Rob Tenken

My Last Poem for You

2011-08-04T09:47:00.000-07:00

I sank quickly and deeply into your infinitely aquamarine opiate ocean.
The suffocation reeked of salvation
just out of reach.
I swam against the current to the point of numb-boned exhaustion,
but found myself dragged further back than when I started.
Your tide was too strong.

And I'm trying my best not to blazon the blaze in your eyes
or let myself drift to each beautiful curve of your life.
And I'm trying so hard not to retrace the pace of your pulse
or let myself fall to each thought of your warmth.

I fell further through thickening layers of glow.
My eyes were kept blindly open, desperate for some route of escape.
Breath held, I felt my heartbeat strong in every fingertip and follicle.
My chest started screaming, fighting down heart and lungs.
And I was so tired.
I couldn't keep fighting.
For a moment, I let myself believe that my lungs could be transfigured,
taught to breathe vicodin instead of oxygen.

And I'm trying my best not to bleed for the need of your smile
or let myself sway to the elegant dance of your trials.
And I'm trying so hard to unlearn the burn of your touch
and the way just your name would make my soul rush.

As I let myself take one deep gasp of the narcotic waters,
the world began to burst in unearthly shades.
Fireworks in violet deeper than black, more vibrant than white.
Reds with layers of red.
Sun-hot oranges that spread along nerves I didn't even know I had.
I could see the ocean floor plainly now,
a playground for victims desperate for sacred wrongs,
a fortress for the lost who didn't want to be found.
I could see your hand there,
and I stretched mine out, desperate to cling to you.

And I'm trying my best not to fight for the light in your essence
or dwell on shattering joy of your presence.
And I'm trying so hard not to cave for the crave of your breathing
or to let myself fall on the sword of your being.

Your fingertips were always just out of reach.

And I'm trying so hard to find form for my fight.

And I'm trying so hard to find truth for my lie.

And I'm trying so hard to find sound for my cry.
And I'm trying to find words that can say

afp

2011-03-31T01:11:00.003-07:00

The music is what you get when you mix a thunderstorm
with tear stains that show oilslick rainbows
with a starlit night high on social-suicide intoxication.
The sound runs on an a frequency pumping like fists in the air,
the wild euphemism of unified voices; our collectivity.

Crash
in the momentum, the chords that twist like deep tissue mindwarps, the clatter of chains
pulling you into the music.
The way she says
fuck
like it’s a 120 proof sacramental wine.

It’s an experience that surpasses the point of it all,
that needs no ampersand,
that’s like touching – like very real, pulmonary to pulmonary touching,
the coitus of throbbing hearts.

And she’s the kind of girl who leaves out stardust on the bedroom dresser,
the kind who makes the sirens, jealous, cast themselves against the rocks.
And she’s the kind of girl who starts rebellions for mass self-acceptance,
the kind who will make society’s fabric into origami just to shake the stage.

The sound runs on the pulse of the audience, the collected rejects of the cabaret,
the anachronistic minds and idiosyncratic souls; they find their company here.
The music is what you get when you mix a heart attack
with auditory opiate hallucinations that resonate with both memory and dream
with broken boundaries and minds, each crying gratitude for freedom.
All of it, every syllable and shudder,
fearless.

afp

2011-03-31T01:11:00.001-07:00

The Cynic

2011-02-24T13:51:00.001-08:00

The Cynic

Alone in his room, he's seeking absolution
spending his time in purgatory early
clinging to the bottle like an infant does,
watching the corners of the world blur.

Moments of mania, serenity, laughter,
intermingle with passionate eruptions.
He launches a half-empty bottle across the room
to hear it break,
to hear the shattered glass clatter,
muffled, to the carpet.
He holds himself as his body starts
to quiver;
he feels the heat of fresh tears down his face;
he wonders why these rivers never run
when sober.

He's dizzier and dizzier,
standing on ground that's turned to liquid,
re-enacting the moment of standing on water
before faithlessness sets in.
He's going further down and further down,
watching the walls as he slips to vertigo,
wondering why he's here at all;
but better days will come, he thinks.
Surely, better days will come.

Alone in his room, he's seeking absolution
spending his time in purgatory early
clinging to the bottle like an infant does,
watching the corners of the world blur.

The Shrapnel

2010-07-27T17:02:00.000-07:00

Embedded so deep, encrusted with blood dried black -
he thought it was an ulcer.
He remembered the shard of metal enfolding into skin,
but insisted on believing it had changed its form;
steel fragments turned to a bronze shield
engraved "E Tan I Epi Tas."

Because at least you paid attention while the shrapnel went in.

But the apology for the wound was a suture
as if on eyelids
and the metal was left inside to rust.

When the second blast happened, and the third, and the fourth,
and the injury recurred
the word "accident" sounded like choking on sand;
the word that replaced it: "deserved."

Because he was counter-top height, and you were his Gabriel - his God.

He demanded it was an ulcer.

Felt the wounds bleeding, fondled scars with his fingertips.

Insisted that this heirloom wound was his birthright.

And the silence was infection,

spreading black-skinned necrosis,

gangrenous, with no sign of remission.

Because he could never tell you how bad it hurt.

The Storm has Ended

2010-07-10T21:58:00.000-07:00

When the hurricane was gone, the city was quiet.
No soul-bared beggars lined the streets.
No spray-can wielding avantgards looking to spread their stories on the walls.
Pale white children, once screaming relentlessly, are now behaved.

And me?

I want to eat cold Chinese and peanut butter ice cream.

I want to gain twenty pounds and bury myself in the couch.

I don't want to move from this spot. I want to be lost forever.

The burning tangerine glow over the horizon
set the colors of the broken slate gray to blazing.
The scattered parts of buildings -
collapsed television screens showing faintly sparking wires,
cement pillars toppled against one another,
sports cars drowned out -
precision chaos modern art.

And me?
I want to know how a dagger feels slipping between my ribs.
I want to hide someplace safer than my own mind.
I want to perform my own autopsy. Explore the infinite dark.

As I wander streets that were once peopled,
loneliness takes on its greater definition.
The gorgeous orange glow makes everything beautiful,
and I feel like one more hiroshima silhouette.
I hold to the memories of memories of when
there was life here, and laughter.
But the hurricane is over now,
and the city is quiet.

An Intro

2010-05-23T13:02:00.001-07:00

I am the scratch and dent floor model,
battered and bruised, and lined with artistic scars;
this necromantic war-paint serves as
a precursor to battle cries
as loud as Atlas's rattling breath
or the last gasp of Hiroshima.

I am constructed of a mahogany exterior
of liberal pacifism,
with the v12 revolutionary engine
of Marxist-Leninism,
combined with the personal ideals
of socialized syndicalism,
tempered with the steel of
anti-Determinism
and the words "Do your worst,
I'll play by your rules,
and I'll win."

Force me to empty my pockets and you'll find
shamelessly pirated symphonies,
scriptures I don't believe in, countless audiobooks,
kittens, epic stories, graveyards, eternal progress,
and marrow deep worries for all the people I love.

I come equipped with a quad-core 12.4 terrahertz
mental processor
and more space for drive than
can be computed.
This dented exterior
is forged from breathless hours
across years of struggle
where I met my daily reflection and told
him "You're better than that."
Telling him that by becoming a disciple of tears,
you'll learn how to smile.
That pain will teach you how to laugh.
That oblivion will lead invariably to the process of creation.

I am an act of revolution.
My body has been re-forged from a temple
into a fortress
with rotating turrets of reason,
steel walls of persistence,
five foot iron gates of determination,
and the nuclear warheads of
invincible dreams.

You may ask for the price on this scratch and dent model,
but I'll tell you now, the only place I'll belong to you
is in your dreams.
You can fantasize, if you'd like, about taking me home
but in the end, I'm the only model here that will never be owned.

Abyss in 128-bit Technicolor

2010-05-15T20:57:00.000-07:00

When the daffodil scented THC colors met my eyes

I was drawn by white dwarf intensity, heavy as God in a pentecostal church.

I leapt in willingly, and this pit put Alice's rabbit hole to shame.

The revolutionary twists inside my stomach were

as passionate as communist schoolboys.

My continued descent became hotter,

and I realized in the midst of that microwave heat,

consistently raising the temperature of my blood by kelvin degrees,

threatening to leave me like a charred marshmallow,

that I would gladly light the world on fire,

becoming the egomaniac pyromaniac archangel

unwilling to be cold again.

And so my heart started racing to the pace,
to the ten times tempo of a time bomb ticking downward

to the disaster of you.

Finding each molecule of oxygen transfigured to vicodin,

my lungs alchemically altered to sustain life through opium.

The world begins to melt away,

a bucket of water thrown against the wet paint of my reality.

I discover the color brighter than white.

I taste a darkness more bitter than black.

In this shifting 128-bit Technicolor abyss,

I find myself hoping that my own color will settle

in a shade more transparent than cellophane

with the opacity slider all the way on the left of the screen

being gazed at with x-ray vision.

But I never told you:

I was the shadow running from light.

I was frightened of this new perfection.

In this abyss, the rest of the world existed only in muted colors

and pillow-over-the-mouth screams.

So I grabbed a ledge and began climbing out.

Ledge after ledge.

Hour after hour.

Day after day.

But when I escaped this beautiful everything,
gazing into the dim noontime sun,

those daffodil scented THC colors would not leave my eyes.

A List of Feverish Maybes

2010-05-08T21:31:00.000-07:00

Maybe I never kissed you because
you can't lose something you never had,
and I'm good at making predictions about my limits.
Because there is no Chapter 7 for a Bankruptcy of heart.
Because vital organs shouldn't be played like
jacks in the box that were constructed in
Halloween town from rattlesnakes and dynamite.

Maybe I never held you because
I never wanted to have to let go,
unwilling as a rich philanthropist
who finds out that he's not a camel
and heaven's gate is bigger than
the eye of a needle.

