to write

May 25, 2014 § 2 Comments

It’s so difficult to count
everything and all of it
and remember
the best of it, the worst of it
I can’t fathom the thought
of forgetting any of it, the rest of it
so I write it down
to live it again and again
the joy of it, the end of it,
the all of it

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If

May 22, 2014 § 4 Comments

if I made a wish
to float above the trees
and dip my toes
into glassy seas
would it ever match
the pure joy and ease
of unplanned and pure
spontaneity?

On the tragedy of words

May 14, 2014 § 1 Comment

The tragedy of words
is simply the many
that remain unsaid
the eras of feeling
and novels of truth
and epics of heroism
caught within
nets of hesitance
they struggle and pry
trying to find
a way to pour out
freed from reluctance
without fear of effect
they wish, but remain
and the tragedy
remains too

How

April 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

How do you break one moment into a million pieces,
disturb the unremitting trail of a speeding train,
and knock it forcefully from its track?

How do you break the monotony
that is daybreak and sunset
and cereal for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch?

How can one dive into a deep pool of passion
while sitting at a desk, gazing into the unforgiving eternity
that is an excel spreadsheet?

How do we become a version of ourselves,
the version that plagues us
quite literally yelling out inside our heads
that we must do more?

Perhaps, the answer is simplistic.
An understatement of grand proportions.
Or innocence? Naivety? Litotes?

Or perhaps it is the only answer that exists,
and we simply have yet to uncover
its true depth.

For the answer is to write a poem.

Paper

April 22, 2014 § 1 Comment

There’s something magical
about paper, crisp and new
unmarked and full
of possibility

and there’s nothing
quite so simple but grand
as a brand new pen
with just enough point
with just enough ink

and the artful flick of a wrist
the turn of a finger, a stain emerges
the paper, imperfect, but full
of something personal

full of a meaning
that makes imperfection
into something beautiful

Beginnings

April 17, 2014 § 2 Comments

I opened up the spiral book,
pages filled with words,
etched carefully on paper, purple pen
a fervent scrawl, filled with meaning
from nine years past.

I wrote with conviction
as strong as the coffee that still stains
the pages and spreads ink
and distorts the words penned
from a familiar place that rushed
to fill the pages of a nearby notebook
with notes of beginnings and of ends.

It’s a story I once knew
so well, that now sounds like a fiction
from a distant place,
from another’s hand.

silence

April 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

Silence is a friend
to the harsh and biting,
words that bounce wildly
across wooden rooms
without borders, but an enemy
to the timid, the thoughts,
hidden words trying
to see the light of an open eye
finally taking them in.

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