Poetry
The End
With you, I would watch the world burn
From the reflection of your eyes
Waiting for the earth's final turn
But our love is what never dies
It does not matter in the end
Because you're what I want to save
In the embrace of my best friend
You make me someone who is brave
Squeeze my hand hard and hold it tight
Erase fears of oblivion
You make the darkest world seem light
And our love will be what lives on
I'd do anything for you my dear
And hold you until there is no fear
Faded
I wrote this poem in pencil
So it can fade with age
Just like my love for you will
These words will be an empty page
I wrote this poem in calligraphy
So these words turn into art
Only found through archeology
Because it is buried in my heart
I wrote this poem in chalk
Scribbled below my feet
Spilling my soul on the sidewalk
For rains to wash away to the street
I wrote this poem about you and me
I shoved it in a bottle then threw it out to sea
Grow
I see a tree, and on this tree a seed.
A seed from a tree, all for me.
Placed in my pocket,
Close to me like a locket.
A little dirt wont hurt.
And wiped the rest off on my shirt.
And a little water,
For my tiny seed daughter.
And some light,
To make that dark pocket bright.
My little seed I will show,
Everywhere I go.
From my pocket it will grow.
Below the dirt in my pocket,
Shooting up like a tiny green rocket.
Out from my pocket it burst.
This tiny little oak seed,
Growing out from me,
And it grew and grew.
Its roots went down to my shoe.
Soon the fun was gone.
The tree planted in the lawn,
But planted in me too.
And in me it grew.
Its shoots shot into my feet,
And up my leg, knee, then head.
The brown bark made an ark.
Making my new world dark.
All but a tiny light stream,
In my woody prison it gleamed.
I can see the light and dreamed.
A dream of what I look like,
The tiny tree tyke.
I am now the tree,
And the tree is me.
In my lawn,
From dusk till dawn.
The tree’s arms my own.
That strange face you see is me,
The boy who became a tree.
Mud Pies
Lazy Sunday afternoon, flipping through family
Albums. I come a cross a curious photo
Me and my brother in a sea of mud,
In the backyard of our childhood home.
Mud across our faces sitting in the muck.
Naked except for our dippers caked in dirt.
I come to my mom to ask for the story,
Of me and my brother happy little pigs.
She tells me this was the day we both learned
The direction of a faucet to the evergreen hose.
She left us to ourselves for just a minute,
We engineered a factory for mud pies.
She saw what we were doing and let us go
Continue with our assembly line of soil.
Great skill we used to create a masterpiece.
Grass for garish and bugs for sumptuous flavor,
So appetizing looking we had to try for ourselves.
My brother went first as he’s inclined to do.
I followed behind him in his footsteps
As children we grew beards of mud and grass.
In that moment mother took a photo
So we would always remember.
As brothers we do every thing together.
We go through the filth and make something beautiful.
Sticks and Stones
I see a field ruined by the dragon
As long and winding as a fallen tree
Rotten to the core
Spikes protruding everywhere
I have no fear
My knights stand by my side
My castle of sticks impenetrable
Swords swift and sturdy like lumber
This victory rests on my princely shoulders
We rush the beast
High-pitched barbarian screams
Swift strikes chop the monster
Pieces splintering from the mass
No escape
The brute fell that day
Its remains still decaying in the field
Forever a sign of our victory
Only for those who were there
My thoughts are in a frenzy and out of order
I want to do one thing but ponder something else
It is hard to write with words in a disorder
Can only think the same words for rhyme, nothing else
I want to write a poem about love but find hate
Trying to give meaning to words I cannot grasp
This writer's block is such an unwanted state
Maybe that is why my creativity is in a relapse
Sitting at this desk with a mind in dismay
Wishing I had ADD so I have something to blame
Words trying to be put to paper but are cast astray
I think my poems look like they are so lame
I want to get over this feeling god damn it
Wait look, it seems like I wrote a sonnet