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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Cheap Shot

How can I be happy
when these dreams aren’t my own?
When I’m pushing and trying,
my reward being alone.

I’m a husk of myself
when I’m reading and reading,
not understanding
my menial bleeding.

This going through the motions
for the sake of a path
I don’t want or need,
carved out in a class.

Stress hoists my emotions
so they’re obnoxious and rude,
my mind a rough draft,
fragmented and crude.

What’s holding me back
but the things of my mind?
What’s keeping me open
to what I haven’t tried?

I’m standing right now,
but I’m bound to collapse.
It’s a cheap shot to failure,
and a long one to “success.”

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One year in
and everybody pretends
like this isn’t the way
things have always been.

It took a loudmouthed dumbfuck
to pridefully reveal
the unabating ugliness,
the curtain finally peeled.

That we could be so great
if only Russia hadn’t intervened,
if we’d put a Clinton in the White House,
we’d still have our American dream.

The same policies are better,
and nicer are the wars
when they come from subtle Ds
instead of vile Rs.

We’ll sleep a little sounder
when it’s not shoved in our faces.
We’ll ignore the suffering,
back to normal, enabling racists.

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Lifetime Monogamy

Asp of the tongue,
I ask, are we done?
Destroyer of love,
joy, innocuous fun.

I slide into depths
safe but cold to the touch.
Warmth is above me;
kindness doesn’t mean much.

A sharp answer here,
a distant look there.
I get the words out
like I’m pulling gray hairs.

Constancy
is costly, see?
Bleed ourselves dry
for the sake of “we.”

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The Confession

Our burnt remains,
or to be more clear, the remains
of warm promises in the night.

Spoken over kisses
that at the time didn’t seem finite,
but then the confession…

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Twenty-Seven

I’m letting it go,
but I’ll never forget.
Blind faith isn’t kind
to those harboring regret.

Over things we can’t control,
it can eat away our will.
Memories, they stick like honey,
a bitter but happy pill.

Is there meaning in the loss?
Is death as occupied as life?
If I was brave enough to cross,
could I once more see your eyes?

Twenty-seven now,
I calmly count the years.
I foster enough hope
to believe that you’re still near.

The reactions are different,
some open, some silent.
But no matter which one,
we love you, dear child.

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A narcissist lost to a narcissist.
Before that, corruption beat down populism,
mowed over the grassroots,
the establishment cheating only to lose.

What’s happening:
the Independent pushes for single payer,
while the proud Democrat
goes on tour, blaming others for her failure.

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Far Removed

For all the talk of love,
what about the importance of grace?

Not the bullshit far removed grace
from a savior that in speech

people tend to toss around
like pennies in a collection plate.

The grace that requires no religion, only decency.
Composure in the face of things going wrong.

To put it poetically,
dancing across borders pocked with landmines.

To put it bluntly,
not being an asshole when something doesn’t go your way.

Lack of grace shows entitlement.
Entitlement comes from pride.

I don’t need
some kind of outrageous spontaneity,

just the kind that makes life worth waking up for
regardless of the weather.

I slept through the job being done,
my fear and anxiety keeping me

from finding the will to stay upright.
Routine destroys spontaneity.

The lie I told myself up to this point will be shattered
once and for all: I’m not happy. That was the truth

ringing like a church bell
through the town of my heart.

And how it flies. O how it flies toward a heaven
my soul will never know.

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