Old School Poems

In my head

Something tells me it’s time to get off at the next station

These thoughts, these dreams seep through with dramatic infiltration

And although my heart beats in anxious trepidation

It also beats in unwavering determination

Fictional Life (Villanelle poem)

Life was like fiction, unquenchably thirsty
Rooting through garbage, looking for treasure
Dirty hands scraped, sore and blistery

Momentary pauses, brain playing trickery
Many delights but with little taken measure
Life was like fiction, unquenchably thirsty

Routine was a chokehold, growing tightly
Relationships ear-splitting torture
Dirty hands scraped, sore and blistery

Negatives murder positives quickly
Giving them life and love is a struggle
Life was like fiction, unquenchably thirsty

Death’s teeth bite down like acid reality
Wakeful truth finally brings peace
Life was like fiction, unquenchably thirsty
Dirty hands scraped, sore and blistery…

…now are washed clean…

City of Lonely Dreams

The veils have lifted

And all I now see

Is a city of sorrow

Three hundred feet under the sea

My breathing is constricted

And im so scared to try,

Alone in this city

With nowhere to die

Somehow these thoughts

Have become like severed limbs

Part of my body

But now such distant kins

What do you do when you wake up

And you don’t know who you are?

What do you do when your efforts

Seem to struggle and not get you far?

So much time is spent in worry

So much time is spent in dreams

So much time is spent in distant thoughts

That run like wild streams

A dream is but a dream

Until you make it real

Wishing and praying for something grand

That you cant see, smell or feel

To dream above the past and present

And to reach those higher places in life

Where you become you, for you

And look back with beaming pride

So much are my options,

So much are my goals

I’m drowning in dreams,

And sinking in holes

If I could only touch the ground

And hear your voice of reason

Unload my heavy pack and let go

Of my own self-inflicting treason

But slowly the bolders upon my back are lifting

As you hold my hand to keep me well-rounded

You tell me my dreams are truly true,

They’re real, so sane, so grounded.

We are not meant to dream alone

And a balance of reality is essential

To realize the truth between the lies

And reach our full potential

And just when I thought id drown,

The city under the sea begins to drain

I can now breathe again, dream again,

Knowing you will keep me sane

Smoky blues

Just when I think I can forget you

I smell your smell

or remember your taste.

You always knew what to do

to block out all the bad thoughts.

You always knew just what to say,

to make all those feelings go away.

Sometimes I still drift into your slumber

and wake up in a daze of unknowingness,

wondering whether that one last time was worth it

and planning our next meeting fretfully.

I quickly sink back into reality

where my worries, troubles and thoughts roll back to me,

and I can only crave and pray for you to set me free.

But as all my worries, troubles and thoughts

disappear in a cloud of grey-white smoke,

I see my world growing smaller, darker, lonelier.

Everything I have grows blurry with distinction and

numbness covers my heart and mind like wrapping paper.

The packaging looks pretty and perfect,

while the truth floats inside; ominous, imperfect.

How I’d like to rip off the wrapping with eager determination,

shedding the layers of false protection, security, purity.

And throw it all away with one clean swipe,

so that all that is left is a reflection of myself,

the real me; complex, scared, young, and naïve.

Because there are two sides to every you and me

It’s true what they say about the truth; It’ll set you free.

Once upon a time there was a poem…

And so,
in some part of your mind you believe it’s all a work of fiction.
That one day the man will come and sweep you off your shaking feet,
and send your heart a-thunder.
But it’s not the kind of love that comes and goes,
it’s not the love that sinks and slows.
It’s the love that breaks and folds,
and turns soul mates into lovers.

And so you wait and fix what’s broken,
you recreate and generate what imagination has bestowed as perfection.
Until one day it will not budge,
irritation and frustration kicks in and a need for a big transgression.
Not only have you destroyed what was his,
but you have not fixed your own indiscretions.

And so you leave it all alone and into a gutter it rolls,
afloat it stays for many days and snaps up,
shaking and wrecked.
But soon enough it’s grey begins to fade.
Colour, light and something else seeps through
and generates a brilliant soul,
someone you never even knew.

And a reality so lost in thought,
hits you hard and leaves you spluttering and gasping.
Truthfully, you feel a bit mislead;
Who’s telling the truth?
The man who breaths perfume of imaginative power
and drills straight to your heart without causing an ounce of pain?
Or the man who wipes in all your blotches and stains,
and in the end, can always face the rain?

And suddenly it is your own faults that you despise,
every ounce of wisdom you thought you had seems far and wide.
Does living in such a thought take you away from the moment,
does it set off a long and tiring chain reaction,
does he have the power to take your breath away in contractions?
Or is there something more than what is offered,
will the sea break, will the winds deviate,
will the sound of his laughter leave your heart cured?


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