Ragged

look at that one... Ragged.
taken for a stroll. dragged along the road.
is it allowed to hope?
does it have time to despair?
look at that one... ragged.

that one has suffered, yeah...
scolded by an iron rod, chastised with a rough leather strap,
you can tell it felt like smashed porcelain,
from its baggy eyes.
yeah that one has suffered.

does that one hurt? is it numb?
stumbled many a mile on those clanging heels,
oh, that one is well-traveled,
been to places a nightmare would not conjure up.
was it stung? or is it numb?

will it find a bed?
and rest in slumber. one night
without being chased out from its covers?
will it find what it yearns for?
will it find its home?
won’t they take it in, this love?

look at that one... Ragged.
taken for a stroll. dragged along the road.
is it allowed to hope?
does it have time to despair?
look at that one... ragged.

Eggshells

He’s been in there a long time. Sloshing around. Slipping and sliding about along the sides of the curved wall. Sticky and syrupy, movements slowed like three toed sloths. Sapped of his energy, all the while trying to stay afloat. Swimming with eyes closed and numbed soul, he realizes his soupy predicament. The translucence of his confinement bathes him in a heavy amber glow.

He stops and holds his breath, then decides to take a different approach- solidifying ever so slightly. No longer splashing about, he waits it out. He bides his time, sitting soundlessly. All the noise is within. He feels himself stretch and expand and fill in- he can feel the growth. His gelatinous form stiffens, hardening against the thin yet powerfully sculpted walls. He soaks up his surroundings and reaches the point where the air supply is not enough to fill his lungs. Gasps replace the stillness and he rocks back and forth. Suffocation drives him head-first roaring into the barrier and...Crrraaaaackkkk.

He crashes out beautifully, covered in golden yoke, and dances around- a flash in the frying pan.

To Write Her Poem

the mob, the crowds, the rabbles rattle,
gossip swells amongst the prattle,
all the while he’s locked in battle,
to pin this elusive creature,
convey every facet, every feature.
digging into moons with brows damp,
the pen scribbles ‘til his palm cramps,
putting a seal on it, his heart’s stamp,
eschewing using the typewriter,
for this, a method far quieter.
stealing hours the other side of the sun,
words spiraling out like the bullets of a gun,
he commands, "write, ‘til the lexicon come undone!"
his crews assembled in rows unending,
the room emanating, the verses pending,
the man at work, a preposterous task,
to tap the finest wine from a buried cask,
and reveal the beauty beneath a mask,
he peels each layer from its shell,
to put in words beauty’s look, touch, and smell:

Her eyes were fastened on the one she chose
Her skin felt softer than the petals of a rose
Her heart burned bright the way neon glows
This is the one who is marrow to his bone
This is the one he has made his own

Why is the Ocean Blue?

We used to run and build and play
Our joys and plans would fill the day,
We used to whisper and talk and chatter,
Our thoughts were shared on every matter
We used to joke and tease and laugh
Our merriment took unknown paths

But then the hour gets too late
runaway trains with coal in freight,
his fragile mind deteriorates,
the ones at the station can only wait.

The birds disperse, the bats do fly
A light goes dim within his eyes,
standing, waiting, his hands look shy,
he only means to say goodbye.

I used to be able to sit down and read
About the different places in the world.
The seven wonders, the great blue sea.
Filled with great blue whales and great white sharks.
I wondered why the waters were blue
Until someone explained it to me once.
What a sad day that was.