Tag Archives: writing

Somehow

I’m remembering
a certain feeling of
soft music
with instruments
played by real musicians
there was no Black and White
radio
all music that was good
was on the same station
I’m remembering brightly striped shirts
never matching with anything
but my mind
full of color and
life
ready to be absorbed by someone
and absorb something meaningful
I remember a sweet sun
that didn’t burn as much
warm skin
my olive tones
turned chocolate brown
nicely
I think of Santa Claus
only because it
was really my father
falling asleep
while wrapping my gifts
and I loved listening to
pass the dutchie to the left hand side
while opening gifts up
I thought it was pass the ketchup and
everyone
loved hotdogs like me
my father let me say words like
hamboogar
and bajamas
and only corrected me
if I was impolite
or factually incorrect
he had faith that
I would figure it out
and I guess
he’s right
but I’m still
figuring out
if he’s right

Seize the PayDay

What does it mean
when you come full
circle and still
remember
value
thirst
need
greed
circle it
walk away
come back
and still
remember
love
hate
your past
your desires
you go home
you go to sleep
you wake up and
come back to it
circle it
circle around it
sit on it
never letting go of all
that must be
and that should not have been
what does it mean when you can
heal
and
stand taller than you have ever stood
before
you used to
cry a lot
you used to be bitter
and resent
the same things
every single morning
you used to form lines
on your face
from scrunching it so much
so dissatisfied
so out of touch
with even yourself
not realizing that there is
more to you
than what you could have had
but
didn’t get and won’t
you need something bigger
than what you can’t have
you need to grow
evolve beyond your constant desires
learn
something
new
because anything that you really need
is always going to find it’s way to you
as long as you don’t give
into it
that feeling
up
that feeling
away
that feeling
back
that feeling
it means that you are living
and you can see the future
as that which you own
and have always owned
seize the payday

Stain

Stain

my soul is stained on the pen
that wrote this verse
jammed by a substance
that prevents me from song
but when will song
from me
prevent that?
I am not a cat in a hat
or a violet that’s blue
I am feeling rivulets of sound
that crash up against my insides
from the outside
that paint my ears red
like air does to blood
that paint my eyes red
when I shift my head to catch a glimpse
of the sweetness clouds make
I’m open to concave, reflecting,
digesting parts of time
whose rhythm does not acknowledge
that of the tick-tock
My words flood my brain
like my blood
like the rain
no breaths to complement the pulse they make
unless they breathe when they evaporate
like cotton candy which is never sweet
unless first you eat
the air around it
If I poured the ink from this pen on my tongue
could I tell if my words were sweet?

Stain