Tag: writing

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.

I’ll never be like my parents

I cross my arms like him.
When I sit, I raise them.
Above my head, they intertwine.
My fingers. And I say, “That’s fine.”

Every youth’s broken promise,
“I’ll never be like my parents.”
When you notice one day,
That’s something dad would say.

Some make the transition young,
Some deny the family tongue
Until they are old and gray
And their own children say,
“I’ll never be like my parents.” 

Burning Fuel

“I’m not coming.”
The famous words,
Whispered over the phone,
Making a man’s value drop, two-thirds.

It was expected,
It was not wanted,
Nonetheless it was expected.
The cold silence on the line haunted.

I sat silent,
My car immobile,
Yet fuel was burning quickly.
Abandoned once more by a man who’s “Noble.”

The Table

At the table we are all dealt different cards.
It is how we play them that matters.
The rules may be the same,
But whoever plays by the rules,
Loses by the rules.

The bartender serves strong drinks,
In hopes that you will sink
More money into the game, and his pocket.
He is a twisted man, yet a family man.
The more you spiral, the more his kid eats.

The person across from you, feels no guilt.
They will take your money, and your quilt.
If they give their sleeve a slight tilt,
An ace will slide from a pocket they built.
In the other, you notice the shine of a hilt.

You should not be at the table.
Yet through some profound scheme,
You are.

The cold is my brother

The cool air calls my name,
As a drunkard calls for their child.
Born of the cold, with no flame,
I am keen to answer.

“Winter is coming.”
A formidable phrase for most,
For they fear of cold most numbing.
I welcome it, with gloves off.

The icy road is our arena,
I submit the advantage.
It lunges like a northern hyena,
Teeth tearing at what it can.

Flesh exposes bone,
But no blood comes forth.
The cold should have known,
My blood is frozen, like ice.

With no more fight left,
I take one swing.
Committing a true theft,
Stealing the cold’s wind.

Fallen to the ground, it sits.
The cold awaits their cruel fate.
Instead of giving it hits,
I offer my cold hand,
And I help the cold stand.

For the cold is calling,
And I welcome it as a brother.

A family torn by hateful discourse

It all ended in divorce.
A family torn by hateful discourse.
A father, with no reason.
A mother, hurt by treason.

One son understands it.
The younger son resents it.
The daughter hates it.
A volatile composite.

The house got sold,
Lawyers were called.
The dogs moved to the daughter’s,
The older son was emotionally farther.

The younger moved into a basement,
With no walls, and a floor of cement.
Happy for a place to stay,
Promising, to never make his children,
Live this way.