Thursday, October 6, 2011

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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