And maybe all I want is for you to smile when you think of me.
Maybe all I need is to be your drug.
Maybe all I know is that I'm dreaming of forgetting everything I've known
about life, redemption, and love
and having a day with you written in dry erase graffiti
by a masterpiece artist.

And maybe I miss you
like a cancer patient misses one decade ago, or their daughter's wedding,
or never holding their first grandchild.
And maybe you distract me.
Maybe you're on my mind
as much as my consumer debt,
spinning like broken carousels at twenty times standard acceleration.
Maybe your vibrant multicolor, glowing light is like gay pride disco balls
that shatter my world with a windshield wiper clarity,
painting the thousand shades of gray
in 128-bit colors palettes that could have been selected
selected by the same Seraphim who paint the sunsets.

And this poem, it can have no conclusion!
No matter how good I get at ignoring my situation
you will remain in the corner of my psychic vision
as beautiful and perfect as the heaven I don't believe in.
You not even my type, but I love you.
You would ruin all my plans, but I love you.
You would destroy everything.
But if I had my chance to paint a
hundred thousand days
in masterpiece dry erase,
or even permanent ink,
depicting the adventures
that keep waltzing in a blur through my daydreams,
I would take it.
Even though it should be equated to a willing heart attack.
I would take my chance, the look in your eyes,
the feel of your hand:
and maybe, just maybe, I would never look back.

Don't Tell Her I Wrote This About Her

2010-05-08T20:50:00.000-07:00

I always hated the way I felt when I was near you.
It starts with
the revolutionary twists inside my stomach,
passionate as communist schoolboys,
but unbeatable as the US stockpile of nuclear weapons -
beautiful as daffodil scented THC colors on a warm, rainy day,
but overwhelming as God in a pentecostal church.

It goes on to my heart racing at the pace
of the ten times tempo
of a time bomb ticking downward
to the disaster
of you.
The white dwarf intensity of your lips.
The nova infinity of your eyes.
My soul trying to escape the gravity
of the Universe
of you.

I've always hated the addiction
you force on me, transfiguring my lungs
so they cease to take in oxygen,
and start breathing in opium instead.
Each molecule of oxygen lined with high grade vicodin.

You found the mute button for my world.
You are the bucket of water thrown against the wet paint of my reality.
You are the color brighter than white.
So I'm glad you left.
And no, I never needed the way I needed you,
and yes, I've always hated the way I love you.

But I hated even more that I never had the courage to tell you.
Like a vampire running from the microwave radiation heat
of your imminent sunrise, threatening to boil my blood.
Unsure whether to wish that I could hide from you
or hope that I am as transparent as cellophane
with the opacity bar slid over to the left side of the screen.
I've gotten over all my phobias but the name of the Scottish Play,
Sarah Palin, and the way you just might taste.
But I can't find out, because the moment I do
nothing else that I thought was "good enough"
could ever be the same.

The Day I Met God

2010-05-03T20:10:00.000-07:00

The day I got into heaven
I got in with a crowbar.
See, those pearly gates are more crowded
than an opening night debut to a Lindsay Lohan snuff film -
more packed than a 1944 German graveyard -
with people overflowing
like lines and queues from the mind of an actor with Alzheimers.
So, I slipped through the crowd,
and with the help of a little leverage
and a Jenny Craig program
I got through the bars.

I was surprised to find that those streets, yeah,
they really are paved with gold,
though why the angels would choose something
quite so ostentatious for the pavement of roads that they mostly fly over
is beyond me.
They do drive sometimes, though, it's true,
picking one of the four Mercedes Benz, like the Guardian, from their driveway
(though why the enlightened no longer living need safety features, don't ask)
and drive along these winding, scenic pathways up to this hilltop,
with the most comfortable clouds you have ever laid down on.
I swear, it's like lying down on memory foam's morbidly obese cousin
while getting a massage from four Russian women
while getting shot up with a solution of vicodin, valium, and tryptophan,
while listening to music from the love child of Enya and Imogen Heap,
while getting a letter that says "as of immediately, all debts - forgiven."

And there the angels lay down, eating manna,
looking at the poor starving humans. And they mutter to each other
"Why don't they eat? Why don't they just pluck the ambrosia
from the vines?"
Because in heaven, it is that easy.
And the angels, they don't know any better.
So I wandered and eavesdropped for a while.

And the day I approach God,
I approach him with a knife.
The angels didn't even notice when I walked into his palace.
They were too busy staring at their own perfect reflections in crystalline pools,
preening their eighteen foot long, copper and gold, 100% organic majesty wing spans.
Their skin was made of a shimmering gold, like a mirror,
so when they looked at one another, they were really looking at themselves.
When I got within a thousand yards of God
I was distracted by the lilac scent that perfumed from his hair -
the silver moonlight sheen of his skin -
the piercing diamond blue of his infinite yes -
the glowing ivory of his throne.
And that last approach to God took weeks.

But when I stabbed God,
I stabbed him with all my heart.
Because in that last thousand yards, with every step
I became more overwhelmed by the stench of lilac
and with every inch recognized that it was covering something putrid -
something rotten - the scent of decay.
The filament of the silvery surface of his body
was stitched together from the skins of a thousand lower beings.
Those eyes really were diamonds,
and I had to wonder in the theme of the moment
how many African children died in the effort to find them.
By this point, I was unsurprised to find that the ivory of his throne
was from bleached skin, blood drained corpses.
So I stabbed God, and the pouring black blood
from a thousand grafted veins that were never his
spilled out.
And I wondered if, like Chronos,
he might tear at the seams and regurgitate all that he'd consumed.
But no such luck.

The narcissistic angels threw me from their palace,
and they had flaming swords and spears, so I didn't do much to resist.
Outside the pearly gates, I tried to show God's blood,
but everyone was too preoccupied, trying to hear St. Peter calling their name.
You see, with just St Peter in charge of admissions
and so many masses dying each day
some have to wait eons - so you don't want to miss your chance.

Another interesting tidbit I learn is that those gold roads in heaven
are mined and forged in hell.
And the more I think about it, the more I think maybe I wouldn't mind hell so much.
I prefer the rack to the eternal tedium of waiting in line.
And at least in hell there are people who ask your name, and how your day was,
and seem to really care about the answer.
And at least in hell there are people who will complain with you about
the fire and brimstone, and how moody those torturers get.
And at least in hell there is no flying.
Just people who will walk and talk with you for a while on a pathway paved with sod.
And plus, in hell, I can introduce myself as the man who wounded God.

There Will Be No Turbulence This Flight

2010-05-03T19:40:00.000-07:00

We were dragged down
by tendrils as numbing as novocaine,
black as empty,
unforgiving as a white cloaked red-neck with a burning cross,
and clean as turpentine sliding down our throats.
And we were suffocating
like children forgetting how to swim or scream,
hive mind superman ants, falling so easily down the drain,
and the histories of conquered nations.

But at least we wouldn't be lonely.
We woudln't be the only ones who
found our greatest sanctification in a three inch piece of steel
writing messages to God, on our skin, in braille
in the hopes that he'd tell us we were still alive.
The flowing red liquid telling us we were as real
as pain under the impact of percoset,
love under the influence of sanity,
dreams under the canopy of waking.

We wouldn't be the only ones who
would starve ourselves just to feel a tiny bit right,
like birds plummeting from a nest since they can't bother to take flight -
polyamorous lovers who forget each others names,
exchanging heat rather than memories -
all of us failing tests on purpose so at least there are no accidents.

And all this matters because there's this enemy
that no one else can see
living in a nest it's built inside our skulls
from a weave of half-exploded decaying dreams,
scar tissue strands of self-mutilation,
sonic vibrations of unfinished arguments,
and all the people we never loved.
Against this dark God there is only victory
or oblivion. So this matters.

We'd pull ourselves out of the darkness
but the edges are slick with oil
and sharp with silver dollar paper-cuts.
The life guards are busy
reading our star charts as a substitute for meaning,
scriptures as a substitute for history,
and the back of cereal boxes as influential, poetic non-fiction.

And when they tell us there might be life eternal
we pray that there is only a God as infertile as he is blind,
so we can avoid this inherited divine,
yet we're screaming to the Universe just to prove we're still alive
while constantly checking our vital signs.
The heart beat shakes the world but never tastes it.
The heart beat shakes the world but never tastes it.
The heart beat shakes the world but never tastes it.
The metronome would put us to sleep if we were waking.
The back and forth rhythm of a heart that can't bear the daily breaking.

So instead, we've built up a great wall for everyone to see.
It's a masterpiece as great as
androgynous Mona Lisa pretending to smile,
the wives of the Pharaohs leaping onto flames,
the terracotta warriors stuck in perpetual boredom.
And this masterpiece has become our legacy -
has become our victory -
has become our tragedy.

Because while you thought we were laughing, we were silently screaming.
While you thought we were praying, we were lying there bleeding.
And while you thought that we were smiling
we were hanging ourselves with the silver lining.

My Mask

2010-04-15T21:02:00.000-07:00

This mask I'm wearing?
This mask that people point at.
This mask that people smile at.
I'm tired of people staring.

Cause this mask, it's made of this great material called:
my top fucking layer of skin.
Blood and veins and nerves all weaving in.
This mask, it's not an invention, no busker's disguise,
it's the bust of myself that I've been working on all my life.

I'm tired of people ogling me.
Frowning or smiling or screaming, but always eager
to see what's waiting underneath the top layer.
Eager to see what lies beyond the seen.

I'm tired, because this mask: it's me.
You can go home, ladies and gentlemen.
This is all there is to see.
The curtains won't rise, the "real bit" won't start.
Roll final credits. There's no other part.

