Poetry

October 18, 2018

 

Zen

Greatly my muscles ache

Daily calloused

And craving more

I am heavily invested

In my survival

Rarely these hands

Find time

For the softness of writing

Not often

Can I pull my mind

From the routine

To tickle, to caress

Paper and pen

But...ahhh...

Are these pages not

A form of wood to flex upon

And this ink

Not a burden of liquid

I must carry?

 

 

Doubt

Please don’t

Spread your worry

All over me

It’s rife with paranoia

And misunderstanding

I am a man of muscle

Tried and true

I may not amount

To much in your book

Where every failure

Is par for the course

And every success

Is dumb luck

But yours is a book

Few feel is worth reading

No one will make a movie

Nor will anyone rewind scenes

To play their favorite

No one will quote

Lines that cause a smile

Mine might be tragic

But the best ones

Always are

 

 

In Search Of

A true poet lives within his vision

Then puts pen to paper

A legendary poet

Stokes within us a desire

To follow in their footsteps

Their words carry an ability

To make skid row

Sound like Paris

Their words carry us deeper

Inside ourselves In search of

An understanding

Of the world around us

And our place within it

Their words are like soil

For us to plant our ideas

Then watch as a flower grows

 

 

Run

Someone once said I do not care to live

This particular life

Pleading what horrible

Lottery in hell

They had won

All the possibilities

Within our planet

Should happen

And someone or something

Gave you this In hopes you

Could carry its weight

They had faith in you

To prove him...her...it...wrong

Ending it early

By your own will

We all know

What an insult that is

To live...to have...to hold

Life is a beautiful pain

A glorious burden

We must all bear to the best

Of our ability

No apostrophe Just a never looking back run on sentence someone impossible to forget

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