is only secondary.
They are instead for passion,
You will find mine,
In the hand-me-down handwriting.
Minister of visitation,
of those in desperation.
Ears and soul on fire.
He spends days in the hospital,
Completely healthy and able.
Someday he will enter,
But never leave again.
Will anyone visit him?
Or have they all moved on?
The bags under my eyes
Are heavier than the bags
In my left arm as it cries,
Begging, for relief.
It searches for what is not.
There is no relief,
For my arm or for the clot.
This clot making it’s way to my heart.
I stand on that bus,
Clenching the steel truss,
Begging for relief.
Returning to the simpleton,
Unsuccessful and unequipped.
“I told you so” to be common.
The bus goes further down it’s vein.
The boy who left town,
Now to return.
Empty handed, broken down.
With a sore arm, and a sore heart.
The Willow tree sings a song,
As it whips and slashes through wind.
It sounds as if it’s fighting, arguing,
The wind tears away branches,
Yet calls the Willow it’s friend.
A battle of whits and strength.
The branches know where to bend.
They take each blow with Grace.
They need neither your help, of mine.
For themselves, they can fend.
When we buried her on that strange hill,
They said, “Heaven gained an angel.”
I couldn’t help but question,
This comedic, yet pure accession.
I don’t believe people gain wings.
Or that they suddenly float, playing strings.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe in afterlife.
One of peace, one without strife.
But to say that we are strung up from heaven,
Perched like birds outside a seven-eleven,
Seems like a cheap representation,
Of our true, afterlife, manifestation.
A dorm room the size of an SUV fits 3 students.
Unbathed, pre-diabetic, and gaining weight.
Learning new contents.
Falling in line.
Moldy wooden houses placed neatly in a line.
Men in navy blue suits leave them.
Precisely, quarter to nine.
The American Dream.
An artist sits at their desk, in a meaningless office.
They write poetry instead of working.
Wondering why they chose this.
I have a lit lamp in my heart.
I cover it with a thick blanket.
There is plenty of food in my cart.
I can’t even afford it, and put it on credit.
There is a chain the connects me,
To a large oak desk.
I cut myself free,
Just to tie it to a flask.
The day time warms my skin,
The sun gives life to this planet,
Yet I often sleep in.
The moon keeps my desk dimly lit.
Hiding what should be shown.
Never going back.
Creating bad habits.
Taking the path, of least resistance.
A desperate plea for company.
One that is known well by the lonely.
The lonely stand in crowds,
Yet in their heart, they are singular.
An ironic commonality, communally shared.
The want to be with others, that they cared.
I see past their eyes, I read their thoughts.
I know how they feel, because I think, the same.
I too have given a desperate “Please.”
It only is given at night, while on my knees.
It’s a cry for purpose within others.
A cry, that I say aloud, to myself.
That is the bane of the lonely.
Always crying out, with no one to hear.
Sometimes I dream of green fields,
Freckled with strong branches,
Standing tall and proud,
Like a soldier who survived trenches.
Nearby a creek runs slowly.
It carries away the old dirt,
Revealing smooth stones,
Replenishing those around who hurt.
There are birds, hiding plainly.
There are rabbits, who carelessly graze.
Deer gallop, not for fear, but fun.
At night there is a blanket of light haze.
A young hunter walks through the field.
His first reaction is one of survival.
Wood for fire, water for drinking.
Many animals to shoot with his rifle.
When caught in a moment, eye to eye.
He considers this field a sanctuary.
The white tail are fortunate this time,
But outside of the field, their treaty will tarry.
He silently bids them farewell,
A nonverbal agreement.
The scars on his knuckles match the scars on his uncle’s.
It’s family tradition by now, predisposed in his DNA.
He was made for the ring, but lives for the drink.
He may climb his ladder, but further he will sink.
Just a white boy on 7th Street named Ronnie.
With red hair and pale skin, he doesn’t fit in.
He lives in a segregated neighborhood,
Growing up as no boy should.
Trained at a young age to like the taste of blood,
Not by choice, not by family.
A wall of loud and young flesh surrounds.
While the size of his opponent confounds.
Such is creation.
We are all but small children,
Facing the problem of impossiblity.
While slowly realizing our mortality.