ripple effect

Why do the sounds make their own emotions,
ripple effect and creeping notions?
Who gave them personality, and riddled these notes
with sorrow, sadness, and grieving

Who took the noise and made it into song,
my voice stands unclean in a sea
of salty tears and breaking glass bottles and
brevity never seemed so subtle before

And who made beautiful into bittersweet syllables,
like you know that beauty entails more than sight
it takes a part all of your senses
smell, touch, and hearing

So I ask, why do the sounds make their own emotions,
like there aren’t enough feelings already going around
and who decided that this beauty would
forever be crisply coating my insides
all of my organs are laced with faint sorrow
derived from the beautiful, that is tart on its own now

When will my words ever make sense,
cohesive. together, and lacking mess
I’ve made a mess of all emotion
taking hope and smothering it in reality
taking love and wrapping it in sanity

When I make my love into a monument
will you stand tall to reach the top of it
when I make my heart irrelevant
will you be there to grab a hold of it


said I would sleep early

coveredlet me amount to something
be lifted off of this mountain of nothing
let me amount to something!be able to make decisions or something!
switch my soul to the passion and words
empty my heart of impurities and distraught
me out of my own
let me amount to something
be ridden with hope or something
be gracious and bold, or all of these
let me amount to something
before I dwell in this hunting
I hunt like the hungry and the poor
you can take my words, please take my words make them fit your situation
mold them to your own temptations
and I’ll let them be to me, what they are,
what they were written for
to get rid of these thoughts
to amount to something,
let me amount to something

leave me alone in my bed
leave me alone in my head
let me allow myself to
for once exist in contentment
to ignore my justifications- or need for them

tell me it is alright
to know the time has gone by
and to see it all spread out on the tables
and to feel raw
knowing it is going and going
and will we ever amount to something
more than compulsive thoughts and dust and nothing

let me amount to something,
tomorrow I will wake and be the same
sleep and be the same
dream and be the same
but in all the similarities I have changed- and maybe
I will amount to something
be bold and gracious
and content-
or something.

raw feet

window of rosesoddly numb behind my aspirations tonight
oddly terrified of the upcoming weeks
of christmas time and lights and these things that used
to be so sweet
greatly involved in my own mind
in my heart i can see your smile
and in my bones i can feel the way
our raw feet used to slap the cold concrete
on grandmother’s front porch
imagining they were all
out to get us
and now we don’t have to pretend
now we choose not to hide
but only indulge ourselves in this place
much similar to a beehive.
(say it like this- bee high-ve)

and i can taste in my mouth the tart reminder
of loss and what else can i say
of it

my legs covered in black cloth and my chest soaked in an ocean blue,
everything only lasts for a moment
the moment is present and soon far away
but my existence is a gathering of these segments
mixed up and bound by yarn, clothes-pins, and photographs
with rounded edges

my reflection becomes unreal, forming a two dimensional excuse
to move and watch the shadows change the pigment of my face
and i feel my bones again,
raw feet slapping the cold concrete.