Granite Fashions & Cellophane Strings

Rivers fall on tracks riveting
Everyday citizens lining ordinary heights
Ants see only peripherally
Little thoughts, little dreams,
Little wishes, little themes
Crumbling to chocolate liquor streams
Swimming upstream to tags unworn by modest upbringings
Jumping downstream to a different face of fantasy
Magic has a different name
A different flame, a bittersweet game

Granite fashions and cellophane strings
Frozen fingertips and broken heartstrings
Winter prys those who fall to the feet of blistering reality
Tears from an angry cloud swish in unproofed shoes
Left unprovoked and untarnished
Wash, rinse and repeat

Want inspiration? Run somewhere else
Secrets color streaks in a lonely palm tree
Three days is plenty

Forever Dance

Chords crashing on a silent reverie
Breaking a little, dancing on a string
to nowhere, where do you go?
A single flower on a wide open space
Eyes wide open, but
Mind shut.

Doctrines I teach you learn not
Only a missense mentality
But a dishwashed dream
of syllables I translate into the
Words
Every word I wish you'd believe


A boy on a fragment, a freefall, a forever fantasy
Final call for
Clean blue circles are not
But I don't.
I won't be the one
Fix you yourself
Too young, too dumb
Pretending clear skies on snow days
Nothing is solved, unhaze the craze and
Try.

A girl on a pinnacle, a pinwheel, a forever party
Twisting and turning each thought you do not
Why now, why you cannot explain
But rather do.
Only doing, doers fall
Don't fall
Forget all you ever wanted
Bleached frames of what you cannot see
But I do
That's what to do
I can't be the one to sing you itoldyaso's in three years
Itellyaso instead now

You and I,
a drift, a daze, a forever dance.

Shorts

Flashing hungry eyes
Terrified of lies (but only if I cry)
Poems of tomorrow, I surmise
will into portraits arise
Dark creatures lie with a sinister smile and inviting eyes
Eyeing the prize of a plan not executed
Properly

Proper figments of disguise
Shielding my lies, but wait,
I don't lie, I only try
yesterday's truths into tomorrow's byes
I decide
I control the sides of which stories I tell

Short-lived, short life, short cries
of temporary joy and reflecting upon my actions
I am victor, always
Good night.

Archaeology

Clouds collapse on each other feeling
They've had their share of my burden
Mirrors transcend the powder you dust on my face
Painting me the way you want that day

It's wrinkled, you know, wrinkled and crow feet and fossils and dinosaurs and archaeology
But you assume me to break upon command,
Laugh upon words you feed to
others who differentiate not the blurred line
flying between perfection and possibility

Ah, I'd have you know every detail
But details remain fragments of complete truths I refuse to tell
You pretend to think to know to see through
but my outer layers and think we'd
intersect and intertwine
Cards and tricks I cannot mine
till beacons of hazy nights swallow mysteries into
the story of a time

Once in a limelight
Twice in a green light
Inconstant feelings sigh

Brick Stones Unknown

Promise of a possibility
Wandering into brick stones unknown, and I
Break into a thousand shores, sure I
Ripped inside a tainted mind, following a
Promise of a path

Fingers losing their tension, their strength
Falling into toys of the player
Puppet on a string
I knew the master but he told me
I fly too high
Scolds me for my decisions, and I
Leave him with excuses to justify the
Quiet murmur in my mind

Walls swimming into papers on walls and
Air bubbling in clouds of unreality
Something escapes me
What words? And what feels?
Who feels? Who blurs
the fashion of the blacklight
Beaming on brisk fantasies and
Fade

Out My Window

Shades of inner gray color the words I cannot find,
sharing three sides of the same story
Blue cuts into gray skies, just as I
Swallow and sing each breathy lyric and meet
the disillusioned me bursting into ballad but
stay above the surface

Sentence.

Distilled water

Illuminates the thoughts to

Save two lives and

I

Leave light spirits heavy in the

Lateness of the hour

Unless I

Sacrifice roots for

Sentiments uncontrollably falling

Into a pattern

Of deliberate, sloppy

Nothingness.