above raging waves.
slipping on the reigns.
A race that I cannot win,
A weight that I cannot lift.
Too little forgiveness of sin,
Too much space in this rift.
Expected to rise.
I will drown
in the quicksand.
Small grains build muffled screams and burning eyes.
Throw me a rope.
Throw me a hand.
To get here you must have been a dope.
At least pretend like you understand.
Tar on my heels,
tar in my head.
I’m sorry if that’s the way you feel.
Maybe try growing up instead?
Like a mother who won’t let go.
Like under a dusty vinyl cover, the contents hidden and stowed.
That’s all that I’m gonna,
because gonna is easy.
I don’t need to be bogged down by goals,
I just need a dream,
I don’t need the sum of a whole,
I just need parts of a ream.
Why can’t the haters appreciate what I’m gonna do?
Why are they so selfish to only care about what I’ve done?
Why can’t they look to the future,
to see my time in the sun?
You’re gonna be sorry that you doubted me,
when I do what I’m gonna do.
I’m gonna be rich, successful, and happy
while you’re gonna be blue
Day-to-day with head in the clouds
as high as I’m gonna be.
While you’re down there on the ground,
planting those tiny little seeds.
Someday, it’s gonna happen.
Someday, my dreams will come true.
Someday, I will.
Time to write,
after a shower and a bite.
But then again,
I should first clean my den.
Ok, that’s done.
I have to sit down, write a ton.
I got time to masturbate.
Sorry for the TMI,
I really shouldn’t – I gotta write my “Life of Pi”.
Is that movie on Youtube?
I better be sure, I best not assume.
Enough dicking around.
Time to sit down.
I have my tea, I have the motivation.
I have to check my 6 New Notifications.
Is there no one who can see my plight?
When will I ever find time to write?
Whispers of winter
Drift over pearl dunes and dry cheeks.
Under sun dogs and over black bears.
Rushing into the windows of a smoking traveler.
Screams and whistles and moans.
Subzero scowls and hot coffee night owls.
Protest- then drift away
To the cheeks of farmers, cursing the winds of this January day.
When a man chooses to stop learning
Is the day that he truly dies.
The herd of the mundane
Ridicules the fires of passion as insane.
And so the man suffocates it.
The embers smolder, crackle, and hiss.
He has destroyed comfort and direction.
He is now cold and blind.
“You did the right thing.”
The herd offers its petty assurance,
“At least now you’ll have health insurance.”
But it is still so dark,
The man lays to rest
He’s toiled and troubled today
for someone who doesn’t know his name.
With eyes closed, he smiles.
That roaring flame that used to be.