I'm tired of everyone pointing at me,
screaming,
look at the actor.
Look at the performer.
Look at the pretender.
These lines aren't memorized,
this isn't a disguise,
this is me - all me - raw me,
and you still can't tell the difference.

Cause this mask I'm wearing?
It's made of this great material called:
My top fucking layer of skin.
Blood and veins and nerves all weaving in.
You can see me and accept it, or you can not.
But don't wait around, because this is all that I've got.

Song of the Black Birds

2010-01-28T20:37:00.000-08:00

The gleeful chirping of the carrion eaters

nesting in my head

attunes to a dirge-paced rhythm

that my heart begins to dance to.

Their stillness is markedly unheralding

to the usurping storm clouds overhead.

The rumble of thunder

crawls over the horizon.

Flash white illumination shows

silhouetted charcoal landscapes.

The sky breaks apart in a spear of light

that hits its mark at the base

of the tree where the black birds nest.

The tangerine glow

of wood hungry hands

crawling up the tree

beacons out over the land.

The fiery fingers stretch

towards the upper branches.

The gleeful chirping of the carrion eaters

nesting in my head

shrieks out at an unparalleled pace

that my heart begins to dance to,

yet the birds -

they refuse to fly away.

Chop the Thing to Pieces

2009-11-21T17:15:00.000-08:00

We were so cold -

so fucking cold,

both of us.

You knew a way to build a flame.

So it was friction, friction,

as you worked the bow,

pushing for a spark -

then cradling it.

My easy breaths upon it

got the ember glowing hotter,

enough to ignite the waiting tinder.

Who started this fire?

You wanted it to keep on going

so you hid it from the wind -

and tossed on what branches

you could find.

I continued to throw in branches,

leaves, and kerosene.

Who let this fire go wild?

You needed fuel to keep it going,

and all there was, was your house -

so you turned to me, and said

"should we burn it?"

And I said, "chop the thing to pieces -

I'm cold, I'm fucking cold."

And I nodded to you.

So you took the ax to it.

Who let this fire burn strong?

The fire was bright, and it was warm,

but when the house was gone,

we used our clothes as fuel.

But that burned out too.

The smoke rising from the pit

and we were choking, and ducking down,

trying to avoid ash

filling our lungs.

Who left us here so cold?

Your lips went blue,

and I tried to warm you

without the blaze -

but I was cold as ice myself,

and had already taken

your last chances of shelter.

I know you're angry, and I hope that

keeps you warm.

I'm okay if you hate me, if it keeps you

breathing strong.

But remember, as you're shaking,

for all that we conspired

I was cold, and I was desperate,

but I didn't spark this fire.

Unabsolved

2009-11-21T16:52:00.001-08:00

Those breathless moments caught us looking up

as shimmering glitter fell towards the earth

and got in our eyes, burning,

but refused to rinse out.

Those hazy twilight hours were black as coal

that stained all of our fingers

and smudged on all our clothes

but wouldn't wash off,

no matter how hard we scrubbed.

That long struggle to tear away was pulling out splinters

with the tips of our clumsy, shaking fingers

but accidentally, repeatedly, pushing them further in.

Your Hate

2009-11-08T18:10:00.000-08:00

Your Hate

Lip deep in sulfur -
white hot in my chest,
wood burnt twice to chalky ash.

Bones turning brittle,
skin stretching thin
as red eruptions give swift
needle strikes at every inch.

Brain, numb. Heart,
being hollowed out by some
dull instrument.

The cave is dark
and slick
and cold.
No torchlight.
Sunlight drifting out of memory.

Churning sickness -
violent, wave-crashing, toxic water,
in my stomach, heart, and head -
spreading darkness from my lungs,
the air too heavy,
the ground tumultuous.

Lights fail to illuminate
eyes too dim to see.
Oxygen fails to sustain
these lungs too weak to breathe.

My fingers cannot grasp the slick rock wall
as I slip downwards,
scrambling, scraping off skin against the stone,
as the pitiless cliff rushes by,
endlessly.

Scorched Earth

2009-10-08T12:03:00.000-07:00

The scorched earth,
ashen and smoking -
sand crystallized to black glass.
Trees burnt to oil dark shades
could fall apart at a touch.

A soft crunching noise
as what was once grass
turns dust beneath my feet.

Were these craters once lakes,
these fissures life-giving rivers,
flooding with diamond blue coolness?

The sky turned treacherous against the sun -
the ash has suffocated it.
I am still inhaling smoke.

With soft ferocity,
a fleck of water tumbles down.
My eyes fall to gaze at the war torn earth
and the smallest green bud,
struggling from the lifeless ground.

White Lily, Charred Black

2009-09-27T15:56:00.000-07:00

This entry is old . . . and I chose not to publish it because it felt too private. Well, that's still true, but it's some of my better work . . . so here it is, with intro:

It has been brought to my attention recently that my poetry is terrible.

Haha . . . I know that's a bit blunt. I know my poetry has certain weaknesses. Specifically, though I feel my ability for rhyme and meter is good, and frequently for word choice, I don't do much for imagery.

This wouldn't bother me so much, except for the fact that my very favorite poets (Eliot and Plath being the specifics I'm thinking of) are my favorites specifically because of the stunning imagery they use.

As an experiment, I decided to re-do one of my most recent poems in a more imagery based style. I have now written it, and I feel, among other things, that is a far more revealing piece of work. So much so that it makes me wary to share it.

But then . . . here it is:

White Lily, Charred Black

Blush floods my skin.
Veins pulsate heavy.
This human wiring runs hot
stirring my skin from vague sensory awareness
into a tingling;
stars bursting
at all my fingertips.

My lips ache.
Theirs is a pain that
sinks further,
dropping through deep and lightless water
to the fragile core of me.

You are the fire I am dancing with.
The sparks leaping between us
create a scarlet glow.

Iron bars twist
inside my stomach.
I know that this can't ever be right,
but knowledge becomes a stained glass word.
Knowledge is the Bible.
You become my new conversion.

Your eyes light mine.
Watching you drift into me,
sinking deeply into me.
Watching your skin shaking
is intoxicating me.

Some pieces fall together
like two of a puzzle, meant to coalesce.
Holding back from you is tearing at my edges,
bleeding from the inside corners.
Holding back is a floodgate,
ready to be compromised,
with pressure building in every millimeter.

You hold me and quiver at my hands.
The way you touch my arms,
bite your lip -
it's gravity
to which I am untrained.

You are the fire I am dancing with.
I am being scorched, incinerated,
like a conquered field.
The charred husk to come
magnifies my need to
keep the blaze soaring.

I'm trying to deny how much sense this makes.
He's a better medication.

Blush flows from my skin, leaving me pale,
trembling from cold.
My skin itches;
something trying to scratch up from under it.
Something trying to swim up
from the deep and lightless water,
from the fragile core of me.

Playing with Fire

2009-09-16T15:52:00.000-07:00

It's a feeling like I'm constantly blushing,
the heat seeping under my skin
and blood running hot.
It's a feeling like coming out of numbness,
the tips of my fingers tingling
as my lips throb.

It's playing with fire,
toying with desire,
and mixing sexual chemistry.

It's so easy to say why it's wrong
unacceptable
evil
when it's someone else.
But with you and me, my logical mind
creates beautiful lies.

It's the way I feel when you're staring at me,
making me feel so perfect,
so complete.
It's the way I'm holding back from everything
you're making me want
so bad.

It's playing with fire,
toying with desire,
and mixing sexual chemistry.
It's trying to break free
from things I wish I never learned,
and wanting to get burned.

I can't seem to make myself not want this,
and I can't make this all feel right.
It's playing with a fire that I want so bad
in the middle of a cold, dark night.

It's how I know you want me to hold you,
and the way your lips quiver,
your body shakes.
It's how I know you want me to want you,
and the way you have no idea
how much I do.

It's playing with fire,
toying with desire,
and mixing sexual chemistry.
It's trying to break free
from things I wish I never learned,
and wanting to get burned.
It's fantasizing about things that may have been
if you were with me, instead of with him.

Romancing the Silence

2009-09-07T12:17:00.000-07:00

By the side of the clear pool, I saw you first,
with chestnut hair let down,
draping a face with a look of mourning.
The face of an angel in despair.

I spoke to you in passing, but you gave no reply.
I assumed your silence was a wall.

Then I saw you running and gasping,
your chestnut hair blowing behind you,
your eyes seeming on the verge of tears.
Crystalline eyes more valuable than diamonds.

Your voice gave a strangled cry, struggling for breath.
I heard the echoing sound of your fury-bound steps.

Then once more by the hot springs, I saw your face.
I tried again to speak my words,
and here you gave reply.
By hand gestures and motions,
you let me know that you could not hear.

So I sat in the hot spring with you,
and contemplated how to communicate.
Each time I thought of what I'd want to say,
the value of the words was less than the cost
of all the struggle to say them.

What better counterweight for a rhetorician?
What better lesson for a poet?
To realize then, that for all my words,
I like the silence more.

I didn't know how to say anything, and what would I say?
And why break the silence anyway?

It was better to sit there with you, our eyes never meeting,
our words never breaking the peaceful air.
To know you are beautiful,
but not fumble for pleasant conversation.

Those moments shared within the peaceful spring,
no words to fake, no voices there to sing,
seem by rarity far more valuable than gold.

You gazed down at the water.
I gazed up at the sky.
Then in the silence there,
another truth did cross my mind.

If one were of all five senses to be deprived
they would still have there the better part of life.

Long Live the Jester

2009-08-08T02:13:00.001-07:00

Long Live the Jester

The blade that enters goes deep, and through,
and leaves a wound.
Still, when withdrawn, the cut will seal.

Long live the jester, they cry.
He who serves the masochistic monarchy.

The ache inside will never show itself
if it can be helped.
Nor the tears he sheds, stained red.

Long live the jester, they cry.
He who serves the suicidal sovereignty.

