The Place Where Made Whole

Pick me something pretty,
pick me something sweet,
something where satisfaction
and dreams can meet,
something where we
can peacefully keep,
where our legs and fatigue
can meet with sleep.

Play me something peaceful,
something just slow enough
to slow this racing pulse
in this race too rough,
something that can sooth
feet swollen and sore,
something that will mean
just a little bit more.

String up the songs
that settle it all,
the ones that capture
imagination with their call,
the ones that live
only that which we can't,
the ones to unite
our disjointed chant.

And allow it all
to flow from your hands,
to come from you fingers
according to your plans,
and allow it to take
these complacent souls
left here so placid
to a place where made whole.

Ultimate Fall

I'm disappointed.
I'm let down
with nothing seen
when I look around.
No one to pick
me off the ground,
only the echoing
of my body's hitting sound,
I can't seem to find
just what I need
to nourish these innards,
to successfully feed.
Needs not met,
wants not solved,
passions not quenched,
nothing resolved,
only a selfish being
remaining after all
and only tears to accompany
on the ultimate fall.

Guilty Air

It's all over,
it's everywhere,
the pain and suffering,
the guilty air,
the whiff of regret,
the stench of failure,
the sickening game
won by a sick player.

It's ending now
and just beginning,
the winner ending
without a winning,
the loser losing
for being there
and both screaming
how it isn't fair.

The reeking of it,
of the play chosen
leaves all paralyzed,
involuntarily frozen,
with no movements
able to be made
with the game already
done being played.

Remnants of,
proof remaining
of the sucking of life,
the complete draining
are all that's left,
all that's there
in a time and place
where someone should have cared.

Point Moot

Tongue out, eyebrows furrowed,
confusion rampant, tucked in her burrow...
Misunderstanding there, effort with,
attitude good, mind split...
Smile present, squint, too,
eyes questioning (those blues)...
Explanation forthcoming, needed quicker,
explanation missing, target thicker...
Point moot, all lost,
subject left, no cost.

Streets

Love, let the love
go with the drum beat,
take your head to bang above
and to move your feet
as your body will follow
and do what it does
to rise above the noise, to go
over the insufferable fuzz.
The voices in the back
that go and go and go,
that repeats on the track
that never gets slow,
the problems they face
may be the same as ours
but it's a different place
that seems awfully far
with the streets going loud
and the pain even louder,
with the violence proud
and only getting prouder,
they tell you to check
and to check it out
before you go down in the wreck
and are left to scream and shout.
The go-getter gets you
and leaves you for the fishes
no matter what you do
as you're left in the ditches,
the battle that surrounds
now is that which consumes
as death and blood abounds
with only the pain that blooms.

These Breaking Dawns

A day of doubt
followed by encouragement
to heal the wounds
and fill in the left dents,
the darkest days
need these breaking dawns
to silence the thunder
and calm the storms.
The amazement is palpable
of God's timing
to bring these lights
when the will is dying
but He never lets down
and is always present
even through the storms
we are convinced aren't meant.
The bringing of
the fruit for which
we tirelessly labor
is never the glitch
and always when
we need it most,
the blessing of
the Holy Ghost.

Answers They Don't Have

This is a poem from a couple months ago that I never posted...sorry for the delay but I hope you enjoy a blast from the past writing style/mind that I carried:


When ideas run rampant
without an outlet
why should I not
act upset?
I know there is
some reason or rhyme
but what if I don't
have the time
to take to figure
or take to discover
when it seems the process
is immediate for others?
I can't turn to them
for the answers
that they don't have
for this, my cancer.
I can't turn to those
who seem to luck out
and when they don't give
I scream and shout.
They don't have
what I'm looking for
or what I need them
to have in store.
There is only one
place it is found,
a place of wisdom
so profound,
but my stubbornness
is yet to be ready
for the approaching
of that place that's steady.
When my anger that
surpasses passes
maybe then can I
look through the glasses.
I hope it's soon
that this anguish of arrogance leaves
so I can once again
feel some kind of peace.

When Fear Collides with Fate

The moments multiple,
the paths as well,
so many ways
but only one to tell.
Not much to know
or exactly how to,
the game is played
while the feet are glued.
The pushing continues
both times, both ways
while the feet often
lead the mind astray,
the path is muddled
and the spirit condensed
in moments that escape
both knowledge and sense.
The seconds confuse
even the most focused
with the brain's random snap
and the following hocus pocus.
Then when fear collides
with the impending fate
there's no place to go
and nowhere to escape.
Instead the only move
that one could make
is the one it should have originally
before it made the mistake.

