40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 22– “Tearing Up”

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“Tearing Up”

A thoughtful mystery unravels itself within a dirty ashtray.

Dozens of mouths and lips suck the filtered marrow of tobacco magic.

Sin after sin is displaced by denial.

They say to use the right tool for a job.

Staring at the runners and wondering why they can’t clear the hurdles.

Distance or height?

Or perhaps, they are staggered out improperly, only at intervals that would guarantee defeat.

Someone needs to set those hurdles up,

all in a row.

A race towards a tomorrow, that when reached in the present, will only be lamented for the regretted past it will become.

Burn, a blazing burn.

Stars that go quiet, must go through a period of fierce interest and catastrophe.

Then the science is applied, and sold along-side other things.

“Semantics”

“Semantics”

If there was a word to describe the you of you, I’d write it down with earnestness.

So I could, underline and italicize it.

There would be a place to point, an origin.

Words are born of the necessity to term things.

Terming the you of you proves difficult.

What would be the word that terms a word that is unable to be termed?

Insert your name here____________.

An antonym, a cinnamon synonym.

Metaphorical simile, hard to see.

Albeit, being.

Definition, high.

Confounded by the mystery,

inexplicable novelty.

A word for the you of you,

seems fleeting.

Yet, worth pursuit.

When I dream the dream of that word,

the you of you appears.

“A Storm Is Coming”

“A Storm Is Coming”

Building and building,

we wait.

Warnings issued,

preparations.

Some, don’t listen,

and carry on.

Others, don’t believe the weatherman,

despite the evidence.

Rain could wet their clothes,

and they would deny it’s rain.

You can’t change people like that.

Self-destructive nihilists,

want to see the world burn,

so they could say they told you it would.

Reality is not their thing,

The world is flat.

America is great.

The news is fake.

I didn’t say that.

Absofuckinglutely, ridiculous!

“My Tired”

“My Tired”

My tired stretches outward, and underwhelms.

Staunch narcoleptics, snoring pots and pans to beat the band.

Slumber robs youth of steady confidence.

Methodical metronome,

cadence of an old age home,

waiting to retire.

Sweaty yellow pillowcases carry the weight of the world.

Quiet, tenderest of moments, forgotten when memories are remembered.

Life, per seek, per chance, a dream of waking sleep.

Lost, recovered? Abruptly.

Dream-weaving steampunk.

Eyelids sealed, a treasure trunk.

Deep oscillating breath,

skirts the breadth of death.