The chance at recovery,
and a gamblers mind
make this beautiful conclusion unlikely.

Long live the jester, they cry.
He who serves the tearful tyrant.

The laughter may be a mask,
the one he wears each day --
but it serves as proof that there's meaning in this pain.

Chasing a Whisper

2009-06-23T12:56:00.000-07:00

Chasing a Whisper

There's white fire in your hair as you move beneath the dancing lights.
You shift and sway as if you're under water.
Your eyes are diamonds with a pale blue hue.
Your skin, honey and butter, making mouths water.

Each little pale freckle, each dimple,
serene as stars speckling your skyscape.
The little scar on your rosemilk lips
is just one more mark of perfection.

As your body swings
the dripping beads of sweat fling
out to give all here new christening.
Your hands move with complete fluidity.
Your painted nails, shimmer blue,
same as your dress.
Long fingers that make me long for your caress.

Your slender arms and swiftly swaying hips
pull me in with more force than gravity.
Born again within your energy.
Instantly addicted to your ecstasy.

The music ends,
and your exhausted smile leaves me paralyzed
as you softly slip away.
I'm petrified, but my mind screams to chase
and discover your sweet name -
but crowds devour swiftly,
tearing me from what redeems
leaving nothing but regret
and sweet recurring dreams.

Disintegrating Angel

2009-06-16T11:55:00.001-07:00

Disintegrating Angel

Silicon sentience replacing reality.
Perfect form bought with
shattering self-mastery.
Selling souls was once more formal.

When did skeletons become sexy?
When did jutting bones and sunken skin
start selling?
How could this invite caress?
If I held you, you would break.

Vini vidi vici
should not be said to a mirror.
Is acceptance so impure?
Why not "I came, I saw,
and I believed?"

You were not meant to dwell
in something so frail.
What you are runs deeper,
brighter, and more infinite.

Your glorious beauty is far more enduring
than that of this brittle glass form.
This is the only body you get.
Don't toss it to the void and the storm.

Happy Birthday Seraphim

2009-06-10T13:28:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday Seraphim

Your name was almost gone from my mind,
but I was never the sort to forget important dates.
And here it is, your birthday.
Thinking I haven't talked to you in five months now
makes me strangely sad.

I won't approach,
my emotions are still too much entwined,
and I don't want a surprise from me
to ruin things.
But I keep thinking of you,
and what I want to say.

Happy birthday, Seraphim.
Never forget how wonderful you are.
Happy birthday, angel.
Always remember, you were a light in my heart.
Happy birthday, darling.
In my world, you will always be a shining star.

I keep seeing gifts I shouldn't buy you.
Amazing how much restraint it takes to avoid
whipping out my wallet,
as I theorize ways to send gifts anonymously.
Jewelry and stuffed animals and books and movies.
These little things that scream your name to me.
But I refrain.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.
You were the sweetest soul I ever knew.
Happy birthday, my glimmering garnet.
You were always the perfect gem in my view.
Happy birthday, my silhouette.
You have no idea how much I miss you.

I wonder who will hold you today.
I wonder who will stroke your hair,
and let you know you're perfect, just the way you are.
I know you'd be surprised to know
that one of my greatest wishes for you
is to find somebody perfect who can hold you close.
Thinking it would make you smile
makes it easy to forget jealousy.

Happy birthday, Seraphim.
With every breath, I wish you joy and peace.
Happy birthday, angel.
You were my water, my life-giving stream.
Happy birthday, darling.
Never forget, no matter how easy doubting seems,
that you were a light in my world, and my sweetest of dreams.

Destruction by Design

2009-06-04T11:41:00.000-07:00

Destruction by Design

To those of us who gaze to heaven
and see a God infertile;
we who find sanctification in
a three inch piece of steel.
Our crucifix, our own bodies.
Stigmata.
But they dub it "pop culture."

To those of us who see the void
and call it paradise;
we who find redemption in
emptying ourselves.
Absolute mastery of flesh and bones,
but mostly bones.
Buddhist detachment from material things,
like sustenance.
But they blame "the media."

Not just a cry for help.

We don't seek sorrow.
We seek the power to fight it.
The cuts are at care and hurt,
not flesh.
It's not self-destruction or deprivation,
it's self-mastery.

We know the secret of controlling a Universe in flux.
To make the pain work for us.

While you were humming, we silently screaming.
When you looked away, we were solemnly bleeding.
We may be good at faking a show,
but if you paid attention, then you would know:
While you thought that we were smiling
we were hanging ourselves with the silver lining.

Mention of Your Name

2009-04-21T07:56:00.000-07:00

Mention of Your Name

Like thunder out of a clear horizon,
the mention of your name triggers explosive thought
that rips through me
in cacophonic vibrations.
Bursting in flames up from my spine,
through the base of my skull,
filling me with needles, venom, and red.

I thought I was over you.
I thought I knew -- I thought I'd realized --
you are not best. Not best for me.
But the mention of your name.
The thought of you
with someone else
stolen -- but not stolen,
never mine.
Bursting flames up from my spine --
base of my skull -- needles,
venom,
red.

Like storm clouds on an August day
over a placid sea
casting it into tidal fury,
filling me with tidal rage.
The mention of your name,
like acid in my veins,
parasite in my brain.
Bursting flames up from my spine --
not to be calmed, will not burn out --
base of my skull --
sundered like earthquake --
needles - piercing -
venom - burning -
red.

Deep Drag

2009-04-14T13:55:00.000-07:00

Deep Drag

The rain is soft, gentle and chill against my skin,
draping my hair over my eyes,
soaking through my suit.
Just one more drag,
deep drag,
perfect drag,
and I'll go back in.

As I inhale deep,
and exhale ashen vapors,
it's easy to forget the rest.
To ignore the ache, the pain, the strain,
the empty wishes.
Rain beats softly.
Fumes inundate my lungs.
For the duration of the breath,
the world is tolerable.

I pay no attention to the memories that rise,
and find myself capable,
in this inhalation, of total zen.
Just one more drag,
deep drag,
perfect drag,
and I'll go back in.

Riddle - Part III

2009-04-14T12:59:00.000-07:00

Riddle - Part III

I thought I was okay.
I thought I had gotten over you.
I honestly did. I thought my feelings were gone.

Then, in the shadows of an echo of a dream,
returning like the last lines of a whispered eulogy,
I remember why I loved you.

I'm here in this palacial venue -
to hunt adventure, and find both pure passion
and complete unity with the world.
Brought as the bass line reverberates through us all.

I'm here with a girl, who I like, don't get me wrong.
She's smart and she's beautiful, and I'm glad we're here.
We converse so well. We do. Don't get me wrong.
But I find myself thinking of you.

This girl, I don't hold onto her.
We're friends, not lovers.
This girl, she gets lost in the crowd.
We're friends. I let her go.
Alone, I head to the balcony above.

I'm not intending to hear your voice in my head,
from years back, saying "Next time we come here . . ."
pointing to the balcony.
But I ignore it.

I stare out the window as the headlining band begins to play.
As the crowd looks in, I'm looking out -- staring out a window,
as cold wind whips against my sweat.
I stare towards the sunset --
flares of gold and bronze and scarlet whip through clouds and sky,
over the lake and surrounding shimmering planes.
Making a vague attempt to obscure the glow,
massive stormclouds, unleashing torrential black rain,
in the distance.
But the sun breaks through.
And I remember why I loved you.

Because as everyone looks in, and I'm looking out,
I realize that I see something different than they see in this sunset.
I remember how long I yearned for someone who could see what I see.
And you did.
And now I'm staring out this window alone,
when you could be staring with me.
When we could share this moment.
When I don't know who I can share it with, without you.
Because they don't see what I see.
And you did.

I cannot help but miss you now, as I think of this.
This best part of you.
The reason I fell in love.
And it leads to other recollections.
The way I felt when I looked in your eyes.
The fire that sparked between us.
The electricity that went through my body
when I first grasped your hand.
The way we used to sit up talking,
until four in the morning.
The way we used to chase storm clouds.

I cannot help but regret.
Was there something I could have done,
not to keep you when you were unhappy,
but to have kept us the way we once were?
The way we were when we were renegade angels,
soaring across a world too beautiful
for mortal eyes to comprehend?
Is there something I could have learned earlier?
Is there something I could have said differently?
Some solitary choice that would have kept us on course
for salvation?

But it's done now. It's gone. I know that.
I've let go. I no longer hold onto hope.
But the candle, burned down to a puddle of wax,
finds me remembering how dark it is,
and wishing I could re-kindle the flame.

Three months now.
Three months, and only now do I realize
what happened the day you walked away.
That the riddle was never what should be done,
but how I could keep on smiling
without your smile to spark my own.
Three months, and I finally realize how dark it is.
And I finally realize what it means
to be alone.

Riddle: Part II

2009-03-26T22:00:00.000-07:00

Riddle: Part II

I keep waiting for the day
that it starts to get easier.
Some days seem placid.
Then dreams come, lurching in,
and other sudden reminders.

You'll likely never know how meticulously
I've destroyed each photo of you.
How thoroughly I've deleted
every trace of your existence.
There are so many songs I cannot listen to.
So many things I cannot do.
All to avoid thinking of you.

I'm trying not to be bitter,
but the word "abandonment"
keeps appearing in my mind.
You said that you wanted to leave to avoid
"burning any bridges" with me.
Lies do not suit you.

I'm torn between romanticizing
and trying to exorcise you.
I think of your hair and lips and eyes.
I feel a sudden rage boiling inside.
Knowing that you left.
Knowing that you seek others now.

But I do as well. So why does it fill me with such pain?
You are not the last girl I kissed.
So why do your kisses linger on my lips?

Some pain comes from the things that I remember.
The glimpses of you within my mind that stay,
no matter how many pictures I erase.
But even more, the pain is now coming
from things that I cannot recall.

