Blog Archives
torture and fame
we confuse want and need
refuse to let some things bleed
the cogs of shallow hearts break
as we coggle t’ward fortune and fate
but we long for torture and fame
~wwb
this is me…
this is me
finding my voice
this is me graceless
this is me poised
this is me lying
this is me trying
this is me dying
for your attention
this me
of my invention
this is me
exposed
living in this tension
between open and closed
this is me
trying to do free verse
to only expose
the crutch i’ve found in rhyme
this is me self loathing
and hoping i’ll be fine
this is me
prostrate before the divine
this is me
prostate full of turpentine
~wwb
lament
sometimes life is so unfuckingfair
it gets hard to even fucking care
when hard stares and cold glares
seem to follow you and hallow you
spilling your insides out everywhere
no follow through, you wallow through
reeling, consigned to your despair
you greet my attitude with platitudes
about gratitude and a god who cares
but i’ve looked beneath every rock
placed atop my lot to keep me in my spot
and i can’t seem to find her anywhere
so who really cares if i send this pain
swirling down this drain like red rain
sweetly released from these veins
no letter to ever excuse or explain
the stain on my brain from the plain
tyranny of your cold world’s ways
the end of my days or just this phase
in an eternity of loneliness and grays?
for now i’ll stay and just pray i can sway
my way through another dance with decay
~wwb
For my friend – for many friends. “Do not go gentle.” Please do not go at all.
Beauty in the Swamp (Emerging)
There is an army of ants
circling around my bed
They want to march on my leg
and have a picnic in my head
There is a green witch in the back yard
She wears a black robe with a train
She sits on a burning chair
labeled the sacred and profane
I’m going to Los Angeles
but what’s in a name
A city in any other place
would still glow the same
There is a highway in the front yard
I hope to take it anywhere but fear
But everything I ever hated
will follow me from here
there are spies in the kitchen
There’s an emergency in the air
I’m sick of doing nothing
Doing something can’t compare
There is liberation in the water
Where gnomes and witches can never go
but they stand on the banks
and hope to pacify those who know
We’ve been laboring over language
digging beneath the crag and the moss
Waiting for the music
to convey a feeling that’s been lost
waiting for a place to break bread
while some just stood by weeping
Maybe the true remnant has been keeping watch
while the rest of us were sleeping
~wwb
