Dirty Napkin Poetry

Inspiration can strike at any moment, sometimes you have to write on whatever you have closest to you.

[dirtynapkinpoet]

Feeling

It feels so good to feel

What a joy to experience

Articulated through the sensations that breathe me in and out

The currents of emotion stripe my vision

While the chords of the chorus tap at the window in my mind

Molded and bent, thoughts color my sight

Inducted into a society of a fantastical nature

The art of being is just a feeling

In the repition of unprediction,

I listen to the puzzle and let loose

A bloom, a boon, a feeling

Wow

[dirtynapkinpoet]

Direction

Walk through trees without

Direction, feathers falling;

My breath is the breeze.

[dirtynapkinpoet]

Impostor Syndrome

It's easy to forget, with the state of my mind.

It’s easy to forget, with the state of the world.

I look back and feel so distant from who I was.

Who wrote this story?

Who sang this song?

Who took this photo that I hang on my wall?

An impostor. 

He isn’t me.

An impostor,

Sharing my memories.

Watching and reading and listening along.

It all seems so familiar.

Is it me?

[dirtynapkinpoet]

My kind of love

When it comes to love, I never had a perfect example of what to strive for. Sure, my parents always loved each other but their passion was never something I witnessed. In movies and TV, the passion was beautiful, I thought perhaps this is what love could be only to have the illusion shattered by the discovery of the actors behind these fake emotions. Where then, would a boy turn? His friends? Well other boys think girls are gross and when they discover porn all they can think about is the physical intimacy. Perhaps his friends when they are older, more mature? Much to my dismay, boys still chose to hide their emotional desires, they talked only about physical things. The girls, they must be the ones to share the secrets of emotional satisfaction? Not in my experience, they used the emotional aspects to put on a theatre production in the hopes that the hormones driving their bodies at the time would lead them to the most popular guy in school. Instead, this boy found other vices that opened up new questions: why are we here? How do we exist? What is the purpose of all of this? Those vices are dangerous, life threatening even, but the boy didn’t care. Afterall, no one shared his desires to be loved fully, inside and out.  Those vices helped him wipe away the memories that plagued him of failed attempts at understanding, attempts to find others like him. Those attempts that led to a loss of control, of being forced into submission on more than one occasion. Yes, the vices could certainly take those thoughts and erase them with a pencil through his nose, his lungs, anything to expand his mind to an extent that running from those memories would be easier. More room to run. While toying with these vices, he though I’ve found it, my reason for existence, this desire for emotion. But those thoughts had little merit. For the same visions that answered his prayers also brought with them demons, from which he could not run. For these demons filled every crack and crevice in his brain. One day, he made a mistake, he let his vices call the shots. Only this time, he couldn’t handle the vices and they wrapped their tendrils around this confused little boys neck and squeezed as tight as they could until his vision went black, much like the day he was born; betrayed by the very rope that gave him life. . That boy took steps toward the man I am today after that fateful event. He recognized the vices for what they were and decided to remove all vices he had toyed with.  This had removed all questions from the boy’s mind, he fretted not the desires in his heart and instead focused on being the best boy he could be. This worked for a time, he thought he may never have the passion that he craved from others and instead, took it upon himself to throw that passion at anything that interested him, leaving the passion of others behind. Always moving, always learning, always dreaming, always changing. Before I knew it, that boy was me. He had found himself longing for someone like him and placed the love for himself hidden away in others he admired. Was this it? The love I so craved, the passion for intimacy and emotion now used as a tool to help others? No. For not everyone can be helped. My ideas were noble, but they left a void, a vacuum that troubled souls felt drawn to. They relied on me, I helped, but only for as long as they needed. I was a lesson to everyone, teaching them what I could until someone else needed me. Then I’d leave, leaving them with answers to questions they had not asked, not out loud. . This went on longer than it should have, and I made plenty of mistakes along the way. But one day, I snapped. The universe had dealt me a role that worked until it didn’t, and I found those same questions boiling in my mind yet again. That’s when I met him, another boy. Like me, he sought passion for life, passion for adventure, I shared with him my story and he didn’t even flinch. All my mistakes, once unforgivable in my own eyes, suddenly fell away. A lifetime of regret lost to the seas of his delicate words. It was a journey for me to fully accept his world, for sins are not so easily forgiven. But he shone like the sun, he held my hand and never once squeezed too tight or needed my help. The quest for passion was suddenly at an end, I had found someone like me. The most beautifully twisted spin on a story I hadn’t realized I was writing. Are we exactly the same? No. Do our ideas of passion line up in every way? No. But I love him, he loves me, and I am finally happy.