So often, what I said and did,
was done and said to make you laugh.
That laugh that echoed through my skin,
and reverberated joy.
A laugh that now, despite my efforts,
I cannot recall.

Once I stayed up all night -- do you remember? --
in a basement apartment, in the dead of winter,
to write you two dozen love letters,
and hide them all over the breaking hovel,
so you would have them when you woke.
I bought you sunflowers.
I bathed you in kisses.
All this just to see you smile.
And now, I find, I cannot remember that smile.
Despite my desperate clinging, it is gone.

There is no more distant hope.
"Never again," you said. No more efforts to reach you.
No more attempts to stay friends.

It's been two months of contemplation now.
Two months, and I'm starting to forget,
but finding that it's just as hard as remembering.
My candle, yes, is still alight,
as I desperately seek to smother it,
and come out with blackened burns.

I am, perhaps, a boy with ocean eyes,
but I realize that I am no longer yours,
and that you will never again be mine.
And if fate conspires to bring us together again,
the question still remains --
am I strong enough to survive you leaving
a second time?

Moments of Wisdom

2009-03-20T11:18:00.002-07:00

Moments of Wisdom

Eyes met, locked across a room -
a room that's vacant except for the animosity,
which drove negative energy like a heat wave,
and blurred their vision like the air above flame.

My consciousness, like an obnoxious movie goer,
keeps screaming -
"Turn around, turn around, before it's too late."

The words that escape her lips are not hers.
The words that fly at him, poor man,
so full of poison.
That she speaks now of hatred.
That she screams that he's unbearable.
That she cries.

The words that roar from behind clenched teeth,
a seething set of whispers to condemn,
scorch just as thoroughly.
Directed, at her, poor girl,
without a spec of mercy.
"Unbelievable" comes out like a whip.
"Disgusting" like a blast from a black powder musket.
He stares at her like she's some slug.

Somewhere inside them both, the phrase keeps spinning,
it pleads to them -
"Turn around, turn around, before it's too late."

How could she lie like this,
to say she doesn't want him, doesn't love him?
How can such a sweet and tender spirit
unleash so violently, like holocaust?
What crime is it that caused this,
but closeness and time?
Familiarity to breed, not contempt,
but a genocide of joy.

How could he torture like this,
and put such vicious words inside her mind?
How could such a loving, joyous man
unleash such toxicity, like fallout?
What crime in her has caused this,
but the passion of love?
That his adoration has come to mean,
not worship, but possession?

There are breaks of light, for both of them,
lasting less than moments -
"Turn around, turn around, before it's too late."

Eventually, the fire dies out,
just like lava cools, hardening to stone.
Eventually, their poison is digested.
The illness ends, but the body is still frail.
They both beg forgiveness.
Both pretend to grant it.

The next time the fire leaps up,
it leaps higher than ever before.
The next time their words are still stronger.
Their passions still hotter.
Their love, all the more wounded.

Why can't they listen, step away from anger, as softly
they both hear -
"Turn around, turn around, before it's too late."

How did I not know then what I know now?
That we are all imperfect, and worthy of condemnation.
That not every crime needed confession to be absolved.
That pasts were not meant to be forgiven,
but accepted.

How could I not help her when the fires erupted?
How could I not hold her as her emotions ran hot?
What was I afraid of, that made me stand away?
Why could I not see how foolish this was?

But the lessons come after passions are sealed,
like the sword takes shape with each beat on its steel.
The truth will come when tsunamis descend,
just like forests regrow when the fires all end.
Still, I wish I had listened, to the whispers of fate
to turn around, turn around, before it's too late.

Of Confession, Retreat, Love, Anger, Pain, Life, Death, and Acceptance

2009-03-14T12:42:00.001-07:00

Of Confession, Retreat, Love, Anger, Pain, Life, Death, and Acceptance

For him, time ticks slowly backwards,
retreating into his first infancy.
Much like from the womb -- sparse hair,
a plump and frail body,
eyes dazzled by the slightest light.
Ticking backwards, in preparation
for retreat into the womb of earth.

Lucid, but with eyes strained against drowsiness.
Incoherent as he tries to speak,
lips and tongue straining to form words
against the weight of age and morphine.

On arrival, I lean down to give a gentle hug,
putting no weight into it. Only a light touch.
I am worried by looking at the bruises,
all down his arm where they check his pulse,
all down his legs from a single fall.

I watch the procession of people,
who look at him with pity, and most say
"How sad" and "poor thing,"
and I wonder if those are the right words.
His sons and daughters reminisce,
standing around his table-bed.

A pretty young nurse comes in,
and says, in a loud voice, to all of us,
that she needs to check his vitals.
She must be used to speaking to the near-deaf.
I sit back and look at his labored breathing.

A man comes in with two needles.
He scans a bar-code on them.
He scans a bar-code on the blue bracelet
on his wrist. Taking inventory.
"Have you decided what you're doing
from here?"
"Hospice care."

I stare at his face.
The sunken cheeks, and a vein that
bulges along his right cheek.
Oh, father of my father.
Retreating backwards in time.
Retreating to find a lost wife
and two daughters.
Oh, blood of my blood,
retreating.

Eventually, my father turns to me.
"Would you like some time alone with him?"
I nod. A half-dozen people leave.
I stand slowly. I walk to the side of this table-bed.
I, the orator, have no words.

"I love you," I say.
A clumsy start.
He's mouthing words that I can't understand.
"I'm sorry I can't understand."
He breathes heavy.
"Are you in pain? Are you having any trouble breathing?"
He shakes his head.
I grasp his left shoulder. I look into his squinting eyes.
"I love you. I do." I'm trying to express it better. I fail.
I gently stroke his head.
There is silence for a while, as I try to comfort him
with clumsy clenches at his hands
and strokes of his wispy hair.

Now I'm mouthing words against a weight.
"This particular life hasn't been easy for you, has it?"
He says nothing, but he looks at me.
"You are loved by so many. I bet that's good to see."
Such juvenile words.
"I love you. I do."

There is silence again. He mumbles, and I lean in to understand.
He's saying it's okay for the others to come back in.
I nod. I retrieve them. I take back seat,
and look at his heavy breathing.
Oh, father of my father.
Blood of my blood. Retreating.
Did you understand what I was saying?

I forgive you. My lips could not form these words.
I did not know if you would understand if they had.
I forgive you. I love you. I understand.
That this life, for all your effort,
would treat you so unfairly.
That wars and betrayals and chains
would have you so angry.
That there would be so little equity in this universe.
That sometimes anger needed an outlet.
I forgive you. I understand. I love you. I do.

Oh father of my father.
Blood of my blood.
I see your anger in my blood.
I have known my own betrayals.
I have felt the cold hand of the universe.
I know that whatever happens now for you,
retreating,
will be a relief.
I hope you find your lost wife, and two daughters.
I hope you find your peace and your justice.
Oh, father of my father,
blood of my blood,
retreating.

Linear

2009-03-10T08:26:00.000-07:00

Linear
A Poem for My Father

Please know that this is not a way to rale
or tell you that I love you any less.
The only purpose of these verses is
to show, and plea for what I now confess.

You see a world without its shades of gray.
To you, its always dark or always light.
That you are wrong is not for me to say.
I only say, for me, this isn't right.

And now I pierce my ear or stain my skin
and suddenly it means I have not tried.
I do not think that thinking is a sin,
or that goodness comes in only shirts and ties.

Perhaps the things I do are truly wrong,
but the God I know says purpose lies in joy.
I'm doing the best to be the man I am.
I cannot be a drone in God's employ.

Please know I always want to make you proud,
I want to make you see how well you've done.
But it must be me, and not some mask I wear
for your joy in me to be joy in your son.

I'm sorry if these words don't come out right.
I hope you see more fully what I've meant.
I'm still trying, striving for the light,
though I make mistakes for which I must repent.

I'm not perfect, and I know I never will be.
I'm trying my best, though I do slip, all the same.
I hope some day you'll be truly proud of me.
Not for what I do, but for who I truly am.

Suicide Watch

2009-03-09T22:19:00.001-07:00

Suicide Watch

Where are my razors --
frantic -- where did I put them?
Stashed away in a black case,
disguised and subtle --
but they are my sacrilegious sacrament.
Where did I hide them,
angels, friends, where are you?

Fine -- the familiar cold steel
was preferred, but I'll settle for the caress
of any seductive edge.
What have we got in cutlery --
butter knives and dull cleavers?
Like digging a tunnel to heaven --
with your fingernails.

No friends here? Fine.
Fine! Frantic -- scraping --
digging my own claws in,
then gashing sideways.
Layers peeled off,
not fast enough.
Unable to reach the rubies.

Fingers search for throat and arms
and stomach and chest and
cheeks, to find some thin layer --
some unmaskable portion.
Anything to step away from the weight,
the dark, the searing veins.
Please, break skin --
tears stream down, yearning
for scarlet companions.
Please break skin.

Erase the Past

2009-03-09T21:07:00.000-07:00

Erase the Past

How can I forget
when I see your name in every corner of my vision?
Written on the walls inside my mind?
Grafted to each stick of furniture,
soldered to each piece of shit I own.

How can I forget, when my friends still talk to you?
How can I dissolve these thoughts of you
when each time the phone rings
I'm praying it's you?

How can I forget when each adventure that I have
seems hollow without you?
When each girl I meet reminds me,
you were better.
How can I erase all this,
when you keep lunging into my mind,
igniting it with reckless flame?

It has been only a month and a half.
Less since we last spoke.
What sort of drug are you that I can't give you up?
What sort of withdrawal is this,
stronger than nicotine,
with a siren call that's stronger
than the sweetest pain-relieving pill?

