•The Joy Of Sadness•

I have a solar-powered confidence & a battery-operated smile,
My hobbies include-
Editing my life story,
Hiding behind my metaphores,
& trying to convince my shadow that I'm someone worth following,
I've been told that I give really shitty hugs,
People say that it feels like I'm trying to escape,
That's probably because I am,
Secretly, I get really nervous
Whenever someone gets close enough to hear me breathe,
I have an odd fascination with ice sculptures & sand castles,
& I assume it's because I usually find myself
Dedicating time to things that will last only a few moments,
I have been called an awkward introvert, a lonely loner,
I am, in fact, a discordant wallflower too afraid to bloom,
I am an awkward caterpillar hiding inside my coccoon,
Too afraid to break out my wings & venture into the outernet..

Every morning I wake up, I realize,
I am not weak simply because my heart feels so heavy,
'Cause see I have never met a heavy heart that wasn't a phone booth with a red cape inside,
I can't live here, in my body I mean,
I can't stay in my body all the time for it feels too much,
I think alot about killing myself,
Not like a point on a map,
But rather like a glowing exit sign
At a show that's never quite bad enough to make me want to leave,
See, when I'm up, I don't kill myself because holy shit, there's still so much to do!!
When I'm down, I don't kill myself either because then the sadness would be over,
& the sadness is my old paint under the new,
The sadness is the house fire or the broken shoulder,
I'd still be me without it, but I'd be so boring,
So if I ever feel far away, know that I am not gone,
I am just underneath my grief,
Adjusting the dial on my radio face so that I can take this life,
With all of it's love & with all of it's loss...

•He Is Poetry•

I am a muse-less artist,
Painting pictures on the canvas of your eyelids,
See me, the things I see,
While I'm placing my soul on this silver platter,
My heart thrust into your hands,
Don't concern yourself with giving it back,
I placed it there for all the world to see, to digest it greedily,
Eat me, taste me,
Taste the words that have tattooed themselves on my skin,
Taste this blood, the ink of my mental cavity
As it seeps into the pen & brands the paper,
With whispers spilling out into the winds,
Carrying these strokes of genius somewhere far away..

This poetry, written by a so-called poet,
Labelled by those who don't know him,
He's a boy lost in these thoughts that berate him into stunned silence
That chain him & claim him as the crazy mess that he is,
He is me, & he is sorrow's slave,
To this boy, this poet no one seems to admire,
Everything is just a tangible illusion,
The world has become this poor child's stage,
So he acts alright, but his whole world is afire,
This boy, through his stanzas, refrains,
Boldly states in deep blue ink, ''I'm fine
Though I spend my nights crying into a tattered pillow
That has never known what it's like to be dry'',
He exists in those moments & like a moth to a flame,
Like the gentle breeze in the night time,
His poetry whispers to him,
Like a broken boat on a wrinked shore of forgotten men-
''I am fine'', his words patter out, ''Just fine in my nothingness''...

This boy, in truthful prose proclaims,
''I smile like life is my winning game,
Like missing shards in a mirror can create a new series of perfection'',
This is the perfect debut of a perfomance gone bad,
A playwright, all the actors gone mad,
''I am fine'', as a 'poet' he writes,
''Just fine, since life has taught me
To find nothing in what should have been everything'',
This boy of poetry, of the spoken word,
Has become a walking bleeding wound
That's gradually become a battle-scar of the mind's internal wars,
He is a faded smile,
A watery thing the shade of faded blue jeans washed too many times,
The appearance of eyes that have spent their lifetime blind,
His story is one of lost trust,
& hearts trampled underfoot into clouds of blood-red dust..

This poet, this boy labelled by those who don't know him,
But who know the stereotypes,
He knows that it's really hard to explain the immensity of the wreckage,
To someone that came into his head in the face of the aftermath,
This boy knows, this pretend poet knows,
That the truth is more easily consumed with a series of high-strung words
That make the rest of the world feel smart,
So he writes the truth simply,
The lack of complexity shows him to be sorting through the things he's been hearing,
''I am a poet!!!'' this is what he screams,
Even though his heart does not pump blood but poetic verse,
& just as the sun exists in the sky,
This boy, this boy-
He exists in the forgiving arms of poetry...

He is poetry-
He is the beat inside the soul,
He is the emotion, he is the life,
He is the passion,
He is the bubbling energy, the very source of inspiration,
He is the sparkle in the eyes, the smile on the lips,
He is the ink flowing richly through the veins & onto the paper,
He may go through hell itself but he will never stop writing,
For writing is his recluse, his haven,
His each breath is a melody, his heart beats verse,
He may be bent, but never broken,
& his poetry will live on,
For he is poetry in itself..

•A Letter To God•

Flight of light-bearer into the night,
Come unto soul of me with your wisdom,
Engulf my spirit until I hear it moan,
Until I hear it cry out & weep,
Until my demons inside are put to sleep,
Loan me your essence freely & still away the pain of battle,
Unfurl in a Universe of spinning worlds,
Pique my sense of recompense & slant this chant of dreams,
Darkening clouds are pressing against an unholy blue,
& a gospel of crows from the fields sing their daily devotion in D-minor,
There is pressure in my lungs Father, for I have sinned,
A thinness of air, shallow with grief,
& I am emptied of belief that there lies any beauty in a woman who wears two faces,
& I am perhaps a shadow, a ghost,
A previous apparition or future prediction,
A grey blemish on an ultrasound wishing to be born again,
Will you fill the emptiness in my mind
With more knowledge than I can find
& clear humanity, free me from the bondage of sin??
Will you fill the absence in my arteries
With an arperture of threnody
& two-thirds red ink so I can bleed verse on the pages of my skin??

Streaming through my core, I abhore,
That from your light flows the shine of newness,
Sparked in an age of ignorance,
Where bliss-filled wrongs have become right,
I ask-
Re-birth me a poet, Father,
Turn my eyes East past spent home & collective sighs,
That I might write the measurement of trust found in the wind,
& stand beside me, us two, barefoot among wilted petals,
So I can touch the labouring ground
& hope to some day be found
Worthy of walking among the peaceful dead,
Father, cup hands to my ears, that I may hear-
The flute songs echo in distant valleys of valediction,
The crackling sounds of a doe & fawn sojourning in the forests,
The call of a hummingbird rising among the forgiving rustle of leaves,
Re-birth me a poet, Father,
& I shall write the meaning of the moon,
It's pure white soul forever hanging on,
& I shall write of the stars, how brilliantly the shine,
Where they go to rest come the dawn,
Flight of light-bearer into the night,
Come unto the soul of me with your wisdom,
Engulf my spirit until I hear it moan..