For a Friend

To you...you know who you are

Your words hang above in infinite space,

awaiting to be taken to heart,

but how can I take them to heart when your own

cannot seem to make itself be free?

Someone still holds the puppet strings,

tugging at your every move,

pulling you in different directions all at once.

Cut the strings,

take that long fall to the ground and get back up.

You do not trust all that you represent,

and you will never see as long as those fingers

keep tightening around your eyes.

Write down your love poems and heartaches,

get them out of your mind

and burn them.

Watch them ash and float up into the night

and join the starry sky.

Set them free

and your soul will soon follow.

Life and Death

so, was at the beach this weekend, and saw a girl standing in the water, got me thinking, sort of looked like she was trying to commit suicide but I wasn't sure...this is what spanned from it

The water at her feet, stinging the now healed scratches,

all around her, the salt clinging to the bloodless dress that drags in the waves.

The children splash and play all around her,

but her eyes see nothing but the horizon calling her name.

The colors in the sky beckon her to come

fly away with them into the ever darkening sky.

She begins to glide gracefully out among crashing waves,

further and further until the water envelopes her every ounce.

Moments tick by, the sound of her heart growing

louder,

seeping into her nostrils,

death crawls.

A starry night with nothing but the light

from the planes to illuminate the ominous ocean,

a beam of light touches down.

To see her walking a top the glassy surface,

a miraculous miracle in the dark death that occurred.

War Poems

War Guilt

Do I have the right to write these words,

to think these thoughts?

They are not my emotions,

simply ones I have read,

stories I have heard.

I do not feel

the cold of the sand,

the pain of the bullet,

the guilt of the dead.

I do not think

I have the right to pretend I have.

They say it is fiction, that lying

is alright,

but those words don’t pour

from the lips of the ones risking

their lives every second of every day.

Those people,

that hold their rifles, won’t even open their mouths

long after the death grip has loosened.

They do not tell,

so we do not ask,

we imagine.

We pretend to grasp what they have felt,

witnessed.

But the imagination cannot and should not

even grasp the idea

that the only ones to see the end of the war

are the ones who’ve died.

Booger Sugar

If only the walls could talk behind the silent doors of the wealthy.

The floors have seen up more skirts than many of the sleazy boys that roam these halls.

Dried coffee creamer sits unassumingly on the table,

beckoning the Vegas nerve at the end of the night.

The silky dust travels further and further into the

depths of the oblivious mind.

Suspended in ambivalence,

the greatest potentials of my time dwindle into the wine-stained carpets

as the folded bills cling to life in their palms.

Girls live on their knees,

passing out favors like love for another quick fix.

Straws line the tables like the men awaiting,

and I want to blow them all.

I want to be inside, swimming around, reeking havoc

amongst their disintegrating minds.

The laughter slowly fades with the sound of the radio,

spewing out dust, like snow on Christmas morning that drifts into

the air and falls upon the innocent victims.