Category: Creative

Bolder

It does not weaken.
Every time, I love a little bolder.
Undeterred by the pain,
I’m stronger for it.
I’ll fight harder.
I’ll dig deeper.
More, not less.
Wiser, not bitter.
By this I shall know
(if well-received)
that you too understand that kind of love;
that power.

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Method

What are you afraid of finding there,
lurking between the lines?
It’s been so long since you laid it bare,
and tugged at roots and vines
to see what wriggles free or scatters
when shaking off the earth,
to see what really matters,
and what holds on to its worth
when dragged from rock to sea and back,
when tested at its seams,
and comforts you despite the lack
of insight you can glean
from each disjointed metaphor –
but don’t forego the method
that’s seen you through a thousand storms;
there are many more yet weathered.

A comfortable glass of solitude

What I long for now is a rainy night,
looking out at it through a pane of glass
in some pokey, wooden bar;
a warm, apple cider with cinnamon,
the occasional jingle and crack of the door,
voices huddled,
jolts of laughters from down the bar
or in the booths,
alone, but not lonely,
so accompanied by the orange light,
unburdened of time or purpose,
I am here to observe, and to be observed,
toying with a line or two,
hanging out with my muse,
cheers-ing to the heavy drops
collecting on the cross-hatch,
working through the stages, methodically –
hitting grief only briefly,
hitting self-pity only once,
and bouncing back but armed with this:
I love who I am, and I’m doing so well,
and it’s ok that my clothes are damp,
that my drink’s a little cooler,
that my moment’s not shared,
because nothing stays,
not gold nor grey.

Know thyself

I worry about the journal,
of what it may unearth in me,
of what it may encourage,
feeding into self-delusion
or fantasy;
an insidious creep of personality
that might as well go fuck itself
for all its lack of insight.

Though insight it might, a different plight
that I can’t (nor shall not) bear;
it gobbles up my words and whims,
and shits out all my care.

Congratulations. You know yourself.
And what a crock of fucking wealth.

Shake

Am I hindered by the clasp
that wraps electric round my wrist,
or by the sleek and silent tile
that sneaks its way into my fist?

And suddenly, there’s so much noise,
like burying my face in coke,
and even as I turn away,
the high remains, my eyes awoke
and bright in dark. I swear I spoke
a prayer into that dizzy night
to let me sleep, and hold her tight,
without the fear and anxious din,
without it pawing for my PIN,
without the midnight altercations,
without the heat manifestations
taking form beside my bed;
I leap and try to knock it dead,
and cry out something vile, and see
there’s nothing facing back at me,
just beads of sweat to burn my eyes,
and force me back to bed half-blind,
attempting once again to shake
my perma-state of half-awake.

It was worth a shot

It’s worse because it’s summer,
bare legs at every turn,
pale, bronzed, or chocolate skin,
flaunting the fruits of their labor,
begging you to adore the deft shadow
where lean muscles define the line of sight,
and draw your eyes ever deeper –

not wanting to be a creep, you turn,
and look to your woman,
the one you used to call your lover.
She’s busy,
focused, then unfocused, and agitated,
you try to console her,
you try to care for her,
but you’re fighting the rising feeling in your chest,
building like an inappropriate laugh,
bursting with it.

Across the street, across the room,
climbing in and out of cars,
their nakedness mocks you.

You,
a handsome man with grand ideas,
with steady pay, with artful hands,
so you force yourself to remember when you were single,
and how little you were able to capitalize then either.
But boy, it was fun to try.