Poems & Riddles

The accumulation of original thought

The Grindstone

Stress is like a grindstone

It makes its subjects more sharp.

If it weren’t for this leash

Life could be a walk in the park.

Instead, it’s a war of attrition

Constantly testing my ambition

As if things desired I am not welcomed to.

But the fool that I am

Welcomes me to try again

Until contentedness is acquired

And the war reaches end.

 

Till I am well hired,

My brain is on fire

Racing with thoughts of destiny.

To no degree, I will let flames get the best of me because

As you see, pedigree claims me to mediocrity

And turns my criticizations to hypocrisy, though I plan so differently and other.

Through the things that I utter and attempt, I worry my mother, and with contempt

I am held inside the courts of this life I call mine.

Be that as it may, the judge’s gavel will slam away

And I shall find a new stone to grind.

Captivation of the Seeing Fool

Captivating how immaculate I can be.

No debating I can reach forms of mastery,

I harvest my money tree and pray for comfortably living.

Grateful for all of the nicer things I’ve been given.

 

Who would I be if not a fool tempted by evil?

I rock and roll as if I were a Beetle

Or Rolling Stone, handling business like Capone.

Weakness, I can’t condone.

Freak shit, I do atone.

 

Flown like a fly, live your life, then die!

 

Fate we can find when we leave hate behind,

For a world that’s blind, it’s captivating how we lie.

The substratum of superstition

The End

The life I feel is full of waiting on and on for something to be better.

I write days, nights, and mornings until my palms feel heavy weathered.

Yes, it has been so long since I’ve written “The End.” many months if you don’t count this one instance.

Perfection is a hinderance, monks say a weakness, don’t be fooled!

It haunts my dormant, taking my rest, closing the school to perfect what’s next.

Study the best to learn to perform it.

Months contest my End performance.

Matching Set

My socks don’t match right now.

One is camouflaged and the other polka dotted.

Today is the busiest day of my week, Wednesday, sitting right in the middle.

In my second semester of my second year of college, I’ve chosen to have class only three of the seven days in a week.

Today, I have four out of my four classes.

I’ve gone to none. 

 

An old friend from a former stage of life messaged an antiquated picture from an aged inside joke of ours. 

I laughed and enjoyed it immensely, considering the fun that we once had. 

She offered a visit, opening the flood gates and hoping I would rush in. 

Instead, I laid on the floor and nearly cried. 

 

The only thing audible in my daylit darkness is the fan aimed to the gaming console to prevent overheating. 

The console has been off for days now, the fan has not moved. 

I guess I’ve yet to get around to it. 

 

On my busiest day, I have nothing to do. As a result of my own Ill advised decisions, I’ve come to just sit here and wait. Wait for the day to be over, maybe.

Maybe my socks will match tomorrow.

Mess in the Moon

The night has been sleepless but you did not mean to stay up, as rest is a luxury you wish not to forgo.

Sad is it that instead your dreams are corrupt and the thoughts can become so abnormal.

Yes, you were in your bed— your pillow touched your head.

You should have been asleep hours ago.

 

How is it that the guilt has grown unbearable?

How is it that the smile you’ve honed has become so unwearable?

 

Terrible. A better you is on the way is what they’d believe and you’d say 

It’d be easier to sleep if you’d seen it.

Instead, you are blind— no use for two eyes

And the moon will continue its restless gleaming.

The Weeds of Flowers

The axiom of self-checking is that it is carefully checked.

I’m basking in a lack of rest and cannot see what comes next.

 

My vision is impaired, where it is fairly covered in inscrutable glare.

I’m tugging on my hair, scared of my deleterious care

 

For my sleep

Untenable, but not weak

I want friends 

I can’t meet.

I’m so hungry,

 I can’t eat.

 

I need all of this money

The faucet is running

I don’t care to do my deeds.

 

This overwhelming is unbecoming

benefits will be reaped.

 The truth is now so easily seen

 

The flowers are just covered in weeds.

The Rotten Coming of Man

The Touch of a King

Midas touch everything I touch turns to gold and shit.

I want golden shit but somebody must have hid it.

 

I’m always tripping, tongue driven, young and different, living in skillets but still flapjack flipping.

I’m all giving, no skipping, light sinning, favorite holiday must be Thanksgiving.

I’m bad tripping, paint dripping, no tipping like the waiter forgot I wanted light ice with it.

 

Rolling! I’m too nice.

Bong water with the ice.

Wrong but always write.

About a quarter white.

 

Midas touch and the leaves already turning brown.

If I ever struck out, you’d see me charge the mound.

 

So how that sound? Neck so long I can’t look down.

I’m too proud, emptied out the lost and found.

It’s all good now, almost time to take that first bow.

 

All smoothed out and I’m almost round.

