#tomwritesstuff

[thelobsterdiaries]

The Clock Ticks Evermore

Eastern suns await you

To soar, see, believe, be.

But they are anxious, as you should be

For the witching hour is close behind.

  Fulfillment comes in many forms;

Whether it be making millions, founding a charity,

Or simply watching the clouds roll by,

Do that which makes your heart swell with all the love and affection you deserve,

And radiate these feelings with any life that may grace you.

Lord knows we all need it.

  It is best to love everything invariably.

Love the bees, love the seas,

Love your mother, love your father,

And above all, love yourself, for you are deserving of good feelings.

  The end is near for everyone, is it not?

Rather than fret or wallow

Use this as a tool, as drive

To envelope your being in an aurora of ardency and peace.

  You and you alone possess the power to mold your life into the magnificent treasure it ought to be.

After all this, the night’s arrival might not seem so bad after all.

[thelobsterdiaries]

A Eulogy Yet

It's been said that everything in space is silent. Black holes, star deaths, all of it. They can't help being trapped in a void. Dogs can't tell us when they desperately need a vet. They endure, but love us indelibly. And autumn dies so gently, pouring itself over you as it withers away with naught but a sore whisper. Please, please, awaken.

[thelobsterdiaries]

Have heart and exalt,

For Spring is upon us.

     The swallows caress us with their tender, lilting song

And the swans come a-bounding in their regal, brazen throng.

Tulips embrace the Sun’s marigold rays;

Follow suit, and soon you’ll know

The joy of April days.

     Bid farewell to wintry gale, to frosty snow and ice.

Welcome grass, love the trees- why not love them twice?

Life, life all around us!

Dragonflies flit about the air.

Baleful fox pups prance about;

Awakens a young March hare.

     Hearken, all, and become one

With the mountains and lakes to adore.

Celebrate the carefree days

That nature has in store.

     Have heart and exalt,

For Spring is upon us!

[thelobsterdiaries]

I dreamt you loved me last night.

Not love love,

Just that we were us again.

It’s getting dark, and every song sounds like you.

I try to comfort myself in that the birds are still singing,

But they just sound like you too.

     Two years ago, there wasn’t a part of me that didn’t have you in it.

You planted seeds of yourself throughout my bones

and I in yours. The only difference is,

I died inside of you soon after the matter.

               But you flourished in me, and I fed you,

Often times against my will.

You grew into the tallest, most magnificent sunflowers.

Sometimes their roots almost collapsed my lungs;

And they’re painstakingly beautiful.

All they ever do is look down on me.

     You’re a parasite within me, always lingering.

I doubt you’ll ever leave.

It isn’t fair.

I love you.

[thelobsterdiaries]

Osculum Lunæ

How kind of the moon to keep me company

On nights such as this.

When I am no longer granted the privilege of your silken song,

I am grateful for its luminescence

That glimmers unto my shaking chest in earnest.

  And how ironic

That a ring of red should decide to surround the thoughtful moon this night

So faint in its presence

With my eyes to follow suit.

  The moon, so steadfast

In the chaos of clouds

Staying put to shine its brilliance

In the frost of their wake.

  How admirable that it should stand its ground

Even when veiled in twilight’s haze

a clearly losing battle

for the moon and it’s radiance.

  On nights like these

When friendship’s grace has bid me farewell

The moon is ever present to brush its lips

Upon my moistened cheeks;

Cheeks tinted blue by the night and its grievances.

[thelobsterdiaries]

If I had a brick for every burst of starshine

you planted in my bones

I could make a castle fortified with the loneliness

that only the crinkle in your eyes can bring.

            Titanic stallions shall parade the grounds evermore

ready to fight off the yearning derived

from these bloodied flowers called memories.

  But such valiance comes in small doses

when met with your laugh’s ring

that used to weave so fondly

into the ardence of fluttering spines.

  I am uncertain as to how long

this one-sided ball game will last.

Far too many moons have been spent

Trying to constellate the absence of fingers in my hair

and the empty rocking chair

into why, and how come.

Should you ever decide to throw the ball my way,

I hope that you would do so

with at least a hint of happy days.

But know that none shall stand as it once was

for this glacial soul has set sail to empty promise.