After Death

A thousand years from now we will not be us,
We will be another entity on a plane
beyond the comprehensibility
of these simple minds.
We will be drifters; floating between
lines of angels and hellfire,
searching for what we had in the living.
Our flesh had been feeding worms
while we waited in the dark
for our roles to be assigned,
And a thousand years from now
We will grow sick of being still,
look for the movement
that claimed our attention
prior to this new normal.

Life Before Death

I ask the crow to sing a happy tune
and flash it’s pretty feathers;
To fly in the aroma of the flowers
watered and tended to by us.
I ask the crow to sing a joyful song
despite it’s cries;
To disregard his image of sorrow,
and instead rejoice in the garden
we rise in the middle of the desert.
I tell the crow of life’s limits
and ask him to celebrate with us
the promise of tomorrow
in the color
of all we’ve grown tall;
To relax
in a beauty too great to overlook.


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Sometimes

Sometimes I want to search for an end
before the end finds me. I want to take
a magnifying glass and find the ink
smudges in the word searches to find
flaws in  something more calculated
than me. Sometimes I want to get to
the punctuation before the sentence is
finished and let the words become a
mystery on paper instead of asking
where my own voice disappeared to.
Sometimes I want to find an answer
before the questions begin to look for
me.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

If You Died Tomorrow

If you died tomorrow,
I would not be sad,
at first,
I would be angry.

I would become the selfish one,
painting you the bad guy still-life,
making my newfound pain your fault.

I would ask questions like
“how could you do this to me?”
and “Why didn’t you think of the person you’d hurt?”
before considering how long you suffered,
Or how you thought you were doing favors,
removing the glitch in this system,
erasing a mistake from our lives.
Or how depression planted seeds in your mind,
The suicidal thoughts grew forests in your head,
and all you wanted to do
was burn away the overgrowth.

I would not consider your agony,
I would be outraged
with the way you threw away all that we created
In just a few swallows,
Or swipe of a blade.

If you died tomorrow,
I would be angry
at myself.
For not being there
when you needed a virus protector,
Or a shovel to dig up the roots,
and remove the cause of this tragedy.
I would blame myself
For you no longer having a reason
to stay.

And if you were to die tomorrow,
after all this,
I would show the others the way you made me feel,
and together we would anger those we cared about.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

Half-Dead Beauty

Death is not beautiful
when you’re actually dead
But barely living
in half-dead trees,
half-dried roses,
and deathly thin models
it’s often alluring.
How ironic that
fallen leaves,
broken thorns,
and ruined bodies
are considered beauty
but death is only pretty
if you’re barely living.

 

Fever Dreams

I want to follow you into the
depths of a shadowed unknown.
A place feared, many wish not
to visit such darkness. Blind
for so long, living in the light
of days scares me more than
walking hand-in-hand into
the conjectured oblivion. So,
let us chase the unseen in favor
of surviving all these fever dreams.

Basketball

I’m exhausted, tired of playing a game, back and forth down the court, playing defense against the demons.

Baskets award points in the form of good days and I’m only shooting free-throws.

Penalties on the days I have to shove my way past the offense, only to trip on the uneven pavement.

I’ve face-planted so many times, the one in the mirror is unrecognizable.

I just want the game to end, but I’m scared of what it means to forfeit.