Category: Creative

Left me with lessons

I’m lucky
that lovers left me with lessons,
not scars,
so that I may look upon the world
and see happy memories manifesting
in place of painful reminders
of you, and you, and you.

Strife

There is no joy in a life of happiness,
void of strife or dilemma,
concerned only with maintaining your high,
and protecting against the lows.
You design it so:
a universe whose arms
wind tight around your core;
a black and heavy hole
that you cannot understand
or see, for all its hunger.
Forever you may feed it,
but you’ll never feel it shine,
or hear it laugh,
or thank you;
for there is no joy,
not in anything you do for you.
Not in anything you create.
Not in anything you destroy.
Unless in doing so you find
the truth, the joy, the meaning in life:
to solve the hard problems,
and end other’s strife.

Stay young

We grew up too fast,
got serious jobs,
moved in with our sweethearts,
got dogs,
had kids,
and grew fond of wine;
forgoing the hangouts,
the night outs,
the coffee and bars,
for early nights and HBO,
and shows where people our age
stay up,
have fun,
hang out,
stay young.

Your corner

At loud house parties,
did you ever slip away
and close the door of some corner room,
dampening the bass, the chatter,
look about at the eerie stillness –
a museum at night –
and fight the urge to sleep
in the comforting far-off cries
of sirens, in your city-loft;
the wildness swarms
but wraps and bends around your solitude.

I suppose they call this ‘privacy’;
the ability to disengage,
and retreat to your corner of the house.

Stifled

I feel stifled,
held back by the wind,
a muffled, drowsy air,
not suffocating,
but a great salt lake
surpassing every horizon,
rendering escape impossible,
where I have little more to do
but figure out how to kill time,
as time in turn works on killing me.

I’ve had years to fashion it otherwise,
and whilst I find myself in favorable stead,
I cannot live like this;
so without
the one thing that makes it all worth living –
for even the joy it brings to sing and play,
the sadness in my songs will well and swell,
and one day pull the trigger
or pour the final straw.
It is not uncommon.

I’m bitter about the whole affair;
that I could not have saved you sooner,
that faking presence via phone calls is what remains,
where once it was all we had
to listen and learn and dig and discover.
Now this in-between time has become a dead purgatory;
stop-gapping our kisses with endlessly repeated riffs
from songs we played together.

I do not wish the time away.
Nor can we recover a younger beginning.

But I am half-alive without you,
and I have half a year to serve.

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.