#thisispoetryproject

[thisispoetryproject]

Transmutation

And they painted together

On the canvas of forever

In their flesh waiting rooms

The moments flew past like hours

And she could not hear his voice

Above the clutter of noises that filled the air

Until their love became it

[thisispoetryproject]

Drip

The first time our eyes met you scraped my heart and I let it bleed like wind sprinting through the trees. Your eyes were red and my body black and blue, cloaked in your shallow dress your words and influence grew into obedience. The strength of a thousand angels could not force your torso passed your hips and you have filled me so that my dry soul drips. Love not the creation of man or woman, for it is the flesh that oozes blood when worked to exhaustion; it is the heart with which we feel the most pain that finds light. Humans are nothing more or less than the molds we cast around ourselves and the chains we place on our ankles to prevent ourselves from walking too fast. Fear is the black of all bruises and blue is the hesitance in our guts. The butterflies must be tamed and treated like lions within a circus show. It is more often the softest blankets that cause the most suffering. I prefer to sleep without comfort because a new day rises and I refuse to miss a single moment.

[thisispoetryproject]

Gold

It is during the moments I am awake 

That I dream the most. 

These memories of the future

Are my stories untold. 

Through the eyes of the Holy

And the body I was given, 

I’ve found the treasure chest of the future;

These eyes are my prison.

[thisispoetryproject]

How Little We Remember, How Quick We Forget

The knot in my throat boiled like a pot filled with oil ready to burst into flames, raging across the kitchen stove top and burning everything it touched, staining the dark brown wood floors that filled this quiet home with the mark of forgetfulness. I was sitting on my couch, my feet deeply tucked into a white carpet that felt more like quicksand than fabric pieced together in some hive across the world where the bees toiled only to survive while the Queen lay in her pit of wealth, fat from feeling content and guilt-free knowing she had provided work where work was scarce. With the vocal force of what felt like all the creatures scattered throughout the universe speaking as one immense, all powerful being, the words were forced from the bottom of my gut through my vocal cords and chocked up from the pit of my throat, “We have given you everything and you do not thank Us. You do not cherish your blessings. You do not live as though you should-- in constant gratitude and unwavering belief.” These words were not so much spoken by me or through me-- they were spoken to me. Never before have I felt so out of control, totally stunned at the possession of my consciousness. Never before have I sat up straighter. Never before has such truth left the confines of my lips.

I am often blinded by the absence of my desires and forget to remember those blessings which I have not asked for and yet still receive. How little we remember, how quick we forget. 

[thisispoetryproject]

Moth3r

Twice you pressed my head to your chest and said, “You can do anything, son.” Each morning I woke up feeling the weight of failure and depression; I hated the boy who stood so short in the mirror. I despised the curly hair and fat cheeks that stared at me each time I walked passed a mirror or one of those long windows bordering a sidewalk. Once, while crossing the street, I thought of taking on a truck face forward. It was the only form of courage I knew. I wanted to write a letter explaining my actions: life is cold; the demons won’t stop visiting my dreams; I can bare the darkness possessing me no longer; the voices I hear tell me I am useless, that I will amount to nothing; I am sorry for hurting you and anyone who loves me, if anyone actually does. Once, I slid a knife across my wrist. Today I am thankful that our poverty prevented it from being sharp. Twice you told me that you loved me as I was before the doctors locked me behind bars in a mental institution where those same demons watched me sleep from the shadows on the ceiling. I can still see the writing on the inside of the drawers. I still remember that black boy who stared out of the window with delusion, searching for “Jacob” or whatever the name was. If I think hard enough I can feel the tightness of the bathrooms, only a little larger than those on an airplane. And when I close my eyes I can recount the moment the facility announced that the white boy who wore his pants too low had a razor in that same bathroom. We all told him not to do it. Today I am thankful he didn’t, on that day at least. I didn’t understand why he punched the walls until his knuckles bled until I did it myself. The more we bleed, the less pain we feel, for pain from the heart is heavier than a scab or a scar. Twice you told me that I can do anything. Twice you told me that I can be anyone. Twice you told me that I was smart enough to conquer the world. Twice you told me that you believed every word I ever uttered, no matter the size of the goal. Twice you told me to dream. Twice you hugged me as I washed my tears onto your shirt. And for all that, mom, once I will conquer the world and place it in your palm.

[thisispoetryproject]

The Night’s Flower

It is on these dark nights that I feel enough freedom to breathe. I am alone with only my soul, the wind, and the trees. The air, brisk and cold to my lungs, offers me flashlights in this dark tunnel where I am a sojourner. It was once said that man finds himself in the reflection of the moon; in the inviting spirals of our milky way galaxy; in the stars, dead or alive. But I have found not a single iota of the “self” I am so desperately looking for-- according to society. I have stared face-to-face with more stars than I can count and have met with phantoms on more occasions than I dare write, but no “self.” 

In these moments when I am truly alone I have discovered the secret she had hidden with the precaution of a mother hawk hiding her eggs from the predators who wish not to see them live. She is the Night, Protector of the Sleeping Giants we each experience as mere dreams. Crawling like an infant I approached her to ask of her duties, inquire about her spells, learn from her silent, still body. Each day her magic wears thin although her remnants linger in the sky ever so lightly. Her Giants are now all, but feather-like memories of a distant, fearful, or adventurous past. Their bodies must begin the act of destroying the souls which they posses only in slumber. She does not mourn, for she has witnessed this phenomena for millennia, tracking only the few who did not deny her petals. 

“The Night Flower. Yes, that is what she held to her breast with both hands, clenching her jaw as she peered through the window at her children. The Night Flower,” I thought. Purple like her eyes with the faint glow of hope dimmed by despair. The petals clung to the extraterrestrial stem like my mother’s magnets to our fridge-- pointless, yet nice to keep in the event the need arises to call Pizza Hut or the local plumber. In that moment I longed for her attention, wishing anything upon myself except her bitterness. “Please,” I whispered as though attempting to speak with the only oxygen left in my fragile body, “grant me my destiny.” 

And so it was.

[thisispoetryproject]

Liars & Gurus

I found my soul in the mountains on a dark October night. Two years ago, when I first discovered the stars, the moon shone down so bright on the hood of my car as if to forcefully remove the dead skin that covered my scars. The exposure damaged me like sitting in the hospital’s x-ray room naked. But it also healed the wounds I hid for millenniums. Time passes slowly under the knife. I will never forget the feeling of the cold, brisk wind as it kissed my face. Nothing has ever made me feel so small and insignificant; nothing has made me feel so alive. Under those shooting stars is where I made my commitment to live; there are too many bodies and brains and not enough souls. I arbitrarily wished on over twenty, not fully believing in the power of nature. Each of those wishes has come true in its own right, I am positive, although I can not say how. Life works in mysterious ways and anyone who claims to know its eternal truths is a liar or a guru. I am neither. What I know is only what my soul explained during the minutes we met in those mountains: Life works in mysterious ways and anyone who claims to know its eternal truths is a liar or a guru.

[thisispoetryproject]

Untitled, For Now

These are not poems, they’re spells.

I am not a poet.

I am no magician.

I simply write about my sins

Hoping that one day they will be forgiven.