The lover I still seek
is better than me.
Infinitely small and large,
She has been where I am before,
Where they gave her trophies she wouldn’t accept.
But you can see them in her eyes.
The answer to everything is in her now
and at no other time.
She is always slightly out of reach.
The only thing she doesn’t know
is that she is too good for me.
And that’s why I haven’t found her yet.
I’ve done much worse
depending on how you look at it.
There will always be those who celebrate
the inversion of your apex.
Maybe I should just learn to pivot
to please;
Pretend I premeditated the tragedy,
called the eight ball in the side pocket,
become an impostor god.
My super-power is my infinite reservoir of excuses.
I become the only one who doesn’t worship me,
and having so many misled followers,
I’ll intentionally make a wrong turn
and lead the whole parade off a cliff
which,
somewhere,
will earn me yet more followers.
All the things I would write about
if I had more time,
And all the things I will never know to write about
if I don’t have the time.
Yet another poem on demand.
Theme: blank page.
Count: 11 words.
Blank page,
busy mind.
Nothingness
is the loudest
form of mockery.
The problem with blogs is that you read them in reverse.
If you’ve read this blog, you know my friend Mike and I hang out in coffee shops or pubs on weekends and write poems on a topic given to us by strangers.
Here is one I found in my notebook from last weekend at Zeitgeist. I think the topic was, “dark beauty”.
Her suicide was beautiful,
gorgeous,
brave,
and honorable.
The middle finger lifted at a minister
as he gives a bullshit sermon.
She wasn’t escaping with cowardice.
She was saying something she’d been saying all along
but finally discovered how to get an audience,
at the expense of an encore.
