I Thought I Was A Poet, In Training

Is it:

      Dealing with drunkenness

      Helping my feet swim through rain-fall collected on the streets

      Placing a 10-58 in the passenger seat and rolling down the window

      Holding back my hair as I project the nights contents

      Getting a hotel room because there is no way I can drive

      Allowing me to cry in the shower, balancing my head over the grate

     Calling me beautiful after I repeat line 5 in the sink

      Patting depression away

     Forcing me to crawl in bed wrapped in sheep's clothing

     Reminding me that the world's not over, it'll be better in the morning

     Kissing me on the fore head

....maybe

                                                                                                  for Xo

Dim

Dark

Shadows

of regret

slow dancing in

a idle pool of my

fate that festers un-usefulness

and extreme perish ability of myself

as nothing more than a magic

trick. Alakazam and presto

now your fixed— free

to frolic along with 

any dame

sir.

Let's play chicken body.

We will pair my heart against

my emotions

and when they collide, we

can keep ourselves warm from

the radioactive decay that they will emit.

It’s because whenever I think of you,

I eat movies and watch dinner.

Whenever I speak to you,

I use philosophical language.

Whenever I see you,

I breathe anxiety.

Whenever I hear you,

I slow dance on the inside.

Whenever I smell you,

I taste purple.

Whenever I touch you,

I feel like sunshine and rainbows.

It's beneficial to write all your poetic thoughts on the first draft. However, revisions can be your best friend. First part is the original form of the poem. The revision follows it.

  The sky is flat,

  And an odd brownish green color.

  Objects descend from it, pointing down at me,

  But they never fall. They must be glued to it.

  The ground goes on for days.

  Blue with big fluffy white stuff,

  It has no ending point, unlike the sky.

  I travel, I see, I remember every time I’m

  Told to.

  I’m his constant companion.

  I go everywhere with him,

  Crowds of people dip and sway in front of me,

  Whenever I join the party.

  Thankfully he values me.

  He won’t let the oily fingers and clumsy

  Hand touch my eye, my body, he won’t let them

  Hold me.

***Now the wonderful revision!***

The sky is flat.

Objects descend from it, pointing down at me,

They never fall.

The ground is endless,

Unlike the sky.

I travel, I see, I remember every time I’m

Told to.

I’m a constant companion.

I go everywhere them,

Crowds of people dip and sway in front of me,

Landscapes are manipulated for me,

Animals are made to pose and do tricks because of me.

My companions do play on words with my name.

They deepen their voice,

Look through me, aim and say

Tell it to my Mother Fuckin’ CANON!

Sometimes you hear a song and the lyrics are so awesome, so bad ass, so intentional that you want others to experience them. I am SUPER guilty of paying homage to the great lyricists out there by sampling. If you look threw my poetry you will notice the samples in mainly the titles but occasionally I will throw in a few one liners or bite off a verse and intertwine it with my own poetic thought.    

Sometimes it comes out great like "No Heaven for a Gangsta" (another poem that I sampled some Lupe lines) or it turns out eerie like this one:

       She is beautiful, an angel from hell.

 I'm an assassin

I sneek up on time

and kill it.

A ninja in translucent clothing

I move fast 

while they assume.

The vixen of static dreams to 

diminish your premise

I'm your arch nemesis.

A siren of the sheets

lieing      conniving      deceiving

the type that likes to mislead men.

-Originally written 2011. This poem is not big enough for all the mythical beings that live in it. 

links to the song lyrics sampled:

Indo G and the Ghetto Troopers ft Posse- That's the bad guy 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=buUWNpkULHc

Lupe Fiasco- Street Stories

A ridiculously long rant broken down into parts. Which means a very long post.

part one:

Am I to filter this pollution and come out on bottom? I'm pretty convinced that when this soap opera is over I'll be the one leaving the cast. Killed off in the first season to only appear once or twice in season three and four.

The more I allow these emotions to fest and build the more I am infuriating myself.

Like a tight wire holding an elephant. Any second I will break and be torn in two.  

I actually used this a lot from this next section in some of my poems. 

Small sad desolation row of my life and the foreshadowing of minute hazy future that promises despair and anguish.

  Lets play chicken body. We will pair my heart against my emotions and when they collide we can keep ourselves warm by the radioactive decay that it will emit.

How about we watch our child (my conscious) play in the river made of salt and acid rain collected to poole in the depths of my imagination.

Why don't we strip and run through the streets naked. Lets lay our exposed body down to be raped by insults and prejudgment from on looker.

I bet we can keep this up forever. I'll hold my own hand and keep it safe from my heart and it's constructions laced by pain and bitterness.

Come with me and we will seduce some unlucky cur with our poison ivy lips that are dripping wet with sweet impending danger. Bat those eyes and consume his soul. trap him and pin him down until he is helpless. Feed him policies, deals and inventive religion. 

Count the time I lye dying in my arms on my own. Record it and measure the distance from my happiness to my desperation. I bet I + 10= bipolar mindset of the ages. 

