Finally broke the writers block! I present “Maybe”
I don’t want the pressure of promise but the possibility of maybe. Babe be what and who you wanna be cause the other questions can fall behind your flying feet once you relearn to spread your wings. Singing is when I fly, but do what you gotta do, finding your place in the silver-lined cloud 9, searching for the bundled theory, the pieces that make an “I”, there is no whole ego till we die so discover your “why” and let the motive be your motif. Eve and Adam were meant for the apple and I would share some ribs and fruit for knowledge too because nine times out of ten satisfaction brought back the cat and that looks like pretty good odds to this feline. It’s fine if you don’t see it like me, this is not my way or the high way, only Sinatra and black and white keys left to try and unlock the grey gridlock feelings felt till the right shades are met, click. Bet on me, your black steed, steadly breaking down the underground roots you cling too tightly with your life by now I had hoped to have split more than hairs but also made you dare to believe again instead of bad bed bugs and nightmares. Stairways to heaven can’t get you there in time, so climb with those feathered apendages, you been hiding your halo to go solo but you’re so low sunk only the love of others can bring you up, so reclaim the fame, the name you share with Peter the gatekeeper and let that light ring bring you to your singing, scratch the itch of atrophied muscles and take off already, what are you waiting for? The bootstraps are yours for the pulling up, before you hit the bottom, problem is knowing there’s no starting bell no run like hell race it’s the journey that needs to change you. I don’t want the pressure of promise, but the possibility of maybe, cause maybe means you’re think about it, and that’s all I want right now.
Long time no talk! Life is good, but crazy. Today was Tuesday, which meant that it was a long day. But, in a happier review of the larger part of life, a new album is almost done being recorded, songwriting is going pretty well, and my vocals have definitely improved. While I haven’t one a lot of poetry lately, expect some in the coming summer months (when school doesn’t eat away at the majority of my time). I’m also still doing weekly videos on YouTube, either covers or originals recorded for your listening pleasure! That’s all for now, but stay tuned!
Cross sections of cross stitched memories made by you and me cross my mind and leave me in stitches, the good kind. Remember that time we cracked jokes till dawn and all that was left were the hard-to-get-through egg shells; we’d eaten the yolks of honesty. I laughed so hard my abs were worked to the rib bones where everyone knows I am ticklish, and you were relentless with your raspberry kisses on my neck and then just your lips tickled me down through my legs through my toes… And we crossed over to make way for new stitches. Cause baby, I know you wouldn’t dump me like garbage, you like the way I smell, I heard you confess it in the dark to me though maybe that was just the starving talking. I know you wouldn’t leave me out in the cold unless you had to, so I guess it got too hot, too intimate, too exposed, and after you felt and saw the radiant heat coming off me, coming for you, you choked. If you had been burning too, we would have been relatively cozy together. Cross sections of cross stitched memories made by you and me cross my mind and leave me in stitches, the bad kind. After you threw me, unintentionally abused me, I discovered that my previous scars still bled dark red, the color of old love. It’s hard to lick a wound you’re trying to forget exists and I forgot why I wanted to forget, but I forgot not that you threw me. See, I thought you knew me, and that when thrown I tend to break, though only ever in the same place. It’s not so much the falling, but the landing that hurts. With you I could have fallen forever but you used your dirty angel wings and I was weighed down by hopeful dreams that rely on two people-like things. Cross sections of cross stitched memories made by you and me cross my mind and leave me in stitches, the best kind. I can connect the dots when I count backwards, and even Jobs couldn’t connect them ascending, so I guess i’m doing ok, though f-ing with Oklahoma wasn’t my intention, so I suppose, rather, that I am trouble, though nobody calls me by my middle name these days. The scars that bled again and again will be stitched in time, saving nine others and saving me from bleeding out where you threw me I found the tangled thread and the needle found it’s way, making the best stitches. For cross sections of cross stitched memories made by you and me cross my mind and leave me in stitches, the healing kind.
Run, it will chase you. Nothing flies faster than the feathered friends following war, and what a battlefield it is. Champions charge one another until the other surrenders or dies.
Run, it will catch you.
Hide, it will seek you.
The thumping sound pounds through my body and all around, thump thump, “lemme in you naive little pork!” Thump thump, “it’s dinner time” thump thump. There’s no ground for such ferocity, but the wolf wants what the wolf wants. And they do NOT give up easily.
Run, it will catch you. Hide, it will find you. Scream, it will quiet you. Love has no escape you fool.
The actual title is Loving Fool, but I thought it ruined the suspense when you could read it before the poem.
From the percussive click to the lick of the back of my teeth and all the vowels inbetween and afterword, your name is more than comfortable on my tongue, it comes naturally as honey making is for bees and while it is sweet to speak, to have it pass my lips as the warm thunder that follows you, lightning, like the bees it stings. It takes two to tango and three’s a crowd, but with all the voices in my head it’s a fuster cluck and all those hucking fens fight to fly the coop at the same moment when I catch sight of you doing whatever you are doing in that moment- POW! memory slaps me across the face and I am ashamed for cheating, thinking friends can be lovers and suffer no heart scars, for I know legions of lesions lie across yours and I couldn’t hold my head up if I were the next 180 pound straw to break you. But I watch again, intent to mend the bends that broke off at sharp, jagged ends that still prod your soul, taking away pieces of you, whole chunks, poking holes until the stitching of your sanity turns threadless and you become an apple with no core, just another empty skin blending in with all the other empties out there. I don’t want you to blend in. I want you outstanding when everyone else is stuck in the thinking box, I want you to shine as a lamppost after midnight, a light house in the fog because no matter how hard the waves pound the shores, no matter how many times they come back knocking on doors, light houses shine and street lamps glow in the dark parks and other places showing the way to lost sailors at sea and lost people in dark parks trying to clear their heads before bed. I think you need a new lightbulb but I can’t tell how many watts and whats and whys it’ll take to get you back, how many calls I will make without response, how many times I will reach out to find you and only pull back less than nothing. But what I want doesn’t matter. Matter of fact, none of this matters unless you see it too. What I want doesn’t matter because I’m not you.
Our broken backs were brought on by the oncoming traffic of what we call life. This tragedy transcends the travesty that threw away the thinker, the dreamer, the imagination- we settle for less than what we were meant to be and the nettles of that nest jab at you for the rest of your life. Burning brightly ablaze in oil barrels our dreams and meant-to-be’s become ash and we call it life. Such a sacred word should not be wasted in the anticipation of something better than what we have. Fight for your right to life.