Random Dread

Fear, Internal Poetry, Line Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Societal Poetry

Self-improvement can’t save us.

Living your dreams isn’t gonna save us from our demons.

Gucci watches won’t prevent migrant crises.

Trips to London won’t lower Earth’s temperature.

Writing and music can heal the heart,

But they aren’t going to break bipartisan gridlock,

Or save the world from the wealthy white man and his irrevocably similar friends.

I struggle to find peace in the wake of every moving part of global calamity I see.

I don’t have the stomach to discover what else plagues a global population.

My words aren’t enough to restore stability to Syria.

My enthusiasm won’t get big pharma to stop the opioid crisis,

It’s helping their bottom line too much.

 

So the wealthy white man convinces his friends and the people who wish to join the club

How to exchange human lives for profit.

My good intentions can’t un-teach that.

 

My verse can’t free us of our addiction to winning.

It can erase “cash crop” from our memory,

But it can’t erase slave labor from American history.

I struggle to find peace under every problematic stone I come across.

 

Guitar fingers can’t take Central Massachusetts out of me.

God save the souls of the folks whose ideologies are less developed

Than the rural denizens of Central Massachusetts.

Lord knows I can’t save them.

 

My existential dread can’t snap the country out of the thought

That these things aren’t normal.

The bubble would burst and my friends would all fill with an even worse existential dread.

 

I struggle to find peace in an inconceivably huge world whose heart has crusted over,

So I seek refuge in the small world of a large bowl,

And try to remind myself that tomorrow is a new day.

 

(Credit to K.C. Green for the most iconic meme portrayal of denial ever made)

Alumnus of Earth

Line Poetry, Party Poetry, Peace, Poetry, Questions, Thoughts

Pomp and Circumstance. 

On repeat for an hour, one of the most trying performances of high school. 

Dragging on and on forever for another to bask in. 

What if pomp and circumstance kept on going after our bodies decomposed? 

When the soul gets its diploma

And moves away from the little town they grew up with. 

Will it ever grow homesick of the solar system? 

Things do not die, but no graduation is the same. 

Sometimes we think they go too soon. 

But we don’t lose them after a funeral. 

They don’t become nonexistent, merely 

An Alumnus of Earth. 

Back in the Deep-Fryer

Family, Internal Poetry, Problems, Prose, Stuff to do

“So whaddaya think of the new head cover?”

He was a sweet man.

Said,

“Right?”

often.

Always called you by the name.

A bright smile across his face with the slight corny nature of an aging man.

 

TRUMP GOLF” was embroidered, smack dab on the cover.

 

I worked for a Trump supporter today, and he took care of me.

I don’t know how to feel about it.

Reassuring words of “professionalism” ring in response,

But isn’t that an enemy in the first place?

 

After 10 years of North Brookfield tugging on my mother,

She finally succumbed towards the middle.

The TV is the lexicon, creation exists in her deft, colorful baskets

But the previous compassion has been weathered away by a decade of mistreatment.

There are good people in my life,

Blessings in human form,

Full of toxins that have deep-fried the azures and scarlets and oranges

From their souls.

I can feel my skin bubbling, and I’m submerged. Back in the first parts of home.

I fear how strong my self-interest is becoming, how it dominates conversations.

Partly because I’m afraid to ask how you’re doing.

I know you’re good. I don’t want to contribute to that rinse/repeat small talk.

But how do I engage outside of that?

I need to kick back. Open the sacrum, see through my real eyes.

Keep reading that Post-Colonialist literature.

Keep writing with the focus of empathy.

Never let the generation of entropy get you down, or be forgotten about.

That’s my code.

The Past Has A Discount

gratitude, Prose, The World is Beautiful, Thoughts, time

Red clearance space lines dot the tags of clothes past their seasonal deadline. Prices start at 50% off.

History books are written by whoever is left to record, leaving out millions of people across centuries of life.

Societally, we’ve learned to discredit the old news. It’s left to newspaper clippings gathering dust on the corner of a fridge.

The luster peaks to brilliance in the present, and dulls back to the past before one can even complete the thought.

Now replaces itself like a second-by-second refresh, and leaves then as one lump-sum identity.

The course of time is a mysterious miracle that makes me think constantly of how baffling “now” is.

The now I started writing today with is different than the now lingering at the end of this punctuation.

And the space of time we populate between “now” and “now” is full of beautiful things.

A Netflix episode? A cycle of the circulatory system. Millions of cells creating, splitting, dying, and replacing all at once in our bodies, trillions of miracles deep.

Like “now,” the processes keeping me full of the blessing of this life never stop refreshing themselves.

Like “now,” the process putting thoughts to words to paper and keyboard never stop finding new miracles to focus around.

Every function dutifully repeats itself, picking up when it falters.

And that’s why I’m a part of this miracle,

Which remains extraordinary even after the period of “now” passes.

The bad news is that it will always pass.

The good news is that there will always be a new now to marvel at.

Don’t let a clearance rack sway your appreciation of the things past due.

Cash in on the bargains, and let the love linger there.

Frequency

Empowerment, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

I’ve got little bubbles in me,

They’re pockets of technicolor energy

It’s effervescence bouncing constant, tension free

Contributes to my glowing frequency.