Dim dark shadows of regret slow dancing in a cesspool of my fate that festers un-usefulness and extreme perish-ability. 

and when your emotions betray you for a man...an attractive and mind whelming one....shame

I hate the fact that you awoken something so dormant inside of me. Fuck you. You're jackass, an amazingly idealistic specimen of a man, but a dick none the less. 

Awkward sense of humor. I'm a sparkler and your water trying to snuff me out. You say you don't do physical relationships then command my lips to respond to yours. Good one bastard, go ahead and be the single most amazing non intercourse experience of my life then tell me it was a mistake in the next conscious thought. You confused individual.

Walking void of contradictions. Stop calling yourself old because you make me feel like i'm 5 and like your a pedo bear, fat ass. Can you give this longing i have for you and give it to someone else?

I don't know what confusion you have going on in your head. Obviously the one where I can't respond to outside stimuli that you "don't have" because you've made it clear that you don't want me. At least take back your cock blocking potion so I can sleep with someone since you won't let me be with you, you damn soul steal-er. 

And lastly...when your rant is about yourself

dreams are questions of your subconscious and your subconscious picks up more detailed information than you notice. His bullshit stare is gorgeous. You my dear are definitely something unique, different, some type of special. I am never a damsel and you are never a prince. The Cinderella rules don't apply to us...I mean me...you...the us that I developed my creativeness from.

You make me feel worthless and small though you never treat me this way. This gives me hope. Hope that I can try hard. Hyper focus. I want to recreate lyrics in your arms, act out plays against your chest, paint enormous amounts of color atop you and dedicate fantasies against your lips. 

I want you to be everything you've every wanted to be. I dont need the physical with you. I will keep a promise to myself: to not let me consume you until we find boundaries, gather rules and make clear all possible titles. 

I wonder if sexual encounters would mean more if I haven't experienced what I have. What doesn't kill you makes you emotionless...empty...virtually heartless. Contact is a double edge sword. A tool to gain satisfaction, completed with not strings, and a tangible realization that I am not a failure. That I can me attractive, wanted. That I 'm not the hideous creature of my past or the person I see in my conscious. That I can be more than an inconvenience to everyone around me. That I can allow myself to love myself. no matter how hard that actually is.  

I am me. I don't regret anything that has happened to me. Not any misfortunes, abuse or neglect. I am me, strong. An amazon...the assassin, the random, calm, curious, numb delayed reaction, broken creator of my future. Changer of my errors, history of my experiences, anthology of my past, the broken rubble that can be reconstructed. I am this. I am everything. I am nothing. I struggle with being brave to be tall, indestructible. Equal to a Hime for me.

It really is. And it's unavoidable. The best things I have ever done with my anger is rant. And not just the verbal rant to make your self feel better. But the I-write-my-feelings-down rant. Write. Write until you can't focus on the paper anymore. Write until your anger turns to tears and it pushes the ink around and crinkles the paper. 

You will be amazed by not only how much better you feel but you the enormous amount of purely creative literature your brain will vomit. 

Here is an example of angry-rant-brain-vomit:

 My heart is constricting and slowing down pulsing strong deliberate pumps of blood through arteries that are rusting. Frozen, painful and bitter.

May I have this dance? (Title)

I am the calm before the storm. The break in the rain, the slow dance on the inside, the bright and shinning ray of hope that develops out of misery.

I am the phoenix that rises, but I never reach the sky. The storm rolls in and smothers my fire until I can't fly. I fall a slow and painless fall back to earth, to seclusion, nothingness, "smooth-and-easy" life. And time scrapes by hardening emotions that almost had a chance to flourish.

I am the sign of epic failure portrayed as a diamond in a sea of quartz. I sparkle and you stumble onto me and hold on as tight as you physically can. Palms become coated with moisture an you lose me... I am forgotten among the quartz that imitate my shine. I tarnish, not valued because of the dirt the moisture caused me to collect. 

I am your missing half, the fragments that fill the hole. We create and design something so full of potential it feels as if we have it now. So we value it, put a price on it that evolves in to a curse. I am the only person that seems to listen to what you truly say. Who remembers your ambitions, every tiny detail, the pattern of your speech.

I am your premature downfall, the blood mixed in the rain. I am the foreshadowing of torment, depression, suicide, hate and despair.

I am the pool of amazement, the unique spectrum of a creative rainbow, the happiness you cannot keep, the holder of a place in your heart so vast and vivid that you do not realize how I have poisoned you with me until we are forced apart.

I AM the calm before the storm. And then the storm comes, but too soon for my liking. It has a way of sweeping up everything I cherish and shattering it against my next downfall. The storm causes and earthquake and all of my reserve floods in to bridge the gap. The winds strip me down to flesh, cuts and bruises...too wet and cold to properly heal, forming a series of voids (shallow spots) until I am hollow and empty.

Like the hot burning desert sands sliding threw worn calloused fingers. Anything I accept for myself, that will be mine alone, slips threw my grasp and I am left with faint traces of what I once was trying to hold on to.