[dirtynapkinpoet]

Music

I let the sounds wrap themselves around my ears as I sway in the wind.  The clicks of a keyboard pour my emotions to the world. My heart keeping pace with the beat of the melody. Joy sings to me and I find myself losing control. I spin, faster and faster as I let it take over. I’ve always fought for control of the blood in my veins. To surrender with this new experience sets my soul free. Listen, feel, speak, sing.

[dirtynapkinpoet]

The Storm

Leaves dance in the wind in elaborate displays of nature’s fury, yet still the small blackbirds and squirrels still play and search for food.

Among the chaos, a man sits and stares, jealous of these creatures who had no fear of the howling winds, nor the crack of thunder as lightning struck the sky.

Oh, to be fearless in the face of adversity, such bravery is saved for the innocent, for the heroes whose names will be hung in museums.

Not for me, the man who finds blackbirds and squirrels inspiring, the man who slams on his brakes to let the butterflies pass over the hood of his car. The man whose indecisiveness has led to so much loss that he fears he will never gain back.

The storm soon passes, gone with the wind. Leaving the man staring at a black mirror in which his reflection seems distorted.

The clouds stay, guarding this man from the sunlight that would illuminate his features and flaws without discrimination. Instead, the green of the leaves of the trees glow in the dim light. Their glow casts no shadows.

[dirtynapkinpoet]

Branches

Lets take a walk through the forest, And forget our troubles. 

I can feel them here with us, You can hear their breath. 

I found myself among the rest, Distanced but tall. 

Branches stretched until breaking, Reaching for those who fall. 

Wind caresses our leaves, A flurry of black caught in the breeze. 

Denying us of our light, Which we desperately need. 

But we are rooted, Only growing slowly. 

The injustice I won't allow, The divine overflows me. 

For my family, I tear away from the old. 

For our world, Wind furiously blows. 

Feathers slip from the sky, Blanketing our hope. 

Destroyers caught in my sight, Grins of the tormented. 

Hope walks by my side, Power without explanation. 

Don't shut your eyes. Who will save the blind?

 Victory and failure embrace. Reality we now face. 

Return home, only love in this new place.

[dirtynapkinpoet]

Fortune

Rolling the bones, making the future a game. 

Reading the lines, picturing a way.

A draw of the cards, painted underground.

Dripping in the moonlight, eyes lost, not found.

The smoke of your breath can hide the truth, the paint on your hands covers your stains.

Tea leaves and coffee cups, turning like clocks. 

Your cover is unfinished, but you trip on the fox.

Too slow to catch up, the coyote dances on.

Your own divination leaves you a small shaking faun.

[dirtynapkinpoet]

Medium

Pen and paper, its all the same.

A conveying of emotions through different means.

Slurred words, what do you hear?

[dirtynapkinpoet]

Your body

Your, a word that shows ownership. Do you own your body? Some might say yes, well let me ask this. Do you own your child? Do you own your mother? Imagine forcing on to your mother everything that you force upon your body. With each breath of smoke you fill her lungs, she coughs. You take another drag. Take another drink. She's confused, nothing makes sense, she can't walk or see straight. You stuff your face, her stomach aches and swells. You force yourself to vomit, her throat is raw, burned from the stomach acid. You cut your wrists, she bleeds out on your floor. You do not own your body, your body is here to help you learn all that you can. Just a thought.

[dirtynapkinpoet]

There are moments when I just get lost in your presence. Your silhouette is an eclipse of light. I need you, my desires scream into my soul and use my veins like strings. A puppet for you.

[creationclouds]

I’m letting go of the bottle, But it won’t let go of me. My neck is caught, I cry as it bleeds. Ears ringing, thoughts drifting. Home. Trapped or clinging to the stake? I make another mistake. I can’t win, I’m at a loss. My heart in the right place. I shake and think of all my pain. I’m speeding recklessly through the rain. Crash. But wait. I realise. I do not want to die, I may hurt, and hurt, hurt and hurt me. But that’s not all that I perceive. Godly, yet I am afraid. I scream at myself, burning a page in my rage. A breath. I’m okay.