Born In A Storm

I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.

A Friend I Loved

I sip and think,
Drink, play something simple,
And dream my day dry.

Always talking in invented memories
Between us, our friends, and in secret.

Maybe your face
Has become the placeholder
For someone I never knew but needed.

Maybe I loved
Someone too intensely
Without extending it.

I never picture us having sex anymore,
But I can’t help imagine us being intimate.

We should pretend we just met,
And become friends again
With better experience.

Wolf Pup Dreams

Five wolf pups sleeping soundly,

Dreaming fantasies to dull their pains.

Every morning they woke to play

With new defenses in their brains.

They dreamed of screamed beratement,

Careless running through the trees,

Getting lost in friendless spaces,

Or simply flying away, free.

Fears and desires breed

The strangest images in wolf pup heads,

The seeds of future habits

They’ll follow, fight, and feed.

Meantime, another day for playing

Running on in spite of what they’ve seen.

 

When Shedding Skin

It becomes obvious

How much damage was done.

How much you were stained

From the effects of your surroundings.

Like the yellowing of smoke,

Pure white turning dim,

Recollections of abuses

In a dirge to your past.

Mistakes and misfortunes

Painted alike

On the ever-aging flesh

Wrinkling steadily to dust.

Wash it away,

Pull yourself out

And see who you were

With clearer eyes.

Let it fall off,

Feel it loosening

And setting you free

From cares long dead.

Shedding skin,

The ghost of past scars.

Rejuvenating

And flowing forth.

Vibrancy, The Shadow Unraveling

A braver me

Once hungered for the most radical,

The depths of pain and heights of pleasure,

Arts forbidden and obscene.

Looking for shadows,

The silhouettes of hidden meanings,

In music, words, and old philosophies.

All or nothing, or perhaps just me.

Everything to know,

To intercept as we compete.

Learning to express my ailments

Devoid of my identity.

 

A wiser me

Found meaning in shattered pieces,

Learned respect for my flaws,

And earned the rites of restoration.

Feeling through my being,

Pursuing dreams to their bitterest end,

Swallowing whatever lurks there,

And tasting something sweet.

Unraveling an eon

Of silent fears and insecurities,

Traversing the deathly path of nihilism

To know what I truly love.

 

 

There Is No Path

Maybe no one is truly aware

As much as we aim to be.

Living, growing, transformation,

Post-stagnation apathy.

A step forward is learned

As all mistakes are lessons.

Lack of use atrophies

Like love does in depression.

Lost in some quagmire

I’m watching you flail

With the confident notion

I’ve passes where you fail.

It’s pitiful to see,

But each life is its own.

As much as I’ve flailed

Is as much as I’ve known.

But even one step

In your chosen direction

Could lead you astray

In an open-end question.

Answers are elusive,

However much we must learn,

But even a fragment

Of perception is well-earned.

 

My Recurring Themes

Being loved for me

Without expectation or fantasy

Seems difficult to believe

With my experience of me.

Not so much a wreck,

I survive and reflect

On which parts feel neglect

Like an Art without affect.

My solace is stained,

In my solitude contained

With a sadness ingrained

And expression estranged.

I mumble and shake,

Needs pulsing and awake,

Demanding that I break

Whatever is at stake.

I’ve worn out these flaws,

Dissected their causes,

Accepted my losses,

But still wrapped in their familiar claws.

Maturity

Maturing day after day,

“Act your age” is just a phrase,

Natural action happens regardless

Of any percieved phase.

Growing is a pain,

Transition and change strain

Established habits so well

We almost break.

So laying awake,

Dreaming of a peaceful state

Like youth in love with death

For innocence’s sake.

The world shapes,

Hyperactivity anticipates,

The mind trys making sense

While feelings ache.

Some things fade

And sometimes we come late,

But forevermore ageing

The Act remains the same.

 

Chrysalis Contorting

Patience,

Like a spider in web

Or anxiety asleep,

Waiting on chance.

Owl feathers

Falling down somberly

As hours pass mutely

Through daydreams.

Arrested

Like a placid cloud

Or passive shout

Silenced in rain.

 

Awake,

Limbs flailing into open space.

Motion metabolized,

Surging like currents of liquid rage.

Chrysalis contorting,

Falling feebly in fragments to the floor.

Tempestuous breaths

Forming words worth belting

Towards the sky, the stars, and every quivering protest,

But,

Patience.

When wings with strength to support ourselves evolve

We’ll fly.

 

 

Thank you, everyone, for reading what I’ve written all this year. Please take care; and the best of wishes for you all in 2019.

 

Re-Painting Our Slate

Constant metamorphosis

Cannot undo past realities.

Heritage and origin

Remain set once cast.

Growth and empowerment

Are forever before us,

But we cannot transform

Without carrying the past.

Remembered or forgotten,

Experiences create shape

Beyond any given moment

For us to configure.

Wishing and wanting

Provide no escape.

The harshest influences

Of our history still linger.

Desiring to overcome

And create something better

Requires and embrace

With the ghosts of our affliction.

Such bitter tastes

Often burn as they’re swallowed,

But sorrow’s recompense

Is the price of our ambitions.