in life,
there are several constants—
the sunrise,
the sunset,
and humanity’s folly.
know it takes
just one man
to steal the flame from the gods,
and one more
to set the world on fire.
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joy:
a dangling carrot.
i lurch, grasp.
air, mockingly thin.
and this is that thing I do.
give
just enough,
to make it hurt
when I am exposed
for the nothingness
that I truly am.
there used to be
a winter cyclone
in my heart;
so ready to sing
the fury of its love.
I wrapped my hands
round my throat,
choked it of life.
I soon forgot
what it meant
to have a voice.
now
my heart:
an empty auditorium.
too big
to be this hollow.
drop a pin.
I still remember
when laughter echoed,
like light that danced
from wall to wall.
and I remember
when passion thrummed,
when caring
wasn’t danger.
now there’s dust
suspended
in time—
nowhere to go. everywhere
to hide.
there— clamping, yet again.
round my throat,
hidden hands,
strangling
the words
that fight
to reach my tongue—
begging me
to fill this hall
with something—
anything—
other than the sound
of silence.
still,
i remain voiceless.
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You are alive. You won’t be forever. That is the poem. Why should there be more?
This is your one life. What are you doing with it? Why wait until you’re on the other side to become acquainted with what should have been — with what should have been done? Why weep without reason? Why wait to know?
It is so strange that we can be reminded of our mortality — to read the words, “you won’t be here forever” — and for the reality of our finality to not register.
Why should the poet labor? Why should the artist toil over illustrations and visualizations of what it might be like for that final day to come — for you to be laying on your deathbed, confronted with the end? Choking on words unspoken. Drowning in potential never realized. Like a sun buried beneath the horizon who never got to rise.
Why do the metaphors need to be shoved down our throats for us to get a clue that we won’t be here forever? No. We will not. So why do we wake up each morning without ever really waking up? Sleepwalking through each and every day. Rinse and repeat. Why do we not drink in our aliveness?
Who among us can truly say that, if time is money, they’ve invested every penny beautifully, wisely? Why do we squander the only true currency?
This life is all we’ve ever known. We don’t remember a before. How can I even think about it now? I don’t remember the beginning — forgive me if I don’t have a good sense of the end. But you must. You must think of death as your worst enemy and your greatest friend. And you must rage — rage against him, fight each and every day, that you may live to the full.
Truthfully, do I tell you, that when the Reaper comes, it will not be with a scythe. No, it will be with kindness in his eyes. You will take his hand. He will take yours. You’ll be ready to bid this earth goodbye. Unburdened by regret. Unburdened by what ifs, because you truly lived.
There is no rest for one who carries questions to their grave. Ask them now. Ask all of your questions now. Get every what if and what then out of your system. Spend your entire life asking and answering.
They say in death, all answers are revealed. I don’t think that’s true. I think in death, all questions are revealed. Did I live truly? Did I live honestly? Did I love kindly? Were my years wasted — and if so, how many?
Again, I remind you: time is our currency. Do not waste a penny.
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Hi friends!
I added a fun little enchanted forest to my website, featuring 24 of my poems hidden therein! Check it out here, or click Enchanted Forest at the top menu bar.
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You are not
what I’ve made you to be—
Darling, pray tell,
what might that mean?
Do I swear off
all flights
of fancy,
ne’er to close my eyes,
nor to dream?
You are not
what I’ve made you to be.
That much is clear–
but I cannot say
this changes a thing.
I will long–
I will not touch.
Doe-eyed am I,
secure,
right here,
behind walls of ice.
Would I rather
have a fantasy?
Not the clay,
but the maker?
Not the form,
but the formless?
My love is here,
caged
on paper.
So perfect.
Not human.
No edges, no need to be forgiven.
You are not
what I’ve made you to be.
But darling— it was never about you,
only about me.
-
I met the formless goddess
in a hallowed grove.
lulled by her song,
we danced
in liminal slumber.
I sat at the shore–
waves beckoning,
tide rising,
ground coaxed— slowly,
so slowly,
grain
by grain.
But no sleep is the end—
not that beneath the Moon,
nor our final rest.
Hand in hand,
we leapt—
& beneath the surface,
I did not drown, no—
I dreamt.
-
Who do I want to be?
I can’t say who,
but I can say what:
better. Every day.
A mind not growing
is a mind that decays.
Nourish the garden.
Pick up the ewer,
crack open its spine—
yes, literature,
the water of life.
So no—
I cannot tell you
who
I am becoming—
only what.
Less the destination,
more the journey.
-
and of the darkness, of the injustice,
what can I say?
can I tell you there is another world,a great beyond?
can I tell you
that beyond is great?
are these but bubbles,
at your shrewd needle’s mercy?
I know not.
but I have to believe.
I have to believe
that there is something more,
that this
is not it.
I have to believe
we are a realm
between realms
between realms, between realms—
that one of them
is home.
not here.
no, not here.
for if this is but a visit,
I will abide my time.
is this homesickness,
longing
for the motherland,
longing
for the mother’s hand,
to wipe the sweat
from my brow,
the blood
from my mouth?
tell me—
am I just visiting?
should this be a delusion,
then I will gladly be blind.
for I walk through a desert
mad with thirst—
hope that is false
is still hope.
oasis or mirage,
I care not.
this is not home.
-
you are what songs are made of,
that celestial dew,
inspiration like honey
from the heavens.
but I worship in hiding.
they would persecute me
should they know.
so my prayers
are poems scribbled, torn out and thrown,
hoping I can forget this love.
needing to forget this love.
but
needing you more.