#WhyIWrite

Some mornings I wake up writing.

Through my window, the early sun is shining,
my eyes still blinded I find myself rhyming syllables
with consonants that complement and comprehend the bigger picture
of the scripture prominent in the dominant society.
I see the problems with humanity…
The insanity of extreme mindsets
from every heavenly sect set to threaten the youth into fellowship,
the threat of punishment exploding in the streets
of the east and west, it’s like the people playing God
forgot to take their midday rest.
With shit like this we’re reduced
to only the children knowing what’s morally best.
And I test my patience pouring coffee
while the radio buzzes a news stream
and soon I’m three sips and set
to forget I was ever a part of humanity anyway.
Ready to write off my citizenship to earth
so I can find a place to live where the right comes first
and a shared sense of solidarity isn’t a byproduct
of a brainwashed waste of humanity repeatedly
attacking the innocent and weak.

I mean, three headlines a week shouldn’t be dedicated to mourning and obituary.

Some mornings I wake up writing,
and still hiding under the covers
I wonder why I was wired this way.
Programmed to take the pain and suffering I see
and re-channel it into a quick catchy beat
in hopes that somebody sees through to me.
I surround myself with laughter and animals and love
but sometimes it just doesn’t cut and I wake up writing,
I wake up sighing,
and I go right back to sleep unprepared to spend another day
watching the outside world dying.


National Poetry Month started several hours ago, and runs through the next 30 days.

What’s that quote?

If I only wrote when I had time I’d never write at all…?

Something like that. 

Penance

I’ve driven 11 thousand miles,
in two hundred and ten-ish days,
and all I’ve learned is the homesickness sets in
as soon as the radio presets
fill with static.

They say I have this thing,
some sort of way with words.
But is another grand of miles the cost of a lonely word filled heart?

Forgive me father,
for I have skinned
my knee.

I tripped while leaving a reading tonight, and now I sit
in blood soaked torn up dirty jeans.
I may not understand your religion,
but I’ve heard you have
an honest way
with words.
So I ask you be the first.
Teach me how to fail
please, just criticize my work.

Ash and Dust

And I read them as her words,
not mine.
Every time I see them I know.

But the feeling that follows swallows my heart and mind intertwined
in empathetic regret for the monster
I once was.

then I step back and remember
that this is that control,
this was let go.

Stepping through time with
Both eyes now wide
while she is blatantly blind
and I watch myself growing free.
I watch her fighting for me.

And while breaking my own decisions I’m choosing to forget the fiction in search of a clearer vision
through words.

I’ll search, until I can remember that my words were also hers.