My September

It's been a bad month. New format though recommended by a colleague, the poem is just as long as they usually were but now it seems to flow better. Enjoy.

I watch as the cold air crept in,

Swept in,

A feeling more familiar than my best friend.

Inhale all the stress in my breast and

Lie in between the questions

And lessons.

Better hold your tongue,

Better yet,

Let it go.

Cuz sometimes things are better said.

And try to keep a level head

As you embark to kill the devil dead.

I heard God fed her dead,

And told them tales of how we lost it young.

And the apostles sung

Of all the awful monks,

Letting the sun burn their frost bit tongues.

But I know

That first hand,

There aint a mouth

Without a foot in it

But God knows.

Stumbling on the potholes

Of the cosmos, a lost soul

Making deals at the crossroads.

Going against massive odds,

A clown in Oz,

A fool with a crown of bronze

Masked and all.

Trying to find hope

In his passive doll,

An everlasting fall.

See,

You gotta take some X’s in this game of tic tac toes.

I’ll admit I’ll fold,

If I feel like I’ve been dealt a bad hand.

Watch my climax unfold,

Cars might explode.

(You know, like them old action movies)

Anyways,

I’m hundred percent pure insecure.

Watch me turn my misery into art,

Or whatever else I make of it,

Whether a fateful wish

Or a hateful fist.

Ceramic wrap your head around this

Till you’re breathing heavy

And bleeding plenty.

Till we’re both acting extremely petty

And feeling empty.

Keeping steady,

As we do our little dance with the Devil as our instructor,

Harmless.

At least you’ll know where this honest artist’s heart is.

Caught in between,

Where the rocks are hardest.

Hardened,

Writing cuz it’s cathartic.

Cuz my days have been colder than the arctic.

Lethargic,

Standing in the middle of that biblical sea that Moses parted.

Let the little dogs bark,

They’re just mad they’re bitches,

Getting too big for britches.

Tell them to get the Hell out

Cuz it’s getting too hot

In this kitchen.

Let my eulogy be a reading of all the love letters I wrote.

Imbed it in hope

And my tomb stone cuz we all die it’s regrettably so.

Point at the golden casket,

It’s his fault.

Point at the hopeless pasture,

It’s his fault.

Point at the broken bastard,

It’s his fault.

Point at the sky,

It’s his fault.

Throw them looks in the mirror

As you tell me what shapes them clouds look like.

Reading your laugh lines under a book light,

How you spread those wax wings and took flight.

I might plan it

So I’ll wave goodbye as I ride the Titanic.

The right planet,

Continues to revolve as its life’s damaged.

Careful,

We might panic.

But we weren’t made to quit,

Like all the aimless did,

At least not until we’re famous rich.

So jump,

Jump into the flaming pit.

As our little black cloud

Turns rain to spit.

Dreamed till I woke,

Screamed till I choked.

Buck naked bathing in the red embers

Plead till I croaked,

See disease needs a host.

And that’s how I spent my last September.

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