Some believe the life you lead now is a result of the lives you once lived. My life now is full of empty promises, short comings, downfall, failure, and a revolving cycle of emotional emptiness. If that says anything about my character now, what does it scream about my character then?

.

-Originally written 2008. Once upon a poetry class, I was encouraged to "go to the dark place inside your mind and spend some time there. Look around. Touch things. Come back with something you would never write without going there." 

Singly the coolest piece of creative advice. All writing starts form somewhere. Although this poem isn't great, filled with similar phrases, and is hard to understand the underlying meaning...it took me to a place in my head that I hid from everyone. I was on the verge of hyperventilation every time I wondered what made me tick. The scariest thing about your self is not knowing yourself.

If I could change the history of v-day I would make it less romantic.

I would name  it after Saint Valentine, the tramp liquidator...

supplier of satin heart shaped boxes...

chocolate euthanasia...

love confetti.

Valentine, giver of white roses dyed the deepest rouge; Hemoglobin...

lionized Jack the Ripper...

martyr for illuminatus.

Chocolate of death would be a hallmark given with red roses. 

Mass hysteria would break out on the fourteenth...

a pandemic...

I would blame it on "love."

Induce a profit.

I want this "relationship" to evolve. To flower, to bloom, to be pressed and preserved. Me plus you equals what I deem acceptable within our encounters: all the good, a few bad, but never the ugly.

My interpretation of you is the only thing that matters. Reality is a minor detail that can be omitted.

Mine! That's what you are. You're not yours. I am the only one who can have possession of you.

Cold snow

white

a field of poppies swaying to the somber melodies they hum.

The encounter,

an ashen horse with equally pale rider

in opposition to the coal ram

his horns 

reaper scythes.

.

-Originally written 2011. If you take writing classes you will eventually be given a task that you can't complete no matter how hard you try and the best or easiest thing to do is write some b.s. down.

Love, you don't seem to understand.

You're this gravity-less force that kisses like a sonic boom.

My mind speaks to yours.

We break the sound barrier every time our bodies unite.

What we share is Dangerous.

I'm an addict,

You've recently quit.

You've got this passion in you,

this atomic bomb.

You try to control it, but

I'm a super nova and my desire

to acquire you radiates, shines

over powers you.

Together we would be and unstoppable force.

We'd form a neutron star,

A black hole...

A complete source of destruction.

Nothing would escape us

all stellar activity would be voided.

We would cause nuclear fusion.

.

It was with the forcefulness of his glare that I knew,

This man is dangerous.

His tone. Rough, deliberate, intentional.

Every word a crafted seduction.

Electricity pulsing the blood stream with his touch.

Provocative whispers that demand satisfaction with

An aggressive aura.

.

Life use to be simple.

A field full of small yellow butterflies

Dancing above clovers, playing in the wind.

All the butterflies the same shade of yellow.

Do the same dance. Live the same life.

Occasionally there is a purple butterfly.

Standing out. Flying in a different direction.

.

Risk is rare in the grand scheme of romance.

Adventure, fear, lust and the unexpected are imaginations.

Originally it was just

Touch, touch, touch insert moan here.

-originally written 2010. 

I remember the first day that I saw you. It was love at first sight. I spent hours learning you and understanding what made you work. What I could and couldn't do with you and where the treasures of you were kept.

With that being stated it was not long before we started to argue. Every day we fought and the problems kept stacking like cinder blocks without rebar. Then you stopped answering me. Nothing I did was good enough to make you happy. Eventually I did as most do and cheated. My heart was broken when I knew you found out.

You didn't want me anymore. It felt like forever before I actually got the chance to see you again. And when we were finally reunited it was eerie and uncomfortable. I felt the grudge against me that you should have had and chose to let you go.

A few years have passed and here I am. Standing where I once stood passing the same chair for the twelfth time now. Burning holes in the tile with worrying. Will it work this time? How long will you stay? How much have you changed since the last time? Will I enjoy myself? Am I wasting my time again? Do you remember me?

My fingers are crossed and I still don't have the answer I desire yet. But it will come and when it does I wonder if I am ready for it. Have I grown as a person enough to handle what you will verbally throw at me? All in due time I am constantly reminding myself.

Alas it's countdown between your cooperation and my obedience.

.

-originally written in 2010 about the game Mable Story. I loved this game! I never cheated originally, but then one day I played and it was super-freaking-hard. BUT if you get caught cheating you get temporally banded for a few weeks. It sucked! However, when I had the chance to play again the game wasn't as fun as I remembered. 

Wrapped in each other's bodies

naked

as dragon fruit in the moonlight.

We are fated.

It's destined.

Our stars are aligned.

The tangible lust,

the imaginative monogamy

dancing with our shadows.

He's this precious glass box with

Fault line and fissures. 

If I tread too hard he will shatter.

I attempt to handle him with

Lace hands and honey soft words.

Wrap him in silk arms and dance across lily pads.

I try to take my time with him so he doesn't

  Fall and break.

I can tell from the cracks that he has been

Glued back together before.

But he's in luck, because he found me.

I am the artisan of dust.