 

Effort, lessons of a germ turning I into we.

Equal balance giving extra for free.

Rehearsed colors painting air with glee.

Reverse colonists feeding back to the tree.

The worst clicking heels backward to flee

The first mimic heals to the bequeathed

A terse lyric feels the dangers of screens

The gurgling murk is a manger obscene

Filled up with emotional cocktails’ canteen

Of anger and spite where confliction careens,

So we never ask why, or “what does it mean”?

And thus dash our hopes down of returning to clean.

 

What an arduous task to escape from this trance,

When the key is locked up in a bright buddy’s glance.

When our pilot light’s dark,

And our flint will alone cannot kindle our spark,

To give love to another is to make your mark,

And resume your life with the frequency in your heart.

A Good, Hard Day

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Societal Poetry, Stuff to do

The door slams shut. 

I pace over my torn carpet, taking slow, deep breaths.

I know today is a stress volcano, 

But I’m charging myself through its brunt, welding anthem in my pocket, hands first. 

“I can do this. I can surmount this. I am strong.”

 I’m becoming my own leader, rather than my torturer. But don’t get me wrong, I I have to make it a conscious decision to cup my fist. 

 I will not hang weights on myself through this day. 

 Im gonna make the bed. I’m gonna fold the clothes, grab my phone, read those pages.. 

 No. After the clothes I put in the money to get my next little book. It’s been too long. 

 Denial creeps itself up into my list. I feel the need to take a second and worry. But that’s why I went here.

 Im gonna take my worry and put it in the lines. I’m gonna wrap it up with a pretty verbal bow and send it off to market, where it’s fangs and claws can’t touch me. 

 And then, I’m gonna change my shoes and leave for the rest of this. 

 I’m gonna remember to get some vitamins next winter,

 Because the sun came out today and it felt like the first time on months where I could breathe, and open my eyes. 

Pompeii could unravel again before my open eyes, but I can handle a pocket-sized catastrophe. 

Lobby Day

Empowerment, Fear, Internal Poetry, Peace, Poetry, Politics, Societal Poetry, Stuff to do

It was a regular Thursday. 

Wax oozed from the walls and the pores of our faces. 

We stepped through the marble edifices of political gods, 

Men and women like most of us. The wax was doctrine. 

The surface deflected every scent but superiority. 

Quiet howls shrieked, smothered by business casual. There are no people here. 

Only lobbyists. 

Pentacles carved into these wondrous halls can’t be a coincidence if nothing is coincidence. 

I am not coincidence. They are not coincidence. 

So why I’m the world do we feel so out of our own skin? 

Photo opps, flag halls. Pseudo strategy. Stop the anxiety. 

The wax drips from these Corinthian bullies, 

Bright eyes in white guise stand marbled with intimidating decorum. 

If only we could connect with this history. 

Of Sarah, and patriotism, Oliver Ames, Amen I say to you. To history. 

Timidness stands where reverence deserves, 

The wax coats these bodies fully

And I haven’t the chisel to break it. 

Hurry up and wait. 

Heat the wax, so it may set

And paralyze us all. 

Why must this be so on Lobby Day? 

April Begins

Amherst, Empowerment, Internal Poetry, love, Nature, The World is Beautiful

I’m stretching my 110 percent 

With broken parts and missing pieces. 

But it’s okay, I play on repeat. 

The lazy day is gonna come later, 

Where luxuries like sleep can be embraced. 

That doesn’t mean I can’t relish the moment’s reprieve, 

Feel the sunlight on my skin with distant friends conjoined

And realize collective things aren’t that bad. 

It lets me climb the jagged obligation summit with a smile, 

If not just for a moment before my cracks begin facing strain again. 

This is the season of good surprises. 

Serendipity befalls missed expectations, 

And the Hazy picture in front of you gets colored in birdsong and granite steps, 

The kind that made you love Amherst all the while ago. 

There’s an hour left before the drums recommence, 

But the summit has a hell of a glow on the ascent. 

Some day soon I’ll sit atop this apex, 

And I’ll drink my Jasmine 

And write my glee

As nature’s love unravels before me. 

The spiderwebs we’ve weaved have reverted to dusty dungeons.

The repetition for results is a game of catch

Where lyrical acrobatics create the illusion of

“Yeah, I caught it!”

The game doesn’t end.

The colors all bled into each other, the light murked into a dull brown

Like oatmeal getting moldy in the back of a murky store room.

But we’re here again.

12:24 PM and the day’s already been lived-

Everything else is necessary overtime.

I swipe hundreds of cards but couldn’t unlock my own door.

My laptop, like myself, incapable of charging their battery.

I’ve listened to maybe three songs in the past week,

But everyone keeps asking me to describe how music makes them be feel,

And be smart. Eloquent.

Genuine feelings turn into pedestal soliloquies that fade away like background trophies you don’t think you deserve.

Teeter-tottering between drowning and flying away on the boat, I’m jetskiing into an uncertain future.

I don’t know what the hell’s gonna happen.

And I’m learning to be okay with it.

The first step to this peace is to start back in the things that made me feel alive.

The first of those, is you.

You reading this? Yeah, you.

Internal Poetry, Poetry, Problems, Stuff to do, Throwback