But how can I forget?
How long will it take,
before the thought of you
doesn't take my mind to flame?
And can I keep bearing this sensation
of bulging veins and empty days
for all that time?

Someone -- tell me -- how can I forget?

Lingering Warmth

2009-03-07T20:44:00.001-08:00

Lingering Warmth

Until moments ago, I was smiling.
Content. Strong.
Amazing how a single old photo,
accidentally uncovered,
can break that,
instantly.

My mind swells into a fiery vortex.
My veins begin to ache.
My heart has trouble pumping
what is now thick and heavy blood.

It wouldn't be a problem if you weren't so beautiful.
It wouldn't be a problem if the girl of my dreams
didn't match you so precisely.
It wouldn't be a problem if I didn't feel a surge
of regret.
You were the prize to reach.
You were the goal to meet.
For three years I held you close.
The lingering warmth does no favors.

Until moments ago, I forgot I was alone.
Frightened. Aching.
I was happy with my petty achievements,
my monetary gains,
my adventures;
pointless.

I'm forced to resist both my emotion and my cure.
I try to force the image out of my mind.
I destroy the photograph,
and every sign that you ever existed,
to no avail.

The only remedy I know for this pain
is finding silence
at a razor's edge.
The only way I know to achieve stillness
comes when the blood stops dripping
and I smile at the wound.

Resistance is hard.

Dream Gypsy

2009-03-06T13:21:00.000-08:00

Dream Gypsy

The river is green.
The trees and the life here, lush.
The sun shines through and magnifies the colors.
Fully saturated.

It rains.
Light rain. Warm rain.
Drizzling down leaves above and scattering down on us.
We kiss.

I do not know where we are.
I look in her eyes.
I am lost.
Completely lost.
Perfectly lost.

She runs.
Through trees, splashing in puddles, some ankle deep.
Breathlessly, I follow.
"Don't run too fast!" I whisper.

She weaves through trees and I lose sight.
"Come find me," I hear.
And so I give chase. I follow.

Moments to minutes to far too long I run,
and I try -- I try to find her!
And I stumble, at long last, weary and hurting, to see her in a clearing.
Her dress drenched.
Clinging skin.
She looks up at the canopy above --
a canopy that stretches from trees that are forty feet apart.
Endless leaves.

"Don't let me lose you," I whisper, and I hold her close.
She looks at me, curious.
I hold her close and kiss her cheek.
Rain drips down from me and onto her.
"I was scared. I was scared."

She shakes her head and smiles.
I can't help but smile back.
"Don't you know I'm yours?
What foolish negligence it would be
to just leave me behind, alone."

She looks down. She would look abashed is she weren't so radiant.
I hold her close again.
Skin against my skin.
Warmth against my warmth.
Love within my love.

I shake my head and shake away the last remnants of would-be tears.
I curse myself for my weakness, but she still just smiles.
And I hold her close again.
And I realize I still do not know where I am.
Simply that I am lost.
Completely and utterly lost.
Perfectly lost.

Rough Days

2009-02-26T13:51:00.000-08:00

Rough Days

Some days, the universe becomes an abrasive thing.
The world becomes a maze, people become walls.
Words become harder to understand.
There's a sense of angry shock when people speak to me.
The world is hazy.

Food is unsatisfying, water will not quench my thirst.
Spiraling into this radiation sickness
from my emotional fallout.

My soul churns uncomfortably.
My stomach twists.
Music pounds like cannon-blasts.
I clutch my head.
I need a quiet place.

Pocket Aces

2009-02-25T17:33:00.000-08:00

Pocket Aces

Some days I sit, manacled at a keyboard.
Tonight, I break free.
My lies become virtues. Intimidation becomes skill.
Going for the kill.

Some days I feel like I’m suffocating.
Tonight, I breathe smoke.
My eyes burn out from a placid face.
I'll make their hearts race.

Pocket aces – pocket aces.
Some days I smile and nod for others.
Tonight, my smile means terror.
The sound of clattering clay chips,
ring out like machine gun fire.

Pocket aces, pocket aces.
This is my battlefield.
I, the conquering hero.
You become the wounded and the blind.
I look at you and read your mind.

Pocket aces, pocket aces.
Tonight I am a God.
As courageous as a war-torn hero,
calculating as a crime lord,
controlled as a surgeon,
unstoppable as an avalanche.
Tonight, I beat the odds

Soliloquy of a Man and his Wrath

2009-02-24T20:55:00.000-08:00

Soliloquy of a Man and his Wrath

Seven thousand years trapped in a shell.
Damn. Damn. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn.
Who am I? Who am I today?
Why?! Why can’t I see myself anymore!?
Who is this demon in the mirror?
WHY!?
Seven thousand years trapped in a shell.
Each day becoming more desperate to feel.
The cold inside expanding to form a new ice age.
Building every wall you can.
Build up your empire.
Declare a war.
Why?! Why can’t I see?
Why can’t I breathe?
Why can’t I love?
Where is my love placed!?
WHERE!?
Seven thousand years trapped in a shell.
Each day becoming more desperate to feel.
The cold gets stronger.
Inner apocalypse, explosion of wrath,
a bursting flame, too strong to fight.
It’s the only way.
The only way.
Where can I find the path?!
Where can I find remorse?
Am I still real?
Who is this demon in the mirror?
NO!
Seven thousand years trapped in a shell.
Each day becoming more desperate to feel.
The cold gets stronger.
You start to lose sight as the world falls into fog.
You are no longer empty,
but full. Full of rage.
Cold rage.
What is this burning inside?
Why do I collapse and want to cry?
Why do I feel so weak tonight?
Who will be my sacrifice?
PLEASE!
Seven thousand years trapped in a shell.
Each day becoming more desperate to feel.
The cold gets stronger.
Now just rage.
Cold rage.
Scream the banshee’s scream.
Join in the suffering.
No more games tonight, I pray!
The echoes in my heart are all in vain!
Where is this God that I have made!?
Why do I sit here so alone!?
Why can’t I dry these blood-stain tears!?
Why can’t I calm the soul that weeps?
Or wake the angel within who sleeps?
Who is this demon in the mirror?
Who am I tonight, and why?
Seven thousand years trapped in a shell–
seven thousand years–
How did this fire start,
and when did I lose control?
Rage. Cold Rage.
If I can’t see my soul,
where has it flown away?
These are the moments where the now becomes all,
where the future dies, and the past dissolves.
These are the moments, when the soul escapes
to seek some refuge while the body steeps.
These are the moments–
Who is this demon in the mirror?
Who am I tonight, and why?
I know the eyes within me burning.
I see the way my demon cries.

We are here only to protect you,
to show you the way to fly.
We are here to make your life real,
by the pain you feel inside.
We are only here to find you
when you felt you had to hide.
We are here to light the fire in you,
the fire that lights eternal night.
We know, we know,
you only want to run.
We show the depths of human sorrow.
Your hell has just begun.

Unfinished

2009-02-24T20:51:00.001-08:00

Unfinished

Staring at a starless sky,
looking for a piece of my lost paradise.
I know I’ve lived in waking death before,
but after living, can I die once more?

What corpses will I leave within my wake
when all my light and soul I then forsake?
And hope of resurrection and of pain.
Is there no way for me to live again?

Oh, hateful father, silent and unmade.
Your bastard child’s reverence is useless and must fade.
Why give a gift to take it all away?
Why suffocate and choke the breath you gave?

I hate the trap, I hate the cold, the numb you forced on me.
Why chain me down again once you have made me free?
Why beat me bloodless and take all hope away?
And claim that all will be restored when comes next hollow day?

Scars, searing me, ripping through senses and souls.
My ranting is hateful, my faithlessness all.
Mirror, mirror–broken, shattered–where’d you hide my face?
Echo, echo–my reply–then vanish without trace.

This is the first time that daddy died for real.
I cannot think, I cannot be, there’s nothing I can feel.
A chill, a sickness, plaguing through my heart.
Ravaging, raping me, and I am torn apart.

Descending, ending, an unfinished poem.
Who will stop me? Who will care? Or weep when it is done?
End.

The Last Voice in My Mind

2009-02-24T20:47:00.001-08:00

Intro: One of my favorite poem's of mine, only because it's got a rhythmic quality that came so naturally in writing it. I wrote this in a heavy scrawl on a notepad, unleashing words in a desperate mind that was struggling with a loss of love, loss of faith, and severe depression.

The Last Voice in My Mind

Pretty painted palaces,
blue-bells bleeding, sunsets seething.

Knives with skull hands, waiting, whispering.
Pulsing, wanting, yearns for bleeding.

Burning bridges, boiling waters,
raging rivers, end to sorrows.

Love like waters, faith like oceans.
Feeds me, made me, soon must break me.

Heavens hate me, please forsake me,
shatter spirits, cry diminish.

Drowning, gasping, must keep struggling.
Angel, angel– don’t forget me!

Center shifting, no one’s listening.
Echo, echo, can you hear me?

Blackened, broken, words unspoken,
rhyming reason, fading season.

Fall from heaven, fiery splinters,
meet my mind and end the winter.

Show my failure, I’m still screaming,
bind my wounds, but I’m still bleeding.

Madness, madness, where’s the end?
Dreaming, dying, life to shed.

Hate the torment, hate the truth.
Hate eternal, cry for youth.

I’m still raving, babbling, stumbling,
paths unmade must make us hungry,
for all my pretty, perfect, painted palaces.

Scavenger

2009-02-24T20:45:00.000-08:00

Intro: A poem about my struggles for faith.

Scavenger

To let the dreamless darkness drag me down.
To fight the sleepless sorrow that soon must conquer.
To find within myself a waking world of madness.
To find again the innocence of eggshells.

To lament the moments long since lost.
To now forget the dreams I dared.
To defy the dawn and all the scars it brings.
To find again the long-since wilted rose.

