Relentless Waves, Static Shores

I can’t get past the stress

All the questions in my life

I lay in heavy silence

I find no peace at night

Just the weight of all the choices

Each one set in stone, stark and grey

Ever joyless

I throw myself against them

Breaking like a wave

They wont budge, but I’m relentless

When my will is all but spent

I piece myself together and start it all again

Callow Flower

Dormancy is killing me

I need to stretch my legs

I feel I’ve been too long trapped in this small space

Wasted time, wasted potential

Torrential downpours of depression

I need to get ahead of it because it’s not relenting

Spending months in this cold shadow

I’ve grown into this sickly thing

Bitter, angry, callow

Frozen Clime

I find myself staring out into a crystal scape

I know the short, dark days intend on a long stay

Trees swaying, stripped of all their leaves

Ice reaches into cracks, a grip that wont release

Please, grace me with some warmth

I fear I wont shake the cold that creeps into my core

It bores into my heart

Just like the frigid flurries, it tends to stop and start

Part of me just wants to let it win

Lay down beneath the blanket and wait for it to end


Land Reflecting Sky

I found myself in a dream

The skies alight with fire

Running through a forest with only one desire

Tired, seeking some respite

A mass of molten rock streaks by, burning with white light

Smiting trees before the landing

Tearing into earth and stone, like a bullet from a handgun

Something knocks me off my feet

The force of the impact scatters birds and beasts

Now the forest burns as the sky does

There’s nothing I can do to escape the violent fires

Explosions break the night

Lost in the trees, running from the light

Letters to Myself

I write these daily letters

Address them to myself

I hope they grant perspective, but only time will tell

Somewhere down the line

I’ll go back and read them

Analyse my mind

Find answers to new questions

You never know when the past will teach a present lesson

Signs and warnings gone unseen

Important with the way that history repeats

Poison Gifts

A life of writing poetry is the only one for me

My days consist of putting pen to paper, sleep, repeat

Neatly tucked away from all the drama

I have my share of demons

I don’t need the vouchsafed gifts of others

Poison in disguise

Given looking down their nose

Expecting thanks for lies

Shying from the world is easy

Often it’s your smartest choice when you don’t like competing

Greed is the worst lover

It makes you change the way you treat yourself and others

The Art of Love and Malice

To me, for mankind there are few greater creations

The way we can take words and artfully arrange them

Lay them out upon a page

Paint a mental picture that could rival a Monet

Relate a deeper meaning

Or merely draw the eye along by routes, obscure and scenic

Some fiendish, as I and Baudelaire

Looking through the cracks for beauty in despair

Often careless and quite callous

The sacred art of poetry is one of love and malice

What’s to Come

Lately I’ve been torn between two projects. As a type one diabetic, food is important to me. It has to be enjoyable since I practically bleed for it in a fashion, so I became a competent cook at a fairly young age. This was before I learned traditional flavor profiles and as a result, I’ve refined a number of strange, yet alluring recipes. The ongoing battle of putting together a cook book is cutting into the lifelong battle of putting together a collection of my best poetry. It’s hard to budget time in a world full of distractions and discouragement, but I aim to have a copy of each on my shelf in the next four years. Even if I have to print and hand bind them myself, which happens to be my third passion.

Losing My Favor

What happened to the trust I used to place in friends?

For many years it has been impossible to lend

I get the short end of the stick

Rather, they have both ends through ignorance or tricks

Teach a man to fish, it wont matter anyway

He’d still rather ask you to give your fish away

Saying “Sorry, I forgot.”

Or some other lame excuse

An insult to my stock and my moral fiber used

I’m made of better stuff

You don’t deserve mine

I don’t deserve that one way trust


Time is my obsession

Endless letters to attest

When I’m feeling fine

When under duress

I let the ink bleed on the page

I fill the empty moment with lines

I drift away

Can’t waste the precious seconds

I have to keep on moving

Even if without direction