Looking forward to wide open spaces
I feel constriction from a lack of walls
Hoping for consolation on faces
They stare blankly as I walk through the halls
Is it all for nothing except a game?
Is there really a prize healing shame?
Category: Poetry
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Sandcastles
On turbulent shores and windy skies,
Opulent palaces begin with humble mud pies.
Some with buckets and some only with hands,
Many with blueprints and a few without any plans.
Built up with different visions in mind,
Sticks, shells, and feathers are enshrined.
No matter how many towers or wings are constructed,
The complete demolition will be conducted.
So it goes on a visit to the beach,
The sands smoothed out with the ocean’s reach.
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The Torches Being Handed Down
I can see a series of torches that have been lit across the world.
I can see the high flag of love and freedom being unfurled.
Unsure if we created love or if love created us…
Or are we just confused love turned treacherous?
The echo is heard across every country and creed and time.
But similarities are confused in each attempt at the elusive rhyme.
Oh what mystery is beheld in the imagination of the soul.
A fraction of infinity, not apart but the entire whole.
The torch means nothing without the cold, surrounding dark.
Dark is our challenging friend and wants to walk us through the park.
The legacy protects itself through the voices of the broken hearted.
All of the brave ones that looked at love and decided to get started.
For love is the only work that makes you truly you.
The personal uniqueness of our love is reality’s clue.
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Another Boring, Old Fuck
I hear the sound of the age old whine,
The one we all said, “it wouldn’t be mine!”
The complaint that is heard in every generation,
“But this time for real!” Says this iteration.
“Kids these days!” Cries some of my peers,
“It’s a disaster!” Shouts the echoing fears.
“Have you seen online? It’s the end of our luck!”
Or maybe you’ve just become another boring, old fuck.