Me, Myself, and It


I am me,
And I am new.
For my dearest friends,
There are few,
But colored blends,
Paint them anew.

I like a raw canvas.
I like to have options.
I’d rather see my whole life,
And take it one stroke at a time.

I’ve had to paint people in,
And scratch others out.
Capture the perfect grin,
Erase some hidden snouts.

People changed,
And others remained.
My canvas has been rearranged,
To the point where little has sustained.

I tossed it away.
And bought a blank sheet.
I don’t plan to display,
Who’ll I’ll meet,
And who will stay,
Because to me,
Blank is limitless;
Blank is glee.


The Difference


I can’t say there is a difference between right and wrong.
Everyone views it differently.

I also can’t say that I can argue my point,
Because reason and emotion come too close to it.
Scorched by the very same joint;
Cracked by the very same wit.

I’ll show you I’m right,
I’ll show you you’re wrong.
I can’t do both without failing,
So I’ll cling to this railing,
Speak my mind,
Claw then nailing,
Make my way,
Past smooth sailings.
Show the line,
And how it’s fading.

Look at it Now


I took up an arm.

Thought it’d do me no harm,

To take on this burden so soon.

Just to cling on till June.


I put my time into this.

Took my aim,

Counted the miss.

I won’t say that I am to blame,

But then again,

I started the flame.


I figured I’d do what I can.

Show them all what I am.

Who I could be,

Who I want to be.


But I’m running on youth.

And I can’t be young forever.

It’s the cold truth;

It’s a tiring endeavor.

In the Snow


I forgot the game,
As I moved on to brighter horizons.
There were no tracks left behind to follow.
Not one; not even a tune so hollow.

I marched on in the snow,
Watching it fall over my tracks.
The future sparked with a certain kind of glow,
One that I slithered into between its many cracks.

I was silent about it too.
I couldn’t sell myself out when I had no intention to.
I walked on in search of hidden dew.
I wondered forward to get away from you.

Letting it Live


I think I caught it,
So it’s only a matter of time really.
Before I fall into that same kind of grit.
And say things too permanent, just merely…

I caught it bad.
I feel it running through my veins,
Making me mad.

It disrupts the mind,
Makes it harder to find,
The reason and logic we all hold on to.
All because it’s fresh and it’s new;
It can change everything,
For what we’d hope would be the better.
We’re all to quick to put our pen to the letter.
Bring it to substance;
Watch it breathe.

The Name’s the Game


I counted a dozen,
But the number can be so much higher.
Maybe it was or maybe it wasn’t;
Don’t you dare call me the liar.

I’ll call it what it is,
In front of all,
So they will see,
Just what has been a part of me.

It goes by many names.
Names so numerous, that they are better left forgotten.
It’s all organized to fit into this given set of games.
There is no victor there,
And there never will be.
The losers are those who begin to care;
That come to feel, rather than listlessly see.

You could say that I’ve lost the game.
You can also accurately say that my senses have gone lame.
Oh, but the names;
Yes, they mean something beyond just words.
They are beyond reason, into the great absurd.

These names trespass into uncharted lands.
And I have seen them, held them in my very hands.

The Camera’s Story


They called it rape,
But he said he could never rape a girl.
They said he was just looking for an escape,
Yet he claimed they were too quick to hurl
Such damaging accusations like that.
Too ready to pitch straight for that condemning bat.

She didn’t consent,
But she didn’t show rejection,
He said.
He was impassioned, with intent,
Ignoring her interjections.

People can say that maybe he didn’t know it was rape,
Others can point, and say he’s just hiding under a cape.
So it’s either he’s made void by social learning,
Or he’s to blame ready for the stakes,
Ready for the burning.

But what of the girl?
What of her pain?
We keep the man,
Put up the chain,
Watch our cameras pan,
Trying to enliven the story.

We talk of the man,
To avoid it once more.
Build up our plan,
Make it the story’s core.

Because if we can show that we learn to desensitize such acts,
Then maybe there’s more to show behind all our facts.
The man is wrong nonetheless in terms of what’s just,
But the girl is the focus; the book we’ve left to gather dust.