Poems--Questions of a Loneliness

Man...what do you do when you feel lonely?

Do you check your facebook?

Or do you try to erase your face and then look?

Do you have a space that you can call just your own,

Or is it the MY way or the highway when you try to hook up

A live date with just you and a book

When you try to spend your loneliness the right way

Only to end up spending it all on happy endings at the mall

With full service and all.

How do you figure you'll take all the time in the world to find a love in a world where the time fills the swirls where the light is supposed to unfurl;

When feeling alive means I'll take half my time just to say I'm alright--

But you're really feeling so terrible;

No apetite, nothing's edible, everything priceless, and unforgettable,

Where half the time you feel out of place

In a daze,

Like society's just not made for you,

Something's wrong, I just FEEL it

But your word's in the same milieu

That you found them in yesterday,

And today they're as sane as the crazed state that you lost them in...how do you process this?

I cannot postulate just why

I feel this way

Ryan Adams

Feels so alive

But all I can feel is a numbness to my days

And I don't know why.

Poems--So Many Things

So many things...

So many things I know not about her

Of things that inspire or make her wonder

Things that come together to picture a person completely

Her dreams, her

Emotional seams

Devotional scene

Or

The ocean she sees

So easily.

So many things I will one day understand

Where, in the meantime, anticipation stands;

You know, patience demands

That I take all of it in as a delicate sand

And

Not trap our dances in hourglasses standing on end,

But instead,

As few of the so many things that I do comprehend, I

Can simply keep wishing her smile radiates what she's thinking,

That as many of the so many things as she'll one day choose to give me,

This bit of a smile and a kiss on her face,

And the way her two eyes light the way to a place

only hers and so privy;

That the little things we have shared--all the glances and stares, emotional dances and flares, bursts of words and illogical thirsts for the other--that all these little things,

Worth so many things,

Will earn a page in everything that will one day describe how our sun rose and shone and gave birth to a soul, unexpectedly so, unpretentiously old, so...

endlessly and neverendingly molded by the so many things I still don't know but hope to...

and it's those so many things that so elate me.

She is so amazing.

Rhymes--Disappointed

I got this beat and don't know what to do with it

Where to begin

Or how to soothe the view within

Pain in my chest

But no physical symptoms

No

Conditions I can think of

So there's no medicine for this one

Just a bag of tricks my mind is playing on my feelins

Yes, it's related to a woman

Wish I could forget the disappointment

Of the moment

When I first realized our motion wasn't workin

Or the second time she called me out on my motives

She called them selfish, I picked up the phone

And called Helpless

Could have left a voicemail

But lost the sentences

People may be right, maybe I'm too sensitive

Rhyme--Mixed Message

How I

Feel is confused

By her interest

And then huge

Disinterest

Like a rush of sugar

And then citrus

Cuz yo

How you go from brown

To green

To loud

To serene

And back to shoutin peace

When you love war

Seems like you don't know what you want more

Am I the right soundtrack or the wrong score?

If you can answer any of my many questions

Please...

I just want a straight message

Poems--Writing to Jazz

Nothing like writing to live jazz,

Dining to the pizazz of a cold, foreign beer;

Beautiful smiles abound,

People, warm to the touch,

Enjoying a swarm of conversation and such.

A breath of fresh air; a feeling of debonair lingers in it,

Where you measure success by how often you wince in delight;

A tweak of your brow, a glance at the crowd,

Immersed in the sounds of earthly delight.

That feel of a loud, jazzy night,

The feel of another life...

These lights all around me,

They glisten, they shine with the promise of what surrounds me,

And I'm pleased.

As I breathe,

My nostrils take in the fragrance of a poem fluidly written,

A program so truly smitten by my pen's code,

Irregular soul clashing with hazy thoughts of a clenched hold,

Over this paper,

Over this latent place I've found myself traced in,

And I rather like it.

Just like I like my pen.

It's honest,

Even when I'd rather not be.

Just like jazz.

Musings on Overthinking

I suppose I just feel like writing. You know, as a poet, I always feel compelled to rhyme, to sell my mind on paper. But I suppose that sometimes, it's best to forsake my talent, to take in the entirety of what my mind has to offer, beyond the metric rhythms floating in this magnet of thought patterns I call my brain.

Mostly, I'd like to arrange a way to not think...well, not not think, just...not think so hard. It's something I'm very good at, and which occasionally sparks a backlash from those around me. Mostly just love interests. Mostly just women. And, you know, I can't decide if I prefer it that way; is it good to be this original, this unique of a mural, so much so that I push them away at times? Perhaps it's the weak ones, or the ones most drawn to me, that run away with fervency equal to their initial interest. I really can't tell--can you tell just how dissonant all this is, how I can't shut my analytical side even long enough to consider the simplicity of my plight, if one could even call it that? It really is rather bothersome...

Maybe I'm a genius, I don't know, but of all the stereotypes I might find in common with the truth of my grey matter, the one I think would fit most well would have to be the one of genius trapped in social inferiority, which--ironically enough--I don't know if conforms to this, since I get along rather well with others. Then again, it took me until the latter part of my latter years of adolescence to find enough in common with others, to find enough to smatter within myself, to find common enough sounds to mutter. So then perhaps there is a latency I cannot shake, of social misfittance, of a failure to relate on a denominator level with others, including women, although I can't be bothered to find out, because I also like my style. My approach, the words I find worthwhile, it's all a part of all I cherish, and if I did not care, then, well, I wouldn't be myself then.

But I like me. Even with the inconveniences it brings. And when I feel like writing, well...that's as good a sign as any that I'm pretty happy.