'metaphors'
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I have explored the lowest of lows.
My hands have scars from mountain fronts.
My wrists have cuts from when I slipped.
Although, there was only snow at the top I still saw the sun.
A friend once told me that we don't die, we're just simply at rest, like a music
notation and the energy never dies.
I still feel like this was yesterday, though it's been sometime now since we part ways.
He stands one hundred feet above ground,
on top of some
abandoned building;
perched on the edge
of life.
His Arms bend in wicked ways, and
It’s cold here, all alone.
The fan is off but I’ve never felt so cold.
Am I destined to stay here, wasting away?
Spending my days cold and alone.
The cheers, the applause, the cries
And I ask them to indulge in this moment
For it will fade
Like a distant memory
Inspiration has to be courted,
But, like a person infatuated,
I lack patience.
I am easily frustrated
By the lack of her favor, but
When I was in the ninth grade
The school wanted us professional in how we dress and how we behave
A certain day of the week
Which they called a bit of a treat
From the normalcy of uniforms of khaki and navy
Before my very eyes I was driving,
On my own path, in my own car,
On the road away from home.
No destination in mind,
Only the street lamps casting shadows
The caterpillar parable
Has never seemed to fit
Some people grow up naturally,
but I’m too old for it
Those fables clatter to the floor
It's been too long since I wrote an actual poem.
Phrases, lyrics, verses, whatever they're called, they just don't
come to me like they use to anymore.
Burdens, mistakes, curses, whatever my excuse is,
I stare at you, the sweat on my palms making it hard to grasp the conversation.
Your lips form spiteful words.
I feel my eyes glaze over.
Disbelief and distrust threaten to spill out as waterfalls from both our eyes.
Let no man be lesser.
For all
Are mere specs
on the
backdrop of the void.
No,
they are particles
Inside
an expanse of nothing.
We are
Merely the reality
of our
The drawer squeaks as I open it up
covered in cob webs and dust
as I peer inside to see what it holds
Pens and pencils, barely used too
yet seem worn, so they're tossed
the action seemed long overdue