The Flawed Man

Walking along
according to the plan
drawn up by
the flawed man,
the outline written,
the ideas thought
with the present
fights being fought,
time to attack,
the move is made
with the game chosen
being played.
The years of practice
to prepare for now
are successful
and make you proud.
It all works
how it was drawn
until it's done
and reality hits you, pawn:
it was all wrong,
it was all a sham.
It was all a storm
that broke the dam.
This philosophy
taken in life
now pulls it
apart with this strife.
The part that
was supposed to float
now drowns
and strangles the throat
while the part
noticeably collapsing
threatens the life
now too quickly passing
only to allow you
enough time to realize
the self-afflicted self-destruction
is the prize.

Punk Rock Princess

Rockin' the heels
and rockin' the lips.
Rockin' the boots
with the rockin' hips.
Bangin' the eyes
and bangin' the head.
Bangin' the music
'til the music's dead.
A sweater to show
the straps she's proud of,
no shame in the style
she's never out of.
Long sleeves even
when it's in the 90s,
it's almost impossible
for a man to find these.
Black eyeliner
with the leather jacket
and the studded belt
on the ripped jeans to match it.
Maybe a vest
or maybe without,
maybe the peace
or maybe the shout.
Pointed shoes
'round rounded toes
belonging to a girl
with a name no one knows.
Pockets with hands
so often found in
but never another's,
always and only her own thins.
The killer blue eyes
that rise above
thought of war
or even love,
above the rest
who only covet what's missed,
she's the one
with the rubies to be kissed
but the illusive prize
will stay unowned,
this punk rock princess
only all to her own.

The Delicate Balance

Do your best here
and accumulate what you can
to make your family happy
and be your family's man,
but don't lose sight
of the future far from here
where He alleviates worries
and any and all fear.
Do your best here
to provide loved ones comfort,
to make those around you
feel free from the hurt,
but don't focus so much
on supplying contentment on earth
when the focus should be solely
on the post-worldly birth.
Remember the fact
that there is nothing wrong
with doing your best here
and doing it for a time so long,
but push for the finish line
in anticipation of the arrival
of the Savior back here
and your own to heaven that will fulfill.

The Tough Times

The hard thing, the right thing,
it all means the same thing,
the tough times, the rough times,
always the easiest to learn times,
the easy to sit, the easy to spit,
the easiest of moments to quit,
the moments we dare, no minutes to spare,
only the ones we must turn to the air.

Moving Away

The boxes packed,
the memories fresh
of days more profitable,
more favored and blessed.
Memories so vivid
of times so surreal,
of the boom experienced,
the boom they loved to feel.
The outlook was good,
a sunset on the horizon
that under it brought
the enemy that lied in.
The roads being constructed,
the buildings being erected,
the seismic shift to cause
the whole town to be affected,
the ones thought to be loyal
to the landmarked little store
began to disappear
more and more and more.
The road once crowded,
the one packed to the curb,
was now empty but for one or two,
those refused to be conquered,
but in the end of it
even the most loyal
could not save the good
that is to be eternally foiled.
With the nightmare come true
the business has moved away,
the same the store must do
on this dreaded fateful day.

Old Bunch Comb Road

The place where we went
to spend all our time,
where we lost our youth,
both yours and mine -
the place where we learned
how to live life,
a one free of worries,
ones free from strife -
the place where the dirt
was a warm, welcomed sight,
where the city's clutter
couldn't put up a fight -
the place full of freedom,
our home away from home,
void of voices voicing displeasure,
just a way of life, our own -
the place where the breeze blew,
where the leaves fell around,
where our hearts crashed into each other
and all guards and barriers fell down:
on Old Bunch Comb Road,
the place of youth and love
for that moment in time
that only our passion could rise above.

No Regard

No regards for others,
no regard for the Guide,
no regard for the Church
or even for Her Bride;
no care if it's lived
by a certain standard
but only to your own
delusional grandeur;
no worry for the future,
no mind paid to consequence
or to your troublesome acts
or, in turn, what they represent;
only regard for the self,
the only pleasure to find,
the only one you seek
for an illusive peace of mind;
but while you do it how you want
and do it every day
you will find hell to be the culmination
of you having it your way.

