Searching for the Wasteland


I tire of this cliche cinema

This silver screen has tarnished

This manufactured tension

Is nothing but shadow puppets

Give me a moment of golden silence

Let me savor that sweet afternoon

Light

Where the sun melts

And touches me like velvet

I want your hand on my knee

As we drive

With the open window breeze

I need to find a sublime wasteland

In the dark

Where the word alone

Is a prayer

Mark me with purity

Color me with ash

Give me serenity

So I may touch my lips

And kiss

The sweet dawning of the stillness

That let’s me listen

To my voice

Over the din of this trite

And hollow

Lamenting of this world

No Title Necessary 


Ever since seven years old the words began to call

In an instant I felt them

And my pen was in their thrall

They showed me there was release

From the rat’s nest where I slept on dirty sheets

Back then it was a matter of survival

Every time I faded the words were my revival

And now years later I’m a hit man

With ink

And when my head hits that pillow I dream

There’s a devil on my shoulder saying

These words are weapons when you spit

And the angel on my shoulder

Says go ahead you’re killing it

I never put much stock in fortune or fame

I was never lost in the you know my name game

Because the words will call

Till I end up in the grave

They’ll outlive this body and this name

So call me what you will

But call my lines unforgettable 

I don’t need a title to know

I am intangible

Drilling into your mind till you can’t forget

I have worked every second to get this legit

So forget my face forget me entirely

These words are my god

They are my immortality 

Doomed Patterns


These doomed patterns

Viscous swirls

That rip and tear

Like a disease

Preached like gospel

Sung from a choir

Taught like lessons

From the admired

Scrawled like knowledge

On the screen before me

Calling like

A warning siren

Hungry

In it’s devotion

I wish sometimes that I had 

Never heard

And could never listen

But these doomed patterns

Speak my language

Silver tongued

So I trace the spirals

And descend

Taking each step

In an agonizing

Slowness

It is the last 

Show of my will

That I do not run

To the nowhere

That I seek 

Divine 

And peaceful

In these doomed patterns

Shelf Life


My oppression came on tip toe

Insidious in it’s insinuation

It came softly

Softly

Until I was gently placed in

It’s thrall

Molded into a believer

All too willing to yield

To sacrifice 

To lay to waste

Everything

Before I even knew 

I was sleeping

In shackles

I was nothing but a shadow

In my own dream

Where I was eclipsed

By a pleasant nothing

Then as I watched the distant

Feeling of… love?

Slip away

Then reality hit

As strong as my chains

My body shrieked

As my mind went up in flames

Unlike the somnolent

Way that I fell sick

I clawed these walls

Till my hands were slick

With blood and gore

And determination

I would die if I gave in

I would risk death for emancipation

There was something important

On the other side

I could feel it’s substance

See it with my blinded eyes

I tore apart this blissful cage

I tore myself apart in my rage

Till I was nothing but scars

And regret

I stood at the edge

As I once languished on a shelf

I felt the pain

And found myself

A Poetic Essay on The Essence of Art


Art is a living breathing

Writhing and moaning

Shouting and muttering

Beckoning life force

That draws you ever closer

To tell you

It’s endless secrets
There is art in the commonplace

Banal obscurity

There is hushed abstraction

Even in the rhythm of routine
The extraordinary can bore

The pretentious glory

Of overthinking

Can fall Insipid

If your heart is not in

The brush, the pen, the medium
But then there are those 

Spells

Captured so transiently

When the extraordinary

Explodes to.light up the sky

And fades leaving only 

traces behind

As you wish you could

Etch them on your skin
What is art?

A mask?

A drawing?

A poem?

Define it and your tongue

Will become tied

Because true artistry

Is not

In the eye of the beholder
Art is known not when

You see it

But when you feel it

When you close your eyes

And you can feel that 

Stirring
As if your body could dance to 

Silence

As if your eyes struck blind

Would never forget

Art is not simply beauty

It is to reflect

It is to feel revolted

It is to feel as if it tears and rips

At every belief

Art

In any form has teeth
To me art is what makes you feel

What makes you believe

Art never lets

You forget

It only hides in your heart

Distraction in the Rain


The color blue runs in the rain

Like it’s being chased

As it reaches my fingertips

My dreams become electric 

As I dash after my thoughts

The way they are all connected

Reminds me of the way the clouds

Move

The air is warm and I want to be

Kissed

I can feel the energy

In my palms

Like feeling the storm

I want to chase it

I want that thrill

As I become
I need that connection

As it calls to me

Softly

Demanding

Pushing towards the edge

Hold me back

Place me in a strait jacket

If I am allowed to even

Feel the wind

I will be carried away