Category: 11th

Insomniac Mind

Haunting the hushed night
Hallucinations of swirls
Insomniac drain

Motorcycle revs
Imaginary owl hoots
Insomniac strain

Shadows swelling in
Merging with the popping swirls
Insomniac pain

Countless words passing
Of thoughts never heard again
Insomniac brain

Will the world quiet?
Will nothing be heard somewhen?
Insomniac dream

Sea Glass Memories

At the beach I collect sea glass
The broken pieces that could be counted as trash
As it washes in with the tide
The sea glass is broken but beautiful
And each piece is like a different memory

Every piece broken and shattered
What once was a part of a whole
Like fractured childhood memories
A meaningless remembrance of a stuffed toy
From a moment that meant so much more
Or remembering a stranger’s first arbitrary sentence
That turned into years of laughter and inside jokes

Sea glass is smoothed from the sanding of the tide and time
A dull side where once a cutting edge was
Like faded memories that were once harsh
A story told so often
That the words no longer cut your tongue coming out
A faded memory of something that once seemed so pressing

Often the colors of sea glass repeat
Browns, greens, and whites in abundance
Like everyday memories
The ones that blur into each other
Until it seems as if you’ve lived the same day in a loop
Until the bus stop and high school feel like the only places you’ve ever been in the whole world

Rare colors are a moment of difference but still just more varying pieces of sea glass
A tiny shard of purple or blue just barely Spotlighted amongst the ordinary
Like the singular memories that don’t quite get pulled into forgetfulness
Like the day that you always remember
Not because it was extraordinary
But because you sat with family
Sweating in the late summer heat
And you laughed and talked
And the day felt beautiful and real

On each beach I visit
The ocean gnaws hungrily at the sand
Onto the fine grains the tide has carried trash and treasure
Among the shells and litter
Encased in salt and sand
I find lost memories

I Don’t Know How To Fix This

The thought always looms in the air
Because I always search for food.
It ceases to leave my body.

Deciding whether to
Eat sweets or more savory items.
Food fuels my desires

Good food, my mom’s food
Has a special place in my heart.
I can never remember when I first ate it,
Just that it has always been good

The aroma that lingers in the kitchen,
It welcomes me when I walk in.
Whether it’s boiling away on top of the stove,
Or roasting inside of the oven.

No cookbooks lay on the counter.
Only a small folder of lined paper
Filled with lines of tiny script
And stains that have stood the test of time.

Knowing that it came from my grandma,
Leaves me in tears, because of the
Memories.
Never fading,
Arching over my head,
Providing me with a mixture of emotions.

In small-town diners,
With their home-style food,
I feel the presence
Of happiness.

Quite often, I find my self
Remembering her banana pudding, the taste
Still lingers in my mouth.

Wanting more, I order
The expensive dessert
Hoping for one last taste

But the things I eat now
Underwhelm me, to the point of me
Leaving the bowl untouched

The artificial flavor radiates off the bowl
And into my face.
It floats around and traps me
While I remember how good things used to be

Tulips are Forgotten

Two tulips in a field amidst a strong gale,
of bugles and horns-

Shelter its petals from the breeze,
the sound of air raids-

The wind grows stronger,
the sound of thuds-

The tulips wear a crimson dress,
as he stares-

The sound of boots thudding,
thud, thud, thud-

And more thudding without looking,
the tulips are crushed-

One remaining petal still coated in red,
looks at her loss-

Millions of petals saturate the field,
the sound stops-

The stampede moves elsewhere to sing,
more tulips await-

The petals form a new field,
of pink not white-

The field will now be forever tainted,
what happened that night-

A father should not hold his son,
lifeless and gone-

But tulips are just a casualty of war,
no boundaries are drawn.

Garden

The bright lights from Venus stand stark
against the soft twilight.
And above it, the dark oblivion rests
above the top of the trees.
The stars form perfect clusters,
illuminating the garden.

A single star shoots
across the sky,
burning and hurling its way
through the cosmos above,
promising a poisoned demise
to some other planet.

But that is another planet,
another swirling galaxy,
another twilight.
Rest beneath the willows
and listen to the trickling brooks
and sleep.

This garden has no room for poisoned thoughts,
only the soft petals of reassurance.
Leave your fate behind you
and rest.
Come and let the weariness
and weight of your soul
leave you.

Silverneck

Red blotted on pale cheeks,
a young face
unmarked, still lovely.

Roses, in red,
blossoming in lush gardens
and swans gliding on a lake,
black eyes filled with charm.

Pale men with black hair and
colored glass eyes, born
with silver and gold
and
ignorant to their actions
and their terrible beauty.

Vain and pearled
sat the young child,
red still blotted on pale cheeks
and a bony neck with silver pouring from
its lips as it falls to the mooring swans,
eyes black as trout

Curiosity of a Space

Traveling along with prickly spikes around its body,
the creature makes its way around the room. Feeling
of all things claustrophobic, it explores the lonely space
which is anything but lonely during the beginning and
end of the day. Spending enough time to remember the
cycles of every day on this property, it goes along to learn
more about the habitat. Coming along to a spinning chair,
Enacting such a motion by the perpetrator who comes upon
The furniture. A glass full of utensils seems to be filled
with a sort of liquid, which are the same colors as the
canvas that appears to have been written on. Yet through
all of these new sights, come no confirmed answers, but
observations for one.

Always at Hand

The time we have is wasted
Upon pillars of hours spent
Suffocated by piles upon piles of tedious work
Our days exceedingly locked away
Our hands never stopping to delay

Slowly drowning in the depths of open sea
Air taken away from struggling lungs
Arms flailing around trying to grasp something solid
Fighting for the breath stolen

It’s a coffin keeping us trapped
Snuffing out any life
A candle who burned bright
Being doused in water
Quicksand sucking at your soul
Tugging away your freedom

It’s the work that we receive
Locked away in our hole of despair
Gasping for breath we heave our chests
And yet the work remains