So Call Me Stupid But… – 15 November 2015

November 14, 2015 at 9:11 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

I’d rather be depressed than indifferent.

I’d rather be angry than jaded.

I’d rather see humanity for what it is and hope to change it

Than give up before I’ve tried.

I’d rather die knowing I’ve helped people

Than live a thousand lives at others’ expense.

Call me naïve,

Call me young,

Call me what you will.

But I’d rather leave the world a better place

Than how I found it.

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The Way Things Used to Be

March 9, 2015 at 1:20 am (Poetry) (, , , , )

I used to play this game –

I was always the youngest sibling

Out of 7, 10, or 25,

And yet I was the strongest.

The one who took the most punishment,

But came out on top.

I used to do this thing –

I collected pennies.

I counted them obsessively,

Making little stacks of five,

Circling them around me.

There were over 10,000 in the end.

I used to say this prayer –

I prayed for family, friends, and enemies.

For the poor, hungry, and sick.

I prayed for guidance and health and wisdom

I said it every night for six years.

And it never changed.

I used to think this way –

If I thought the right things,

If I did everything the same

And believed that things would turn out

I would get everything I wanted.

It used to work.

Not so much these days.

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The Key

December 2, 2014 at 1:32 am (Poetry) (, , , , , )

Constantly trapped

between the multitude and the desire,

the hope to be the spark,

the fire –

The great catalyst of an age.

But still one with the flow,

an ink drop on a page

blacked out by scribblings,

jottings,

drawings –

Everything that was,

is,

may yet be.

Paralyzed by apprehenison –

An obsidonal tension

that my everything is nothing

and my something’s just that.

My every contribution

to the world of self-expression

may only be a splotch,

a blot,

a drop –

but at least my something is just that.

Something.

Anything.

My spark in the fire.

My scribble on the page.

The key to my cage.

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Complications

September 2, 2010 at 6:55 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

The days when we drew breath so soft and sweet

Have long gone in the dark and complications

The simplicity, the serenity were once around us

Now they are lost in the midst of complexity

Where is the seamless ease?

The silent pools?

The light?

Done.

What is done cannot be undone.

Only forgiven.

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Deceptive Beauty

August 9, 2010 at 2:33 am (Poetry) (, , , , , )

What a beautiful thing it is to lie,

A well crafted web of intricacies,

A magnificent and misleading façade,

And what of the liar?

A painter of falsehoods,

A sculptor of hyperbole,

Who but a genius could weave such a story?

A splendid deception,

A perfect untruth,

And who, you may ask, is telling you this?

An injured party?

A liar in denial?

If not them, than who?

The master of pretending,

The lover of tall tales,

The grand illusionist herself.

At your service.

***I have had a problem as a compulsive liar in the past, and I still slip up sometimes.  This poem is my confession, as well as an expression of my feelings about lying.

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Match Girl

August 1, 2010 at 8:50 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

Little girl

Playing with fire

Spreading it all around her

All she knows

Is that it keeps her safe

And warm

But when it is gone

She shivers in the cold

Dreaming of the fire

Wishing it would return

Wishing it would spread

Little match girl

Lost in the cold.

***The only thing I wanted from my grandmother when she passed away was a doll.  The little match girl sat in her living room for years, and now she is in my bedroom as a reminder.  I named her Etterene…after my grandmother.

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Denim Heart

April 14, 2010 at 3:07 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , )

A denim heart

Rough, tough to tear

Protective and reliable

Hard to rip

This denim heart

was not always so

Hard to break

Look closer

See the seams

See the patches

This denim heart

repaired with thread and linen

is not so

Hard to shatter

For though denim it is

on the outside

There is glass underneath

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Glass and Sand

April 8, 2010 at 12:48 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , )

When the sand has gone

Every last grain

What is left?

The world has ended

No more flowers

No hands or feet

No more minutes, seconds, or hours

The world has ended

Our time has slipped away

Because this hour glass

Held a single grain

And was attached to the table

With our pride and hatred

Our time is up

Just a blip

a passing moment

in the endless stream of time.

***Once again this poem originally had different spacing, let me know if you want to see the original.  I was inspired by Blake to write this, but I think my take is a little bit more morbid than his.  I am generally a dark person, but sometimes my macabre view of life is surprising. It makes me think, how about you?

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Change

January 12, 2010 at 7:06 am (Poetry) (, , , , )

Change is coming

The leaves are changing

The wind is biting

And my heart feels empty

There is an ache in my chest

That does not come from the cold

A sadness in my step

That does not come from the graying sky

Am I depressed?

Or is there some transformation taking place?

I feel alone under the dismal sky

And the dreary rain washes me away

I am past the pain now

I feel nothing besides sorrow and lonliness

What is happening?

Change must be coming

Otherwise I fear I will fade away

Please, let change be coming.

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