The First Thunder of JuneI could tell from the way
the truck barreled down the road,
how its motor revved and caught on the air,
that a storm was coming.
The dog shook,
his twelve-year hips aching with the effort
of tucking his tail between his legs
in the hope that such displays of submission
would appease the weather.
They did not.
The sky turned feral and spat on the house.
While my old-hound panted
with his panic-wide eyes,
mine filled with awe and lightning.
Lift MeDon't cry, dear beautiful soul;
of course you don't listen.
Lost in the crashing waves in the midnight sky,
as if out of your own body,
you suffer so.
What made you so in pain years ago is still here;
you feel like all your promises you made
You're even so close to asking
"what did I do to deserve this?"
Oh, the heartache of life that's dreams now just run
down your face like tears,
for it just seems as though there's a darkness within
whose goal is to assure no dream comes true;
the worst part is that such a darkness
makes you laugh in the process.
Cliched fists, with a headache, and sweat all over are your companions.
You stand before reality that holds a mirror to see yourself and your life;
lamentation for a person who barely ever reached out;
lamentation for a life barely went anywhere.
You just don't know what to do; at this point you
don't even want to do anything anyway,
for every part of the mirror shows you
just how badly you're losing the battle
I Drink to the ShatteredHere's to the half-hopes,
who lie shallow in their graves,
comatose, their pulse forgotten.
And here's to unrequited love;
impossible thoughts between heartbeats,
the burning pang that follows.
A nod to the empty dreams,
their ankles hobbled, improperly set.
They walk nowhere.
Silence to commemorate the lost cause;
That never leave the womb.
To the broken and sleepless,
inane and insane,
the clueless, the lonely,
the outcasts forgotten,
to you I raise my glass.
Unlit CandlesYour spirit curled with the smoke
towards the ceiling of the funeral home.
This image brought me closure,
and relief that your soul could escape
from the open casket.
When you turned ashes to ashes,
I imagine the release was the same
as when our voices caught
on the hymn's last note
and we all blew out our candles.
Come BackBefore my chipped wings disintegrate, they do sob.
The path that I thought led to a light
has brought me back to this barren desert.
My dreams of learning, growing and staying strong
are fading away.
Everything I'm made of screams;
I say I don't hear it, but I know I do
because of that place inside that always speaks the truth;
where not even a lie you've forced yourself to believe
a million times can hide.
The black, empty, cold night;
I could write thousands of fascinating words about it,
and somehow it describes me in a way I'm not entirely sure how,
but I stare at it; somehow I see my fate: dark but still beautiful
in a deep and, again, fascinating way.
Though I barely believe it, I am deeper and more complex than I think;
I just need that strength, which is not yet something I'm rich in.
The light of hope and possibility shines only on the strong
Closed eyes, while thinking,
trying to find something that is....true I guess,
but it doesn't come.
I now reach out to grab one of the m
HelplessNothing in front,
and nothing good in the back.
Only a fool says life is fair.
I know the value of having hope,
but that doesn't do much right now.
My mind feels like it's drowning,
and my eyes want to stream out tears.
Still, I want to be strong enough to
not say "Why Me?"—
though I feel it on the tip of my tongue—
and lose myself in misery,
but the pain hurts
with the haunting, terrorizing memories
of the past it brings,
and it's as if there's nothing I can do to banish them.
Misery is not my friend,
but it sure comes around often.
The world is spinning way too fast;
I'm dizzy and frazzled.
But how do you fight the truth?
I feel what my mind is telling me is true,
but I'm not sure.
I know most of the negative things we think
are never really true, but even if it isn't
there's very little that would change.
Someone pulled a switch on my mind
and then broke the "off" lever;
it's stuck on depressed.
we all wake up on the wrong side of the bed at
CountermelodiesWhen it begins,
it’s like discovering
the decadence of music.
Perhaps your breath hitches
on the cello carrying the countermelody.
It reminds you of their voice,
as they warm spices in the kitchen
and you’d wrap your arms around them from behind,
like the horns come up from under
and saturate the harmony.
Their body feels familiar in all different ways,
a second listen granted to a beautiful movement.
You can’t tell them you repeat
the first song they showed you
because it smells like their skin
If you listen close enough.
And they can’t tell you that
they try to harmonize with your
speaking voice on the phone
because you sound closer that way.
They’ve turned your solos to concertos.
You feel their lips on your cheek and
your hair stands on end like you’ve
heard God on their lips;
their touch is prophetic.
You hold them close and hope they’ll linger
like a violin on a high note,
and you can’t bear to open your eyes
and dismiss the beauty