To forge the chains that I cannot escape.
To flee the failing that I drag behind.
To fall from heaven since it cannot please.
To find again the ignorance of angels.

I seek this state of bliss, but lost in fear
I find my paradise is anywhere but here.

To Scale

2009-02-24T20:43:00.000-08:00

Intro: Written in the era after Kayla left (or rather, during the last portions of that relationship, where we kept breaking up and reuniting). My faith in God had broken, because I had come to believe that she was a gift from God. That he would take it away seemed ludicrous -- my alternative was a darker view on faith, which took me a long time to overcome.

To Scale

The heard but unuttered whisper hisses into my ears,
reverberating, echoing inside a hollowed mind.
The worm ridden remnants of a soul,
riddled with cuts confines me here.
Amen–amen, already. I believe.
Can’t that save me any more?
The sarcastic shock of all the uselessness
and hell-bound sorrow spreads in waves
upon a graceless, Godless plain.

Whoever knew a whisper could deafen?
Blazing, blaring, burning in my mind.
Slashing a soul, all ready too tattered
to recognize as more than a lesser form of dust.
Can you even hear me?
I feel in fear that these echoes go unanswered.
The beauty of the world around me
crumbles to a million shards with
just the slightest touch of my foul tainted hands.

This maddening mindlessness,
it tears into every part and leaves me bloodless.
My soul unsaved and hardly made,
unreal and slowly vanishing.
Ha! Faith and hope, but least of all some
callous mask of charity.

The world?! What world!?
What’s left to hurt me, and how?
Running from illusion to illusion;
that’s my purpose now.

Darkest Days

2009-02-24T20:41:00.000-08:00

Intro: This poem was written in a deep depression after I lost my first love, Kayla.

Darkest Days

The thundering torrents and waves of fear
among a million other thoughts
swarm and envelope, fighting for supremacy.
Now I understand the symbolism of sleeping beauty.
I woke from dreaming to far greater dream,
yet after my salvation, I must fall to pain.
It seems my only hope is sleeping once again.

I suppose there are advantages,
to these, my darkest days.
If I survive, I’ll have empathy to everything.
At last, I understand real pain.
A broken heart, a thousand callous screaming voices
drowning out the soul.
And the way your wrists can hunger.

I suppose, then, the question that remains is
will I make it through? Is it even possible?
Where will I make it to?
Where is this prophesied path?
Where will it lead?

I walk on, tired and weary,
hoping only that some day the darkness will disperse,
my fear will dissipate,
and whatever path I find myself on,
will be something less than this tormented hell.

Small Things

2009-02-24T20:40:00.001-08:00

Intro: For many years of my life, and even still in these days, I suffer from clinical depression. It's led to some a lot of poetry, though, including this one.

Small Things

Sometimes there are splinters that drive a wedge between you and happiness.
Small splinters. The smallest of splinters.
Like a little bit of poison, or a stiletto blade.
I don’t know how else to describe it.

It’s not just one thing. It’s never just one thing. That wouldn’t make sense.
It’s everything. A little bit of everything.
And it starts to drive you crazy. Completely crazy.
Because you can’t just fix one thing.

If I knew what this was, I would be able to change it.
If I knew where I stood, then I could move away.
But the fact is, I stand in paradise, holding something dark inside.
It’s best described as cold rage.

I want to control it all. I want to make everything okay.
I want everyone else to do and say everything perfect so I don’t have to.
I want my heart to suddenly work again. I want to feel free.
I want everything to be okay.

I know. I know it doesn’t make sense. I know the more I write, the less sense I make.
I know I’ve started to rant. It’s best that way. It’s on the border of feeling.
But sometimes. Sometimes I just wake up so incredibly numb.
And for some reason, I can’t want to stop. For some reason, I can’t want to wake up.

All the King's Horses and All the King's Men

2009-02-24T20:36:00.000-08:00

Intro: This is a poem I wrote during a time in my life when I was desperately seeking faith. It is more abstract than many of my other poems (I was studying Elliot and Roethke at the time), but perhaps it will speak to you.

All the King’s Hoses and All the King’s Men

“Thick skinned,” was the only term I could think of.
“That it should crack like that, I mean.”
No one understood.

“Fairy tales become us,” was one reply.
Meanwhile, around us, grow more shadows.
Strange how they hide.

“Remember me! Remember me!” It echoes by nature.
Vacant space, or another lost voice?
Impossible to tell.

“Are you lost?” said The Stranger.
I was, I knew it, but refused to speak,
and soon He moved away.

Lose yourself, for all that’s true is lost.
For I remember the story that wise shepherds spoke,
of all the King’s horses, and all the King’s men.

“You know,” once more, like an echo.
“Tolkien’s world is meant to be ours.
History repeats itself.”

It’s blood that makes us human. Cold blood. Damned blood.
DNA and particles, all wrapped up in this neat little package.
What more could you wish for in a puppet like this?
That is, don’t push your luck.

“Thick skinned,” or maybe just unnatural.
But I signed in his name,
like all the King’s horses and all the King’s men.

God of our fathers, where do you go?
Vanished like the whisper of yesterday.
Where truths were, where light could be.
But never more than in the past tense.

We hide only to be found again.
We run only to be chased.

“God, our God! King, our King!
Commend, deliver, save!
Why, where, when did you leave?!
Where can we find you when all else is done?”
Sacrifice, martyrdom, such price to pay,
for these musts, these maybes; what a truth to defend!
Lost like the rest in the stories of yesterday
of all the King’s horses, and all the King’s men.

Deep Hours

2009-02-24T20:34:00.000-08:00

Intro: This poem was written at the end of my Era with a girl named Kayla (who's poetry I have yet to post here, but which there is plenty of). It is, in fact, a poem about poetry.

Deep Hours

Now is the time in which my poetry will be most pure.
The splinters of my mind extracted, and put down in words.
Now are the times when my mind,
like a broken geode, reveals its deepest secrets.

Now are the hours, between sleeping and dreams,
when the phantoms of my mind roam free,
and I can let my shadows out to breathe.
And you can watch them waltz.

This is the culmination of truth–finding purpose in pain.
My mind and darkened world all ready speak in
luscious, hopeless poetry.
I merely scribe.

Best Bad Habit

2009-02-24T20:08:00.000-08:00

Intro: I stole some lines from a girl I knew, who told me that I wasn't allowed to fall in love with her, because love was not a thing you could fall into. Love was an action, and that I could love her. That love was an action, and couldn't be taken or given, only done. The poem, however, is for Seraphim.

Best Bad Habit

Love is not a noun.
You cannot hold it.
You cannot have it.
You cannot give it.

Love is not a place.
You cannot find it.
You cannot fall into it.
You cannot wander in.

Love is not a thing.
You cannot take it.
You cannot own it.
You cannot hide it.

Love is a verb.
You can practice it.
You can indulge in it.
You can bring it about.

Love is an action.
You can show it.
You can let it flow from you.
You can love, or you can not.

So, then, perhaps this is a habit --
that I should love you as long as I have.
Three years and more that I have loved.
That these actions and emotions still flow from me,
streaming like white light from every corner of me,
seeking to find you wherever you've wandered.

I smile to think, this is the best bad habit I've ever known.
Through years of practice, my strongest love has grown.
Now burning tears seem freeing in their pain.
I won't forget the memories we made.

Riddle: Part I

2009-02-24T20:06:00.000-08:00

Intro: A poem I wrote for Seraphim. A poem I wrote trying to understand. A poem I wrote before she said she didn't want to talk again. A poem I wrote before I felt that even friendship would be dissalowed, and that the "break" was no longer a break, but a finalization. But still, these hopes continue in their way. The Part II has yet to be written, but it will be.

Riddle: Part I

The hardest riddle that I've yet known,
torn between mind and heart,
words that mean different things to each.
"Break," or "hope," or "love."

What do we share now?
My jealous rage tries to shield me
from the winter cold that rushed in when you walked out.
To say "She has not left, she only waits."
To say you will not seek another life,
when I know you will.
To say you will not seek another love,
when I know you must.

I know the fallacy, but you said "break."
You say you see us in your mind.
The words, "I miss you" ring in confusion.
In my confusion I lash out.
My rage tries to persuade me that you never really left.

But this is not so. You're gone.
The ghost of you I see reminds me of this.
The echoing words and shadow emotions
all act as an alert of your absence.

I hope my love has found a shelter in a corner of your heart.
My candle for you still burns, on an oil that has yet to fade at all.

The riddle is hard. If two people love each other --
if one loves with a passion that nearly burns his skin --
with a passion that rends through his heart and soul --
then should they not be together?
If the woman this man loves misses him --
if she still loves him and his ocean eyes --
if she still holds the dream of their eternity --
should they reunite?

We must let go. I must let go. Let go.
Please, let go. But can I, with my desire so strong?
Can I, when I would face down the Persian armies
for one more night within your arms?

A month of contemplation, and still I have no answer.
A month of reason fighting love, and both ending bruised.
The riddle stays within my mind.
I know I must let go. But how?

I think I've found the first piece,
of what we share, and what we have.
It is love, enduring, but that we cannot hold.
The fire between our souls is not extinguished,
but cannot be fed.
And what we share now is a distant hope.

But Rachel returned to Ross.
Jalen found Astra again.
Even Orpheus had his moment.
If the stars align within the skies,
perhaps these stories can repeat,
belonging to the boy with ocean eyes
and his girl with gypsy feet.

In the Ruins

2009-02-19T18:31:00.000-08:00

Intro: Quite possibly the most refined poem I've written. By which I mean that it is, I feel, nearly airtight, and needs little to no improvement. Inspired by a line from Haer'Dalis in Baldur's Gate II: Throne of Bhaal. Sonnet -- Shakespearean.

In the Ruins

Oh Delphi, did you see your statue fall?
Your temples crumble and your prophets fade?
Did you foresee your decimated walls?
Misfortune told and then again repaid?

