dreamer
September 27, 2016 § Leave a comment
every thought becomes caught
on the next in my mind
it’s a web chasing time
in a tangle of silk
that falls from my grip
gently tugging at reality
the outline catches light
and a path intercepts
only to be swept away
by tessellations of sound
and thoughts that surround
thoughts of what should be
but what about me?
Mind Games
November 7, 2014 § 1 Comment
I wish I could be introspective every single day
I dream of molding thoughts abstract, like artwork out of clay
Construct idealic phrase so fast, leave audiences beaming
Pen existential metaphors, of which no ones knows the meaning
I wish my mind was free to mull over eloquently structured phrase
I would write down all my profound thoughts and not run out for days
How nice to conjecture Kafkaesque verse with flair and frequency
It’s just a bit hard when my mind is filled with thoughts like, “Gee, I have to pee.”
next
June 24, 2014 § Leave a comment
I can’t wait for tomorrow
the next hour, the next second
and to scale mountains and look down
i can’t wait for leaping through the air
into shimmering waters and floating
next to the sun’s reflection
i can’t wait for the sun to set
then rise once more
and carry with it even more meaning
i can’t wait for spinning
it’s my favorite thing to do
dancing with souls and closing my eyes
i can’t wait for new songs
and hearing the old ones a thousand more times
and shouting out every single rhyme
i can’t wait for the mystery
that never seems to end
and the complexity that lies in everything
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
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.
Every Word
February 7, 2014 § Leave a comment
every word
and story written
penned
etched on paper
can be read in daylight
by any searching eye
but the pure, tragic
emotion, the space
between lines,
the breath unheard
that gulps
and swallows
dialogue and meaning
before it can stain
the pen’s canvas
will only ever
begin to be
understood
not by the one who studies
the text, but
by the one
who holds
the pen
rosepoems 