Oblivion

Ever the same,
The days that drag on.
There’s anger and pain;
Love’s all that’s gone.
What is there to live for?

Ever the same,
The hours tick by.
What’s here that’s sane?
All I can do is cry,
But I don’t know who to cry for.

Ever the same,
The minutes say goodbye.
They say such things are tame;
But it takes only a minute to die,
So much longer to find something to die for.

Ever the same,
The seconds don’t ask why;
They never ask your name —
Only that you do not lie
When you face the choice that you’ve been waiting for.

Change My Fate

I could set the blame for my existence
Squarely at your feet;
Or my life in its present instance
I could christen your defeat.

Or I could claim my turning point
Was somewhere over there,
And blame the careless wanderer
Who had no fire I could share.

I could fit upon the scales of justice
The world, by degrees,
And blame my failures on this:
The whip and bended knees.

But for all the blame that could’ve been,
There’s nothing to debate.
Others may bring suffering;
Only I can change my fate.

What’s Free

There’s so much of artistry
Where can there be a place for me?
With bitterness I lace my words
To quell the death I’ve chosen
As if it puts me with the birds
To lace my quill with poison
But I know myself afraid of heights
And that we create our greatest plights
Yet I don’t know what to do
When everything that I could be
Always seems to look like you
And I have no clue what would look like me
So instead I merely take what’s free
And try to turn it into artistry.

Mother

I’ve been afraid to act with joy
But that never bothered you
You have lived with others’ bitterness
And done the best that you could do

You have laughed at what was funny
Even if only to you
And persevered when others, envious,
Hated when such smiles grew

You have lived a life of sorrow
And pretended that you never knew
I pray that I’ll remember this
And take my strength from you.

***

Happy Mother’s Day.

The Carver

A carver took his thoughts
And all of his experiences
And laid them carefully on his table
He picked one, one he liked,
And he began to go to work
Chip, chip, chip
He took away the excess
Shaping it into what it was meant to be
Letting his thoughts
And all of his experiences
Guide the movement of his hands
When it was finished, he looked it over,
The finest work he’d ever done
It came out in two pieces
In his heart belonged the one
The other moved at his demand
And he knew they were his only masterpieces
The dagger in his heart
The other in his hand.

Uncivil War

Of blame there is aplenty
Of reason there is naught
Both sides the other’s wanting
For treason to be shot

Of consequence there’s nothing
Of punishment, that’s all we’ve got
You’d think it might amount to something
But if all you have is pain, what’s one more battle to be fought?

A Reason

I gave my word and it meant nothing;
All my worth reduced to this:
Every step I never took,
Every automatic miss,
Every time I said “I’ll be there”
And could never give a reason
For why I never was —
As if excuses conquer treason
And pretty lies don’t make me worse;
But if I could just say something,
Believe the problem’s more than just me,
At least then I’d have a reason why it hurts.