Saturday, April 23, 2011

April 2011 Poetry - Week 3

Those That Think - April 19th
I used a word today because
that was exactly what I meant.
And too soon, too often
do we think and not speak.
We say the same things, repeat--repeat;
And say the same things; say the same.
Oh, it humorous. That's the honey.
But now take this--[corrective.]
Teaching textbooks in size twelve;
Problems hidden under drops of ink.
How does that work? It's an Easter egg hunt.
And we need a translator to decipher it.
Like hieroglyphics--and we are blind.
We need other people to hand us our minds.
If we lose or hearing, oh God, we need help.
That's not how things happen.
Do I exaggerate? it's just a word.
One little word, may it harm the world?
That's the point--it harms, then helps,
and happens to the heart of those that think.


Struggling - April 20th
Exhausting all our resources
and trying to stay on track,
Trembling over fault lines,
we fail to make a comeback.


And Dead. - April 22nd
I'm faced with tortured reality;
Broken hearts, and now I see
your tragic flaw: mortality.

And when you're dead, you can't be seen;
An ambulance, a pulse--routine;
and you--my friend--just seventeen.

Sorrows posted via internet--
RIPs and I'll never forget;
Fading in your silhouette.

But dead. You're dead. Such a thought
that goes beyond what we've been taught
and surpasses our records of most distraught.

One last date; all dressed well
and crying, walking; we fight like hell
to work ourselves up to that final farewell.

But when our mouths open, we choke; we fail
to say goodbye. Instead, exhale.
And try to move no avail.

Now, we fight for every detail.


Maturity - April 23rd
This, I cannot understand. And might you?
I promise I'll lend you my ear, for just the time.
Of course, it might not suit you, if you're used
to feeling old, or near, or ugly, or gold,
or two times smaller than those bought, then sold.
I'd hate to do this to you, darling; love;
and you might travel this way, all the way out,
and yawn, droopy-eyed, but insist
that it's no trouble. It's on the way.
My point is, I had one goal: colors. I wanted them.
But the spazzing, the unidentified, made it go
differently. You'll see smokes and cigarettes
and ducks on your way through the door.
The scene may change and you fall subject to music.
Blasting through your eardrums, and what is wrong?
You wouldn't tell me, and that's all very good,
but it still lingers between us both. A flood.
Water might cool the smoke, the steam,
but drown both of us in the meantime;
in the springtime.
And show me the leash; the collar; the shock
of electricity that keeps me in. Holds me in.
And I bite.
Oh, god, my ear is gone. Have you found?
And walking, walking, down the detour.