Some days I want to submit
Selling my time is easy, no pressure.
A man with more money than he admits
Pays me hourly for short-changed measure.
Other days I want to fight.
Seize the day, stand for my humanness
Give myself my undeniable human rights.
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
But most days I fall under the shroud
I sit back and dream of what I will be.
Each day slipping further into the crowd
Where I sell my time, to someone other than me.
The reasoning of a premature high schooler’s mind,
That someday when I grow up I’ll be something,
That I have dreams to accomplish, and plenty of time.
Truth be told, the clock is ticking, soon there will be nothing.
It’s now or nothing, something or never.
Do I sit back and watch my dreams die?
Do I devise some scheme barely clever?
Or do I say no and actually grab that ladder and climb?
What if instead of just reading you actually wrote?
Or are you afraid your words will be lost?
What if instead of listening you actually spoke?
Or are you afraid of what your words might cost?
Macklemore made it by confessing his sins.
Johnny Cash rose by breaking the status quo.
Chance the Rapper can barely sing, but wrote Blessings.
Do you really think these self-starters submitted?
I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!
The deafening silence at night
Is quiet enough to project
The voice of God to my ears
I ask, “Would it save? or fright?”
If confronted with true scales
I know which side would lean.
In a moment of desperation
I would steal the scale and set sail.
I am but a dog in dirt.
When He who owns offers
Bath and food, I decline-
I would rather revel in dirt.
Clean fur is a myth- a lie.
Do not believe other dogs
Who claim they have no fleas.
They are putrid muts, like I
My Owner does not care
That when He scratches
My ear, He must wash
His hands and scrub them bare.
While the deafening silence
Surrounds my dog house at night,
I do not fear or shake
I remember His alliance.
A man reads a story
To get lost in it.
Yet we do not worry
When he actually does
He is unable to tell
The difference between
What is fake, and living Hell.
He escapes with reason.
He escapes to his sanctuaries,
These paper castles protect
But they crumb to mortuaries
With the flick of a single match.
The match is held firmly
Between a pointer and thumb
Of the one called “family.”
The one, meant, to replace.
Fifteen hours since my last.
Do I continue with my fast?
Or do I surrender like
A child made outcast.
What does it matter?
My determination will shatter
And the heft of my
Weight will only grow fatter.
As society tells me lies
And my self confidence dies,
I have no other option
But to build a disguise.
Now I am trapped between
Both with skin so sheen
Giving conflicting statements,
To neither I am keen.
I let it rest on my tongue
Only for a moment’s time.
Then the capsule is formally flung,
Washed down with Corona and lime.
The combination soothes my itchy head
But it wakens my dreams.
I drift slowly to sleep in giant bed
Only to be woken by screams.
They are my own yells
Escaping the dreamland,
I had a dream about Kells.
And how she released my hand.
As I walked to class
I was already late.
“Free hot chocolate!”
I suppose this is fate.
Smooth and creamy
And not cheaply made
Feet dragging, I waddled
Throwing away my grade.
I saw the posters from far off.
“Fifteen week old fetus”
“What are your thoughts on abortion?”
The question raised a fuss.
As I answered “I’m against it”
And I started to leave
Annoyed by his presence
Tugging on my sleeve.
Suddenly class was a haven
Safe from hard conversations.
He took my email
Interested in my conservation.
Ever since I was struck
With a senseless need
For repetition, repetition, repetition,
I find myself lesser on knees.
Standing and sitting more
By a notebook or computer
Searching two ways: one
Helps while the other brings me further.
The former warms my hands
While the latter pushes blood
From finger tips as if
Not allowed in the formed duds.
White I write my heart pours
Out onto the notepad by
way of cheap pens and paper.
My heart is anything but shy.
Meanwhile the tapping of the keys
The rap, rap, rapping of buttons
Entertains my dull mind,
As I follow the traditional shut-ins.
Froth breaks as I dip my tea,
Wishing I had brought headphones.
Choosing to ignore those around me.
The music is lulling, the conversations drone.
A Dirty Hairy; steamed milk and Earl Grey.
A hint of sweetness on my tongue
The heat of my drink burns less than what they say-
Words of envy, gossip, and high-strung.
A pile rests on my table of waved wood.
Phone atop of Bible, metaphysically true
I know I should, and totally could,
But there it sits, second in crew.
Shadowboxes rest with plain white frames.
The pictures inside match the frames plainness
Strange patterns of green and purples flames
Being sold for ninety-five dollars. Painless.
This place is all too real, it exists.
Full of pretentiousness
Which fully insists
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.