Fear and Fear

Lord, take it away,
the fear and the fear,
the unconscionable doubt
I scream in your ear.
Lord, shut my canals
off to the words
of hate and misconduct
to me others urge.
Lord, silence the critics
that speak only death
into my conscience
with every living breath.
and Lord, silence the critic
that now dwells in me
so that it may be silenced
as for eternity it shall be.

Spitfire

It's corny, contrived, insincere,
a lie, a pose, a fear.
It's made up, created, rehearsed
in perfect form, perfect prose and perfect verse.
It's preconceived, a ridiculous notion
ridiculed like a magic potion.
It's focused, to the point, concentrated
with a genesis born from, given to the hated.
It's spitfire, it's lava, an acid
for burning the faces and souls of the placid.
It's convincing, concealed, converting
while prying the pious into perverting.
It's immoral, powerful, and wicked
squeezing into the minds previously fitted
and it's winning, conquering, controlling
the hearts and minds and souls foiling

Tripping

Tripping out.
Tripping balls.
Moving back,
the moving walls.
The flames absent,
the ones not there
are bursting further
into the air.
The fire blows
and consumes
all that no
longer blooms
and goes out
in my mouth
while I try
to scream and shout.
The fire disappears
and goes away
in time for me
to go astray
but not before
it's gone without care,
the fire that
was never there.

In the Pile

In the pile,
under the stuff,
among the noise,
among the fluff,
covered by pests,
tackled by demands,
wrestled down
and lynched with reprimands.
Overwhelmed in full,
under siege by all,
given tasks impossible
to answer when called.
In the weeds,
the ones so high
one can't see to
look up to the sky
and all unto
one's own accord,
selfish acts now seen
impossible to afford.

Lost in the Mundane

Lost in the mundane
among the wasted,
the moments that fain
too often tasted.
The minutes subsiding
and fading into the back,
falling into the grey
where everything lacks.
The stormy skies
prior to the storms
that are recognized
far too closely to norm,
the weather present
that presents the rain
and presenting with it
the sudden pain,
it starts to pour
out on the soul
bringing with it more
to destroy the whole
and all because
of the passivity
and a laziness
to crush the weak.

The All

The suspicious,
the inconspicuous,
the delicious,
the fictitious,
the random,
the tandem,
the fandom,
the damned them,
the blessed,
the dressed,
the best,
the rest,
the tall,
the small,
the gall,
the call,
the failed,
the exhaled,
the paled,
the railed,
the come one,
the come all,
the rising up,
the ready to fall.

It's Poetry

It's not history.
It's not past.
It's not tired.
It's not gassed.
It's not old.
It's not tainted.
It's not fading.
It's not fainted.
It's not useless.
It's not non sequential.
It's not unimportant.
It's not inconsequential.
It's more than all.
It's words of fire.
It's passion outward.
It's burning desire.
It's a confession.
It's a venting.
It's a pouring.
It's much needed lamenting.
It's all needed.
It's all healthy
done by all
mentally wealthy.
It's poetry.
It's humanity at it's best.
It's the human psyche
put to the test.

The Lie

I don't know where this myth started.
I don't know where this falsity began.
I don't know when confusion and exaggeration
met and when they picked up and ran.
I don't know who spoke the words
that contradicted the truth in print
or who was foolish enough to assist,
unknowingly propelling the sin.
I don't know who pedaled the trick
that was so far from correct
or who, in the process of the sham,
they were trying to protect.
I don't know how long this facade
has been alive and well
but the gaining of steam
is about to be quelled
with the crashing and the burning
about to come to a head
when the lie, the falsity, the myth
finally ends up dead.

Let's Go Back

Let's go back,
let's go back to the place
where it was void
of the daily pointless race,
the place of peace,
the spot of tranquility
where all equated
in all of its equality,
the place of happiness,
the place of contentment
without the bickering
and blissfully void of the resentment.
Let's go back,
back to the moment we knew
the place that we were in
was the one thing that was good.
Let's remember what we felt
when we were there
without worries and frets,
without the slightest of care.
Let's remember
and let's go back
to the place of contentment
where there was nothing to lack.