I See the Glass Full of Water and AirEmotions do not exist.
You may argue that you are elated,
That an event excited you,
But you are wrong.
You could argue that a half-full glass is better,
Try holding it up for more than a minute!
Hold the glass in your right hand
For a minute, a day, a week,
And you will disagree.
So, drop it.
Exhilarated, yes you are
About this cup so full,
But of what?
Is water the source of your happiness?
Without water will you wither?
But without air, will you prosper?
You must make room for more!
I am elated by my glass
Full approximately twenty seven and two thirds percent,
While I ship the rest in boxes to Africa.
My glass may not be full,
But I have made my “emotions”
Vacant of all events but those in my control.
This is how I “feel”,
Just as I walk, run, or fly across a street.
PassionYou found it in books,
And in music
So dark I can't believe you found it-
Something to hold onto.
Something tangible, something real.
It seeps through your lips
Like wine or sex,
And encompasses your being,
Until it is made new.
When you come across someone
Who chooses a song
And brings it to life-
Every word of every line-
When someone lets you reach out and
A lyric in the flesh...
You are captivated.
You told me once what I mean to you.
You've given your respect,
But passion is truly the greatest emotion one can feel.
With your desires, you make me crave with you.
I strive to feel the way you do.
I'm searching for the answers.
Why won't this work?
You don't have all the answers,
But that's okay,
Because you do have some,
And the ones you have
Are terrifyingly beautiful.
Yours are juxtaposed to mine in such a way
That mine resemble a garbage can- empty!
Empty of even the wrongs!
But our differences?
You push me to feel.
PirateHe has not seen the scar yet sunk in chest,
Two eyes doth change left, right, and here about,
And thus he fell to simple, haughty rest,
But not too near the X marked clear, no doubt.
I’m chained no more though darkness still resides,
Leave me in peace until the long day’s done.
And blood still lingers – by laws does not abide.
Don’t send me now to meet the Holy One.
I’ll search my home, my pockets completely,
She’ll find her soul behind the setting sun
And even when it’s all done repeatedly.
At twelve she’ll know with haste she’s really won.
No more does she need knight in shining tin;
She is herself, with patience running thin.
The Dying WolfChiseled in charcoal,
Capped in chimerical moss,
The wolf is still, hungry.
Calls out to the moon now caught,
Cornered by cat’s-eye stars.
Locks of AgesIf you would put the key inside the lock,
My fortune’s seen, unrest in belated stock.
Eyes green and moldy cannot yet suffice
For true love’s kisses to meet now, and twice.
Candle-lit and steamed for two-three-four years past,
Not one to cross the borders from pink cast.
Brains do wander like clouds from setting sun,
Unleash the beast! Four days, we are quite done.
Why Politicians Write PoetryThey draw baths of blood in their home left quiet
To paint in peace,
And use skin to mask insecurities
From those who have deceased.
They write it to wail out enormous bouts of terror
that he felt when she left him in finality,
until this nonexistent woman saw him in the supermarket
and hid, feet away, behind the pepperoni rack.
She holds anti-American propaganda
That she freehanded herself,
And ducks behind it
To hide her belly which should be bursting,
and has long since been empty of life.
The girl shouts in support of her father’s radical demonstration, for his pleasure,
And looks sideways at him,
Praying to a merciful God
That he’ll take a break from ‘pleasing’ her tonight.
He, wet with sweat everywhere save behind his ears,
Holds his grandfather’s hand
As the elder sports brass knuckles and squints,
And the child, without attracting any stray eyes,
Pulls damn hard,
Tears gluing his feet to the concrete
As he tries to deter his elder
From strangling h