 

Midas touch, everything I touch turns to golden shit.

Boy, that’s tough! Smell like roses when I get used to it.

She calls me and I don’t know what to say.

One day She will take me but I pray it to be years away.

My flowers would be seeded,

Blossomed,

And blooming,

My hair will be silver gray.

 

I know she wants me sooner,

What one destined would desire any postponing?

I do all that I can to be certain our hands are not ever holding

Or touch, alone

I swear it’s too much—

Till noon, She calls out my bluff,

Condoning my lesser pleasures more than I.

 

How could I hide

Where She will not find

Weakness or pain in my design?

Imperfect, was the sculptor, why must He indulge Her,

Then grant no shield for I to hide behind?

The anxiety I feel when I smell her breath!

She wants to give me death!

If only Time waited on I.

The Hermit

I’ve tasted the leather of the belt. I’ve watched the ice weather melt. The tug of the tether was felt, and I’ve played these cards, no matter how they’re dealt.

In this learnful earning, empathy and weakness is left burning And all of my vulnerability has died away. Still I feel as if pain receptors have gone ill, pain rejectors have grown quills, and I am rolling with such blows anyway.

WALK

At last, I am alone. All harm is of my own, Preferential to walk through a hallway, yet hollow— In my own good or poor health.

What wealth! From depths I have flown, At last I am home and I truly enjoy the company of myself!

The Blossom Man

Grave

I saved your life twice.

More if I remember right,

Yet I still lost you.

"WE GOT OUR DEBUT ALBUM COMING OUT... WHAT IS IT... TOMORROW?"

RSVP

Attendance is low.

I sent the invitations. 

They did not love me.

"GIVE ME YOUR MONEY, JERKOFF"

-NIGHT OUT

succession

Gone if you are loved.

I dare not say not it say it other.

Missed, then found another.

GARDEN

playing now in music!

something

It’s found out 

What every lord has known about.

They found clout

Not from the lies of their mouth.

They kept fears

Disparity, raging years.

 

But

 

It’s got a free spirit

That much is clear.

It stops the damn car 

Then I switch gears.

It’s a shark at the pier

A storm that’s too clever 

 

However

 

It roams all amok and it never endeavors 

To give a slight fuck man I feel so embarrassed

To burden myself with this message I swear, 

To live in a life where living is unfair.  

The War in the Art

"YOU WANT THE BEATLES?"

-THIRSTE

Discordant

My dark cloth grows wet
With strange imbecilic joy,
I choose to be dry.

love is Vicious

It’s faint, but I do hear the game show going on in the other room.

The buzz upstairs because a neighbor chose a vacuum over a broom. 

 

Outside is the skyline of the old city that was born mine,

Yet I still need GPS to get through.

Deferred from the decline that it was headed in due time,

It was saved way before I knew.

 

What do I speak of? Why do I rabble?

These words are a riddle, a self manifested battle.

And yet I am loud, my sounded sounds sound proud, 

The love in which I paddle is no more found in a crowd

Than my own due accord; I’ll read if I grow bored.

I slam that glass door, locked away with the lord, my sword, and these chords.

 

This riddle has grown malicious.

I cannot change a thing.

Love is vicious. 

Dissonant

Success brings more joy
Than hidden dreams may ordain.
Yet, I desire rest.

Glass Ceiling

You miss me.

That’s a lie.

Something’s missing.

Don’t know why.

Every time I leave the house, try to feel alive,

But I can’t figure out why my tools are so tied.

 

Tied to a post,

Be it that I may not falter.

Strung to a pier,

So that I may not wander.

Becoming so upset that my tools are tied together,

To find a way out, how could I not endeavor? 

 

Forever is how long I will feel somewhat grayed.

My shackles are wrists to heels, yet I am not in a cage. 

A soft feeling. 

Ever healing.

My unappealing.

                                                    Glass ceiling.                                                    

I THINK THE BAND ARE THE STARS, BUT I'M MORE LIKE THE SUN

-LIGHTSKIN SANTA

Focus

Every voice in my head constantly tells me I must. 

Malicious Id or preservative superego,

They tell me to focus.

 

In a mind that can be changed overnight,

How could I blame them?

Plagued with constant fear of what might,

How could I sustain them?

 

Missed calls and friends blown off,

Constant working when it appears I’ve grown soft.

Is it loneliness or unhappiness?

With this money mess, unscrupulous.

To sit still is my greatest test.

Doing everything wrong when to relax would be best.

 

Calm down. Try to focus.

 

But how could I,

When I am so deep in this pain?

But how could I,

When there’s a world living in vain?

But how could I,

When the only consistency is plain,

And the only thing great is the good on the way?

But how could I,

When the easy things are slipping away?

But how could I,

When everyone wants you to pay?

