A new hope

Fallen, from a broken cord,
A new perspective now able to afford.
The ceiling never seemed so near,
And now death was a true fear.

Set up to fall from his perch,
He didn’t expect the sudden lurch,
Of rope.
Of hope.

The second his foot slipped,
His mind also flipped.
A sudden urge to be alive,
Praying, someone heard his muffled cries.

There was nobody around to hear,
Only a rope, weaker than him.

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Nobody cares for you down here.

Nobody cares for you down here,
And if you want to survive,
You best admit your fear,
Then when it trusts you,
Stab it in the back.

Your heart’s desires may roar like thunder,
But hiding them is your best chance.
Hide them so that others must wonder,
How they can hurt you.
Keep your heart safe.

And when you finally fall,
Bring down those who forced you,
And ignore those who send a loving call,
So that your enemies think they’ve won,
So that your friends can finally win.

The biggest lie your enemies tell,
Is that nobody cares for you down here.

Gray Sunsets

We hiked for hours.
Over hills, tall as towers.
Our feet ached,
Begging for a short break.

We finally sat on a rotting log.
Looked over the lake’s fog.
A sunset of gray, hidden by clouds,
My hand in hers, my mind unweary.

Above and Below the Surface

How long do I have to act like everything is okay,
Before everything actually feels, okay.
How long do I have to act like I am the only one,
Before I recognize that I’m not the only one.

It’s like I’m sitting underwater in a wave pool,
Holding my breath, looking like a fool.
To make matters worse, I open my eyes.
Through the drying pain, I see allies.

I’m not the only one under this turbulent water.
Others are “stuck,” able to escape the slaughter.
Yet we all sit, as the waves push us around.
We’re shoved against the walls, sitting on the ground.

When suddenly a hand falls down before me.
It grasps for mine, wanting to pull and make me free.
I grab it, and it rips me above the surface,
A hand with an unrelenting, and loving, purpose.

It’s soft, yet damaged by others who rejected it.
It has been scratched, grasped, and felt spit.
This hand could have stopped pulling others up,
Yet it continues to reach for those at the bottom of the cup.

My body feels something, and my lungs fill with air.
There is a new notion to not only see, but to care.
My legs feel weak, and want to sit, my mind agrees.
My heart fights this feeling, and somehow, succeeds.

Raised from the churning of this chaos,
Understanding both sides of the surface,
I can now be the hand, to others.
Everything will be okay.

The cat is free from the tree

Sirens scream in the distance.
A fire truck rushes to assistance.
The men on the truck prepare,
Gloves, helmets, and heavy coats they wear.

They arrive on the scene, and dash.
They yell through masks covered in ash.
Commands are given to each hat,
They climb the ladder, and retrieve the cat.

Hurrah! The cat is free from the tree!
Meanwhile, a house on the other side of town,
Is burning.

I don’t like this poem.

Courage can be dumb.

Too much courage,

Can make a mind numb.

Causing more carnage.

A man saves his money.

He thinks he is being economic.

His children are hungry.

There’s no food in their stomach.

A woman likes to read.

She acquires wisdom all day.

She has minds to feed.

She would rather sit and stay.

Virtue turns to vice,

Like the rich, become greedy.

Two Thousand, One Hundred, Seventy Six

Two Thousand, One Hundred, Seventy Four.
It used to be enough, to work, for one more.
I know what I am doing, I’m searching.
For meaning, for purpose.
I’m purging.

Releasing the need for acceptance
That lives down in my darkest bits.
I feed off of your likes and comments,
I need them to sustain.
Yet I cannot live off these contents.

For comments are really, my bane.
They are a motivative cocaine.
Every hit brings me higher,
Only to make me fall further.
Lower, than I was prior.

A like is equivalent to a shot.
It makes my faces start to feel hot.
For a second, I think it makes me thrive.
The next, it releases the my inner vomit.
Two Thousand One Hundred Seventy Five.

Fifteen Line Sonnet

I’m in a place of complacency.
The hotel of my mind reads “vacancy.”
The words of my mouth leave wastefully,
They have no direction, stuck in vagrancy.

I sat in my office for an hour today,
Asking, what will my poems say?
I sat there, with no thought to prey.
There was nothing I cared to convey.

I’ve set a standard already.
Two weeks, of going steady.
These last two days, unsteady.
No content worth a make-ready.

So I will make a sonnet, not of love,
And with no resolution.
With fifteen lines.

Gold is worthless.

The Liar’s Den is dark, and full of mold.
Sure, you can live comfortable outside of it.
But not if you want that pure gold.
To do that, you must cheat, and steal.

However.

I know something that the liars don’t know.
Gold is worthless.
It’s only use is to shine and give a gentle glow.
Gold is as worthless as diamonds.

Humans chase after things of no value.
It is within our primitive nature.
We want those things producing an attractive hue.
But gold tears from bullets, and diamonds shatter, like glass.

Maybe I chase after a different type of gold.
In fact, I know I do.