Lost in the Breeze

Like mirrored glass, I stand here watching,

Looking out, hoping you can’t see in.

I hide behind my faith in the future,

Waiting for it all to change.

But by my side my hands lie still,

And I am all to blame.

I’ve taken nothing, reached to never,

And looked to bare corners for answers.

I’ve been helpless all this time,

Lost like pollen in the breeze,

Thinking that the wind

Would know where to take me.

Instead I’ve drifted far from you,

And I don’t know where to go from here.

I should have listened long ago,

when you said to hold on tight.

Now here I sit, and glance all around,

And I don’t see anything I know.

But truth be told, I think I’ll find my way,

For this spot can be my starting point.

And in days that come ahead,

Perhaps we’ll dance as two again,

When the sun rises to greet the world.

And shows that where we’ve been

Has been within each others reach

All along.

The Clock Inches

For the second day in a row, I’ve given in just the tiniest bit to the underbelly of poetry. This was a piece I had written a while back. I cleaned it up (it needed it terribly), and now post it here for whomever would take part in its enjoyment. It’s an uptempo, wordy diatribe on the pestilence of clocks, and how watching time pass can both open your eyes to things you realize the seconds on a clock will take away from you, but also give you hope that the past can stay in the past, and moving forward is not only a possibility, but an inevitability.  So without any further wasting of your time(haha), I present The Clock Inches.



Envisions colliding, during renditions in hiding,

with just thirty of those twenty four slowly passing-

ticking and locking of movements still rocking,

no matter how harshly one’s forcing does try-

clock inches.


futures solemnly prove in which moments do move

that a passionate class above nothing is true,

and promise of less gruesome fates is of cowardly uses

and useless to muses and playwrights in writing.


Fighting what comes and giving a face to the hatred thou fears

can endear when your thumb loses hold

to giving a living life grace.

Envisions promise to make light of countless endeavors

and tremors will make use of limbs.


How evil a moment, taking what faking you thought had forgotten

the whims of before-

for beating and treating, I daresay you implore

of what comes in justly coming inches.


Renditions repeating re-treatments to darkening, low-lying

opening depths of an earth-clearing

just for who’s noble-

not thou, nor the dearest of taking traitors shall know

of the beckoning growl as an earning is needed

while no rules are heeded;

destiny shows only the foul.


Wholly days passing all, never slowing to crawl,

with just thirty of those twenty four passing-

ticking and locking of movements still rocking,

no matter how harshly one’s forcing does try-

clock inches.



Whether you like it, or you don’t, I’d love to hear feedback.  Thanks for checking out my blog.  🙂

The Anti-Alibaster King

Something a little different from me. It kind of wallows on the darker side of life. 


He woke up to a lullaby of soundless singing,

empty sounds like whispered dreaming.

The warmth between his shallow thoughts was darling

as it danced with lines of lies he’d spoke before.

His pillow was full of dreams he dreamed,

it held all his deepest thoughts,

and when he woke he liked to drain it empty.



His memories never really made him think,

and he never really blinked either.

He never really rounded on his thoughts

that he never thought were wrong.

He played a song of symphony,

such phony words would drip from his lips.

His heart, it seemed a violinist;

his hatred, the great composer.



His wants were merely what he thought;

his needs were satisfied from with out.

His solidarity was all he really grasped,

and not even he was keen on that.

He found a way to say what he said,

and do what he did without regret.

He made it seem like everyone else was guilty,

while he alone survived.



He marveled at his genius ways until the day he fell;

he drank his poison, threw it up, and stared in disbelief.

He found his hands were marked with guilt

from all that he had wove,

His clothes grew torn and tattered,

and when he walked into a room,

everyone would smile from the stories they had heard.



His shallow thoughts were what he grew in,

wading in his vested waste. 

A taste perhaps of what he’d done,

brought back to cross his path.