We are the children of memory, which seems so unreal now, when childhood a distant dream. It’s hard to imagine you once were young, it’s hard to grasp all the ways your subconscious has endured. If you dig back hard enough, you can feel a child’s thought and the faint remnants with which it bore itself so deeply into you. You remember seeing the world through those eyes, knowing now you will never be a child again. That experience has shaped you, those eyes still your lenses,
The poet is a procrastinator. He goes out of his way to find other things to put his mind to. The poet knows everything else he does isn’t pursuant to his ultimate goal, which isn’t really his anyway. It’s just something he’s found himself stuck to, like a freak second head you’re forced to converse with and for which you then become too attached to destroy.
The poet makes every effort to deceive himself, anything to convince his ego that it’s okay
to think about something
"Pontificatorily (stage 1)" how do you say to say? how doesn’t one forget to rhyme? i’m not wearing any clothes today, am i? it wouldn’t matter if you were. so goes another month of tuesdays gone so goes another sigh exhaled— how do you blink your eyes your eyes? how do you close your mouth to chew? if i had a right to speak my thoughts i’d be a richer man than you. so what if fingers grinded to the bone? so what if all good separatists die? i don’t see you exasperating any o
“dandelion parapet” whimsical shoes remorseful they don’t walk more a cup worth of soup making love on a cool spring morning to a tin can garnering ideas cultivates a sense of existing everything boils down but still nothing gets defined the challenge has always been coming to terms with that #poem #poetry #dandelion #parapet #newromantacism
how colorless it seems to be forgotten whereas milk laments all rational in daydream breakfast cereal profanity becomes mundane singers scratch chalkboards to experience the unbearable everyone is too worried radical ideas cast out the world so pawning off insanity seems the most logical source of income and prosperity the hope of so many endless dreamers but still this gravity feels no exhaustion because the souls of all the shoes in the world couldn’t surmount its reliabili
i dream once more of pasts gone by through life to limb of futures to come the soft wind and a clearer mind make one last complete thought slip into the open night and december sounds more than a lifetime away #december #poem #poetry #romantic #romanticism
“periscope vernacular catastrophe daffodil” people are just sounding boards for other people’s emotions my cell phone knows me better than i know myself nine:forty-seven on a thursday evening i can’t describe something i don’t know exists. people who look like they’re angry and restless probably are it was nice being there again but i think i enjoyed it better the first time everything tastes like meatball sandwiches now #periscope #vernacular #catastrophe #daffodil #poem #po
To what end
will my existence find?
To what extent
and on what grounds
will my existence thrive?
These questions have
life has no meaning,
purpose, or resolution.
It is swept away
by inconsequence just as
bubbles rising to water’s
surface burst. There
is no knowing
that ever they had been
nor any kind of writing down
that would provide
perspective. #poem #poetry #bubbles #existence #existential #hopelesslyhopeful
the thrill of hope is lost somehow in the petals of a gilded rose that blooms away from that what it once was it is a two-leaf flower now that grows and grows one petal for my life the other for my love #poem #poetry #hope #roseo #love #flowers
The poet is a patient man. He has to be. You see, the poet spends all his days trying to pick the perfect thing to say and, moreover, trying to put it the perfect way; yet, even after he’s long gone and dead, the poet tarries on. He waits many generations, scores if not hundreds of years, until what he says and how he says it burn into the soul of man. Only then will he have achieved his fulfillment, but for it, he will have had to have been patient, which is why the poet is