Fifty-Five. Remember.

Rememberbluebird

I carry all of these moments

of all these years wherever I go and to whoever I become

I keep them loose

because they hold you

I keep them close

because they hold me.

When the bow broke,

the day the cage released,

when my throat opened

and I learned I was free.

Pulling

Pushing

Longing

Falling

When I fought you

I was only fighting me

When I loved you

I learned to love me.

I carry all these moments

of all these years wherever I go to whomever I become

sore

worn

& faulted

because they hold you

sore

worn

& faulted

because they hold me.

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Fifty-Four. From Chaos, Everything.

fromchaoseverything

You meet me in my earth

You meet me in my dirt

You meet me in my mess

You call this a temple

You call this a home.

You live in my pitted stomach

You cry in my choked chest

You rest in my twisted bones

You call this a temple

You call this a home.

When my eyes burned in the mirror

all You said was,

“Holy, you’re a temple. Holy, you’re a home.”

Fifty-One. Luna.

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to have and not to hold

 near and farther, still.

you are for me to love and not for me to hold.

tide tied to your light

pull me low and pull me high, still.

you are for me to love and not for me to hold.

Longing, pulsing, rising, falling

my coasts swallowed, this shore crashed

star crossed and night bound, still.

you are for me to love and not for me to hold.

Forty-Nine. Between The Cracks.

Hope grows between cracks in the asphault
In the downtown ghetto streets that contour
the government housing intentions of my heart

no one notices the daisies don’t care
about gang related violence
as long as they get enough air and water and sun
they’re all just fine

Who would’ve thought it but life is finding a way
through this wasteland of cynics, concrete, and pain.
There’s a man down here somewhere between
the Saturday cartooons and the dirty magazines.
He’s raising the dead in the graveyards
Where we’ve laid down our dreams
His name is Hope.

-John Mark McMillan

Thirty-Seven. When I Was In 8th Grade.

Just before my last year of middle school I started my first blog. Much to my great misfortune the internet has carefully archived every entry from that social media experiment and still grants all interested parties the opportunity to browse its deplorable rhetoric that oozed from my fourteen year old mind.

When I tell you that it is bad… I mean that it is literally an ABOMINATION.I cringe with every misguided, narcissistic,  self-righteous, self-pitying, misspelled word I thought was appropriate to use and I can hardly work my way through a single post without feeling mortified.

Even though I would suggest that my former blog may be the most startling and horrifying visual relic of my past it also puts in me in a position of relief;

THANK GOD THAT WE  CAN CHANGE.

That being said

I am VERY apprehensive about contributing more than obscure, non-descript poetry on here. I really love saying what I want to say without having to say it. To this end I have made regular use of both free verse and limerick and it has helped keep me out of trouble and managed to perplex anyone and everyone who wasn’t aware of the precise nature of my internal conflict/various existential hang-ups. I am VERY apprensive about contributing more than obscure, non-descript poetry on here… but I am also interested in taking the risk because of the potential blogging presents for civil discourse, for the exchange of ideas, and for the preservation of time and thought no matter how embarrassing that becomes in my next eight years.

Twenty-Two. Babylonian Fire.

The voices have risen and all the talk is clear

all the Things She Said are sure and the notion of flesh is impossible not to hear.

Bow down to the idol, worship the splendorous gold!

Bow down to their god, worship the statue & behold!

If you dare say you wont

keep your affections and don’t

it’s the end you’ve warranted, a life resigned to smolder and smoke.

Costs considered and consequences secure

I’d rather walk the funeral pyre then succumb to coercive fear.

Shocking and audacious, resistant and robust

but even if I burn away I cannot serve the system or worship the image they set up.

The binding in place and the execution set

soldiers on all sides to burn this body to death.

To my confidant’s and my opposition’s surprise I’m not touched by the flames and we all ask why?

Preservation, protection, and providence collide

Never of my own devices

but rather

the Fourth Man to my right.