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my depression comes in like high tide.

/poetry

#rough draft poetry #poetry on tumblr #poetry i guess #original poetry #poetry #poet #poet on tumblr #poems on tumblr #original poem

i care less and less

For things not tethered to the tangible

would like to do away with

Electronic

Instantaneous

Automated

And the like

Enjoying the accidental drip of candle wax on my unexpecting hand

The music of the forest in the morning

Sunrise from my balcony

Burnt pancakes on my tongue - subsequent pride and determination

No more screen dwelling

Do away with my tersely curated technology

I did not survive to die behind glass screens

I did not fight for a half life

I’m taking it all, damn it.

I’m taking my straw and sucking dry every last drop of verity.

Then, with my belly full and my tongue still whet for more living

Then God can sweep my life-drenched soul

To his next beginning.

#rough draft poetry #personal

Impermanence

Early spring,

the ice protecting the lake,

has given away,

knowing the lake was ready.

crisscrossing currents, lazy figure eights,

chunks of white, miniature glaciers,

drift by,

ragged leaves, auburn twigs,

float by,

seafoam bubbles, silver fish,

pass by.

I sit on the edge of the dock,

crossing legs, twisting curls,

greeting each traveler,

admiring how the glaciers are clouds,

reflected on the blue gray.

I wish I could hold onto the peace in this moment,

the eye of my storm,

Buddhists believe desire is the root of all suffering,

I desire to plunge my hand into the cold water,

and cradle a glacier under my jacket,

keeping it close to remind me,

there is always more underneath the surface.

but I love each glacier too much,

to watch it melt in my hands,

I love each constellation of bubbles too much,

to let them burst at my touch.

As I focus on the currents, mesmerized,

I begin to see,

the current is not always drifting east,

sometimes I am drifting west,

floating, passing by,

while the waters remain still.

the glaciers would have me study them forever,

but we are simply doing what we are each meant to do,

and following our currents.

#rough draft poetry #poetry #poets on tumblr

good morning kiss (rough) (2.22.16)

I watched him sleep.

His eyes under his lids flickering so rapidly back and forth, as if searching for something.

I listened to his breathing, like waves crashing onto the shore,

I watched his chest move so evenly, up and down, mimicking the rock of the tide.

I slowly run my hands through his hair; so polished and pure, like that of a raven’s feathers. I felt the individual hairs tickle my skin and wake up my senses.

Moving gently from his head, down his cheek, I ran over the tiny bumps and crevices of his face.

As I lay on my side, his face to my face, my face to his face,

I realized for the infinitely amount of times, that I loved him more than I could have ever known.

Pressing my cheek on to his, I put my breath close to his ear and whispered,

“Good morning.”

#rough #rough draft #rough draft poetry #personal rant #personal #loving him #love #good morning #mornings

Wrote a quick series of words while I was staring at the sky waiting for the eclipse:

As I lay on my back The sky overhead Is perfectly bisected One side a blanket of fog The other side a blanket of stars A pitch black canvas drawn up and brought to life with a cosmic stippling of light. Both halves impenetrable In their own way Both halves unyielding Both lightyears away, Relatively.

#rough draft poetry #unfinished poetry #blood moon #find a way out

In Loving memory of George Stone

He was captive to his L.E.D Screen,

More so on weekend nights

When his hormones broke the bars around his mind

But he tried each night to find

That special place within himself that prevented his flights

That made him scream

Instead of go so low.

But he lived out at sea:

In North Carolina

Where there were no “faggots” visible enough to console him

there was just one route to get away to them

go on ASLina

the place where you could be free

ASLina used to be a chat website

But people are horny bastards

So its soul changed and became rouge

Giving many people bruises

The next day, because they broke loose too hard

ASLina was now the place where he tried to be himself…

When he could not say, to any real person,

The vigor in his heart around the men of his fantasies

He went there instead

Then the next morning while his palms were red

He at least had a release, a taboo fancy;

Supplies for his desertion.

He was at sea

Battling the waves

Without a compass

At an impass

Unsure whether the way he behaved

Was creating something he wanted to be

It first started with the text chat,

Then came the voices,

Then came the pictures of him naked

Then came the fleeing fools that faked it

To get more poses

Another feather to add to their hat!

Shame.

Was a very powerful thing for a man his age.

It stabbed his brain

Every night and drove him insane.

He worried, and released and worried and released, and lied in a fit or rage

The monster he disdained was what he knew he became.

There was no life

Just fear

And anguish

And sorrow

And embarrassment

And a highway

A beautiful highway

The solution to his problems

So, he got up one morning with his red palms

With the postmodern pslams of the collapse of respect and dignity

His own sexuality a sign of his doom

And the cars went

VOOM… VOOM…

Fast!

It would be painless.

But he stopped.

He looked out the window.

He cried about how he had come to this

And realized

It was the way he reacted that was a miss

That he wasn’t bound to the closet, which his computer was still in, but rather to himself

He got up and realized that the sink was still on.

And that was how George stone died

He ceased to be,

Left the world

Stopped typing,

And turned the water off.

#rough draft poetry #thepunctuation doesn't work #based on a real life circimstances from a couple of people I know #it sucks to not be heterosexual in a conservative area #adam smith was the other name I was thinking of but then the whole point of the poem would be too bovious #oops #story #yolo

I find it makes the misery

Much easier to bear

If I admit to myself

And you, my dear, if you care

The true nature of my pain.

I find, my dear,

I do not miss you

But, instead,

Well, you'll see.

I do not miss your child-like laugh,

Your doe-brown eyes,

Our night-long talks;

The twists of brown-red-golden hair

You said you hated

Daddy's gift, and then he left.

I do not miss the way one word

From your thin lips

Could settle down my frantic demons;

Or the way just seeing you

Was the Sun cut through the storm;

I do not miss your little breasts,

Your thin, white thighs,

That graceful curve of collar bone,

Your long, thin fingers,

Narrow waist,

And the soft wet space beneath;

And how you said you wanted me,

And how that space was wet for me,

At least for just a little bit.

But now, you see, here we are

Here it is,

Here I am,

And so's the truth, in it's true nature:

Those agencies wanted you to model,

So many hoped to be with you,

Shy as you were, the invitations

To all the bestest parties

Always came.

The time you spent delighting me

Could have been spent

Should have been spent

Delighting crowds,

And yet you stayed in Friday nights

And tried to make me smile.

I find it makes the suffering