And Aphrodite, did your perfect face
withstand the centuries within the tomb?
What is there now of all your love and grace
but flesh made dust, your love engulfed by gloom?

And Zeus, in all your pride, could you escape
the ravages of great Olympus’ fall?
Could you maintain your vainly perfect shape
or fight the night that would eclipse you all?

This fate through these immortals we may see.
The dust of Gods is much as ours will be.

Choosing to Fall

2009-02-19T18:26:00.000-08:00

Intro: Written towards the beginning of my relationship with Seraphim. Full of half-rhymes and rhyming quartets.

Choosing to Fall

Once I hurt so much, I ran for life, I hid--
just curled up in a ball, I slowly wept and bled.
I touched the darkness, yearning for my death,
and slowly paced the days away, awaiting my last breath.

I think back and found I had everything then,
and lost it all in the end.
It means less now, but what it did
was more than anything can give.

But afterwards, I could stand strong--
stronger than ever, I could move on.
More than myself, I could belong,
anywhere with anyone before too long.

I saw the world in all its different hues.
I felt my life collapsed, and then renewed.
Each aspect of my soul like Titans grew.
So free inside, with nothing left to lose.

And now I love again, with passion pure.
Everything was chaos, and now is sure.
My soul has rest, a place to be assured.
These things I was so sure would not return.

And now again I'm filled with passion fierce.
But find, with love, the wounds so soon appear.
My eyes, so dry, must now relearn their tears.
I find the truth of sacrifice is here.

I lived so free, impervious, and unused.
The path before me is very hard to chose.
I know that when this ends I'll end up bruised.
But still, thank God I have something to lose!

My Girl with Gypsy Feet

2009-02-19T18:25:00.000-08:00

Intro: Written after I'd been dating Seraphim for quite a while. Free-form love poem.

My Girl with Gypsy Feet

It's like dancing with the wind.
This sensation, this perfect sensation.
A chill up and down my spine,
knowing that I'm holding something so surreal.
Yeah. Surreal. That's it. She's surreal.

Like a phantom. A ghost.
No, that's not right. A spirit?
That's better. A sacred spirit
of some ancient deity.
Avatar of infinity.

It's dangerous, falling for a girl like this.
Unworthy mortals, struck blind to see a God.
But if the Goddess loves you in return?
Fate better than life or death, I suppose.
Fate better than anything.

It's hard, investing your soul and self.
Knowing that some day she'll want to run away.
But I love her all the more.

She is the wind. The spirit of it.
We'll share our thousand adventures,
I pray, before she flies away.

It seems a damnable practice and desire,
but nonetheless, there's something I must make my aim.
Without her, I feel so incomplete.
I'll run for her, and chase each time she runs away,
and follow forever the footprints of her gypsy feet.

Embracing Sorrow

2009-02-19T18:03:00.000-08:00

Intro: This poem was written quite immediately after my relationship with Seraphim ended (yes, she left me). Very free-form, but with my classic obsession with ending rhymes.

Embracing Sorrow

There is a feeling of burning --
of sorrow turned to brimstone.
It flies along my veins, to every corner of me.
It touches every part and leaves me empty.
The end feeling is hollow.

Still, there is a certain peace in this --
even a certain sort of joy.
Because I know what these feelings are.
So much love I've held for you, so much
that I can't hold onto anymore.
It must find a place to go.
It must find a way to escape me.

That's the burning, and it's also the emptiness.
That's the reason why I can't sleep.
My deepest, truest emotions, fleeing.

"You can't wait for me," you whisper.
"It wouldn't be fair. Fair to you."
Because, in the end, you may not want me.
Once your whirlwind calms,
whenever that is,
you may find that "we" are just not right.

But still, while my deep emotions fly from me --
still, though I'll fight this sense of yearning --
I'll keep my hope for distant dreams,
and I'll keep a candle burning.

Cocoon

2009-02-19T18:01:00.000-08:00

Intro: This is a very free-form poem, based on a real life experience and epiphany. It does refer to Seraphim, for those of you keeping track of my romantic legacies.

Cocoon

The raindrops beat down like bullets against the windshield.
I refuse to use the wiper blades -
the liquid slicked back by my eighty mile per hour speeds
creates a crystal encasing around me.

The night is dark. The roads are empty.
The rapping of the rain
is the only sound that's made.
In the silence of this night I scream your name.

Why must we insist on clinging to vipers?
Why can't I let go of this toxic heat?
I grip the wheel so tight my fingers go numb.
Every turn in the road comes as a shock.
My mind is elsewhere.

I keep thinking - "What is this?
What is this I feel?" This burning,
spreading up my stomach, heart, and throat,
filtering through the back of my mind.

This was the dark sensation I felt
that stifled my love.
Why now?
why do I have your face in my mind?
Why do I feel a rage that tells me,
"No, speak softly -- win her, take her,
never let her go" - in anger?
No!

Why must we insist on clinging to vipers?
Why can't I let go of this toxic heat -
that burns me, and makes comatose seem easy.
I scream once more to the night in rage.
Once more, in this silence, I scream your name.
And say, "No! No more."

And then, like a nova, a beam of unseen light strikes down.
My mind opens up, and I feel a thousand thoughts
break into a thousand smaller instincts.
The world becomes suddenly clear.
The word, in my mind - the answer - appears.

"Jealosy." This is the heat that feels so wrong -
that feels so close to love.
This is the reason I rage and flail.

The tears come quickly as the feelings melt away.
I smile in joy to know that "jealosy"
is not a thing I want, or need.
Not myself, but an enemy.
Why must we insist on clinging to vipers?

I feel only peace at the end of the tears.
A smile comes to my face as I feel my freedom restored.
I flick on the wiper blades,
releasing myself from my crystal chrysalis.

Loneliness in the Ideal

2009-02-19T17:59:00.000-08:00

Intro: This poem is very much written in my classic style. I've found I love repetition and quartets. I love building or ending non-rhyming poems with rhymes.

This particular poem was not inspired by anyone in particular. The last line entered my mind on a road trip, and I knew I had to write a poem around it.

Loneliness in the Ideal

Too much deceived. Too often betrayed.
Her lovers had all fled her,
like black ash cast from the flame.
Loneliness seemed an easy resolution.

And when she drank, she drank the finest wines.
And in passion, she seduced the strongest men.

She was jaded, she knew that much.
It was like a sore she refused to acknowledge.
It was a scar that refused to mend.
But loneliness was better than love.

And when she read, it was Hugo and Homer.
And in art, she had Da Vinci and Monet.

She began avoiding mirrors. Her eyes –
they had changed, and showed a certain hollow anger.
Where there was once inferno there were embers.
But love hurt more.

And when she ate it was filet mignon.
And in music she had Mozart and Brahms.

She began to feel a numbness in her steps.
There was a certain void inside her breaths.
Her tears has frozen, seeping to her core.
Each day she lied of “love,”which left her long before.

And when she hung herself,
she hung herself with silk.

Too Close to the Sun

2009-02-19T17:57:00.001-08:00

Intro: A Shakespearean Sonnet (a.k.a., English Sonnet) written with classic rhyme and rhythm structure (I pronounce "saccharin" with only two syllables, so keep that in mind :P). Again, this is one for (or about, at least) Seraphim.

Too Close to the Sun

I told myself we would not talk again.
I claimed the torture wasn't worth the joy.
Such lies I told myself for fear of pain.
I smile, and dive with zeal into this ploy.

Your saccharin scent brings calm to my uproar.
The chains around my heart quickly dissolve.
Your presence here has caused my soul to soar.
With your first breath you crumbled my resolve.

Your words alone have parted storm and cloud.
As I recall your warmth my tears flow free.
But angel's presence here is not allowed.
One more farewell recalls cruel destiny.

The parting cold reminds me of your worth.
Now Icarus is plummeting to earth.

My Thoughts are Far from You

2009-02-19T17:54:00.000-08:00

Intro: This poem is a Petrarchan Sonnet (a.k.a., Italian Sonnet), written in the "Blazons" style, following classic Petrarchan rhyme schemes.

My Thoughts are Far from You

I told myself I would not blazon you,
or think of the dark silk that is your hair.
I won't indulge in letting eyes so fair
entrance my mind with shades of green and blue.
And though I know the rareness of the hue,
I won't possess myself within the stare
of starlit eyes so full of lover's flare,
or memories of time when love was true.

I won't recall your soft and wheat-toned skin -
and I refuse to think on rosy lips.
My mind rejects these thoughts of artful hips
and I refuse the scent of mingling sweat.
I will not think on our sweet sacred sin.
I swear, somehow, my love, I will forget.

The Striving/Starving Writer

2008-09-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

I would quickly like to summarize what this blog is, and what it will become.

First, my name is Rob, and I am a writer. I can even go so far as to say that I am a "professional" writer, since I have been paid for my writing work on multiple occasions. However, I do not write for a living, and that's eventually where I want to get.

As far as what I write, the answer is really that I write anything. I enjoy writing for production, including technical writing. But my two favorite types of writing tend to be story-based writing (like short stories, novels, plays, or video games) and poetry. Because I can effectively display my poetry in a blog, that's what I'm going to do here.

My poetry is currently spread across several dozen documents on my hard-drive, multiple other blogs, and is even hidden in the trenches of MySpace and Facebook. I intend to retrieve, collect, and post my poetry here for commentary, and indeed, CRITICISM! I love criticism, so long as it makes at least some points.

If you want to get ahold of me, including for freelance work, simply e-mail RobFaeth@gmail.com. If you, for an unknown reason, want to keep up on my personal life, check out tenkenatheart.blogspot.com. If you want to hear my political views, check out www.utahliberal.com. Otherwise, stay tuned for poetry.

Rob Young
(~Rob Faeth~)