Dedicated to A.
When I was six or seven,
I fought back tears.
Induced by a silent family
And loud kids at school.
When I was six or seven,
I watered my own roots.
Strength begotten by pain,
Growth begotten by digging.
Now that I am old
I ignore my problems.
And though my tears are dry,
Doubtless, I have many more.
Hiding, buried, watering roots.
Crunch-Smash
-Beep.
A hole in the wall,
About size 12.
“Who did this?”
“Not me.” “not Me.” “not me.”
Only properly read on desktop.
Dude.
Do what I say.
You’re just as green
as my yard.
I don’t need
To mow the lawn
That’s why I
Have you.
Just do it.
He smoked his single cigarette upwind
Noticing the tears welling in my eyes,
“Does this bother your?” He grinned.
“No, it’s just the wind.” Partly true, partly lies.
He asked me my name and my story.
I gave him the short answer,
One of ease, with little worry.
I didn’t ask for his, I pondered cancer.
He asked for my help, I knew he would.
He had no job, no home, and no phone.
He said if he had a phone, then he could.
A cheap twenty-dollar purchase, just to be known.
I told him I could help a little,
Feeling cornered, I reached into my pocket.
Retrieved four dollars, crumpled and brittle.
Unbeknownst to him, I was a simple pickpocket.
For in my right pocket, was five dollars,
And in my left was another forty.
Instead of stealing material from him,
I stole his chance of a new life.
A messy bun sits neatly on her head.
I never understood the name.
Messy, yet done perfectly-
Every hair in place, every thread.
Except those ones that frame her face.
They are neatly tucked on the side,
Hiding the tips of her ears,
Right where they need to be, in place.
The frame showcases her freckles,
Hiding slightly in the winter,
Returning from hibernation in summer.
Like light on a jewel, a freckled face sparkles.
Let me lament for you, my brother.
Though from the womb of another,
I feel your pain in my veins-
Your blood on my sleeve stains.
Let me lament for you my sister,
Your skin empowers like a twister.
No bounds are known to be due
Except those I impose on you.
A white knight in white skin
My love a mile wide, but thin skin.
My arrogance thick like syrup
I only speak words to stir-up.
My brothers and sisters, I lament.
Not for you, but with you.
Teach me about my arrogance,
And lament for me.
Ripped pages lie on the ground,
My writing desk, they surround.
Broken ideas, wrong thoughts-
Scattered like broken pots.
They are the fodder of my mind.
The chaff of my kind
Born to share and write,
Born to hide in plain sight.
I am always watching others,
Noting their steps and stutters.
Will they notice mine?
Or do I cover them fine?
I offer my wrists for you to see.
Study them as your own, for me.
Call out my contradictions
and convictions
Make me face them as if in rehab
For addictions
Give me grace and truth,
Sit me down, in a corner booth.
Listen to my sedimentary whine,
Until 2am and we resign.
I will call you the next day,
And share the same stories.
This time, with more details,
And more lies
free-verse
Pink scars, old guitars, and sweet cigars.
All perfectly lined, each in it’s own place.
The little pink soldiers shrink with age,
The pain that caused them fades.
The old guitars grant new scars
As callouses build on his fingertips.
Harmony that heals the heart
Flows from the hollow chest.
The cigars are lined on the table
Waiting to fulfill their purpose.
He strums chords, and tastes smoke,
As he waits for his friends.
They come sharing bare arms
Carrying old guitars
With lighters sparked.
Primitive Poetry 