But how could I,

When I’m upset and have nothing to say,

And the only thing great is the good on the way?

 

Focus,

It’s ironic that you would try.

"THERE'S TOO MANY FUNKING CHOES, MAYN"

-NICE TO MEET YOU

Let it Ring

Not a day where the sun does not shine,

The time is always sunrise.

I only love things that are mine,

The line is drawn above your thighs.

 

Supple touch with luminescent eyes,

Enough to change my mind.

Distracted by the raw beauty in the softest mind,

Sometimes I wish I were blind. 

 

Even then I would not be free,

From the trance, you throw unto me.

It is not enough that I should leave,

When the appeal of you is haunting me.

 

Unfortunately stuck like clay,

I can feel your essence calling me.

Still I opt to say,

Let it ring.

Sue

Lunar Aversion

The season was unending,

Pestering and persisting like cancer.

I fear the worst is yet pending, 

Leaving me with questions no one else can answer.

 

How will I feel about no longer pretending,

Breaching as a man that is so surely to be sure?

Will I succeed while success is no longer lending, 

While I attempt to make a life out of capturing life pure?

 

The path I desiderate is of passion so gross,

Longing to embrace what is alienating from one another. 

On this journey, I bring nothing but optimism and hope,

Yet, in my pockets hides the longing for my mother.

 

I will return with wisdom and wealth for generations of the family to hold,

I will strike the world as a man that is innately fearless and bold.

I will persevere regardless of strife be it warm or be it cold,

I will ask in my time away that please no one change or get old.

 

The moon will always fear the sun

Yet, every battle cannot be won.

IN MY 

MOONLIT MORNINGS

What's Up?

I wake up in mourning. 

I can only cry in my dreams.

The tint feels shady.

That’s nothing new to me. 

 

Yes, the moon is blood but only half of it shows.

Still pretty? 

Sure.

Maybe.

I suppose. 

 

Where is my keys?

 I’ll put it in the ignition and drive myself fucking crazy. 

Headless chicken the way I run around. 

I found the stairway to heaven,

Made it to the top 

And fell all the way fucking down. 

 

Now I’m here. 

 

What’s up?

"DID HE JUST SAY 'BET?"

-THE STORY OF CLEM BEARD

Common Ground

THE RACE

I can’t talk every day

I hope you understand

I missed it anyway

I hope you understand

I have nothing left to say

And I hope you understand

 

I can’t answer your calls 

I hope you understand

I forgot about it all

I hope you understand

I won’t stand to just fall 

And I hope you understand

 

I threw away the phone

I hope you understand

I’d rather be alone

I hope you understand

I can’t come home

And I hope you understand

I didn’t come home 

And I hope you understand

 

I don’t like your tone

Because you don’t understand

I’ll be better on my own

And you can’t understand

I shouldn’t come home 

And you won’t understand.

I won’t come home

And I don’t understand.

Upright

Am I tall?
May be higher now but I can still hear the ant’s call. 
I’m still appalled. 
How can the surroundings of a giant still make him feel small? 
It was built for him. 
Frolicking in countless concrete courtyards as if they were jungle gyms. 
The warnings were hidden.
Can it be no one’s fault, tainting the places unknowingly forbidden?
Yet, I’m at ease. 
Happiness is easy to believe when up is all you see.

Falling Degree

The air is crisp, best on top of higher lands. 
To miss it is death, may we only advance
To this sour investing the world expects me mocking.
And now look! The temperature is dropping.

Allowance

REGARDLESS OF WHERE MY EGGS ARE

Ugh, I smell the world twisting and turning already.
The lips are all chapped but the dog is not shedding. 
I’m letting 
Every thing I encounter just handle itself 
Wet like a flounder but careful, my wealth 
Is fleeting, I’m bleeding, the trips are exceeding 
The gleaming, the wreathing, the money I’m needing 
But still, I’m still, the vibes are not killed
Two pills, that’s real, I’m down up on that hill 
My will, is ill, the list is all filled
With dill, Brazil, the right to go chill 
No fear, I’m near, I parked in the rear
This year, my tears, fell in the ears 
I lay, today, they want me to stay 
Away, I say, I’ll see you next May.

Pressure

You feel it mounting, horseback without a saddle.

Now it’s taunting, the victor of this initial battle. 

 

It’s applied like lipstick between thighs.

You try to rise but the pavement’s comfort lies.

 

Now a bruise, made from words that sound like “I love poo.”

You might as well, if you knew what those words will do to you.

 

Try to quit but there’s no escape to its benevolent cancer.

You submit to being it’s private dancer.

 

It builds upon your foundation, as if you laid it on purpose.

You ignore it just to find yourself feeling worthless. 

 

Don’t listen, don’t hide.

Show teeth, just fight.

Est. 2016