Infatuation induced insomnia
Thinking about my hand and yours
Singing about holding hands
Dreaming of holding hands
reaching out in the dark
Latch like vices
Caught in the spaces
Between our bodies
Eager to embrace
All the experience and love
damaged nerve can offer
Words dance around old heart break
Like tribal dances around fire
Embers burn the hair off sorry knuckles
for anyone handling flame
For the breath that traps the words in the corners of your lips
Pray, let me prevail
Past the scrutiny in heaven
Breathing hurts, like I forgot how
Being hurts, like I forgot how
Healing hurts, like I forgot how
For I was dead
Before you kissed me
Even if I eat
Converse, breathe, feel
I remain in that
Bringing us together
I sit alone in a sterile, plush room.
It happened before
Your soft hands weren’t strong enough
But the trees grew in through the window
Life came back into the walls of that institution
The floor turned into one substantial planter
Of mud, sand, and stone
In the winter there was a storm to weather
But what made it count
Was that I had someone at my side
To survive for
Now the colors fade into each other
The air is stale, stagnant
Every purple, pink, and violet
Turns a light shade of blue
Below is a writing exercise about oxymorons in language. I ended up noting more oxymorons in society and public education than anything.
The player, lonely in a crowd of women.
The oxymoron of Public Education
Empower the public, with a healthy dosage of brain washing.
Help them improve society, just make sure there is no independent thought.
The teacher teaches, so the students are tricked into thinking that they’ve learned.
It’s illegal to mesh state and church, and yet we pledge our allegiance to God single day.
They want to avoid teen pregnancy, so they preach abstinence, hoping that we’ll know the off beaten trail with closed eyes.
They speak of opportunities, and bettering yourself,
but the children marked as unworthy are training by cleaning up our lunches.
Nothing induces self worth like public education.
Trying to advance society,
relieve the world of its ignorance
by teaching the point of view of the plantation owners History.
They try to produce different results, by sticking to the centuries old system.
Painfully honest seems to be something in itself.
Or maybe the truth will set you free. Both seem to be oxymorons.
He spends hours memorizing the facts that will be forgotten by the end of next week.
He wants to learn how to write, so he goes to the lectures.
Going to biology, and removing the reasons
the evidence is relative to the world around you.
I’ve lost the point to this exercise
I want to become a poet
So I can write one good one
On paper better than the poem itself
Show the girls with the glazed look
And the slack jaw
And have sex for the rest of my life
I want to write one good poem
And when the critics and scholars
They’ll have to choke past a wadded piece
Of jagged literature first
To show my family
What a PHD in words and letters can do.
I want one good poem.
I’m told I have an appointment
To meet with the head of creative writing.
The only person who’s wasted more of their time
On fallen dreams
Out of the kids wafer cone
And melting on the street
Until their parents buy a much better
Isn’t that beautiful
All that a degree in words can make
All that a pretty sentence can change
Hundreds of thousands of dollars
For teaching me how many times a pig can be stuck
And still be happily running back
To the trough.
Thank you for showing me
How everyone of us that drowns
Is just another drop in the sea
What makes me strong
What makes me pass through surface tension
To something better than?
To rise into the clouds
And walk on air?
But it is far too cold
And the ceilings frozen
And still I drown.
I could never crack the ceiling
While I’m feeding off the ocean floor.