Remember

All the remember whens, made a pact

Unspoken of. Somewhere, beside the ghost in you

the ghost of you

Filling the roundabouts in your way

As if, folding a page in half, cutting holes

Where the ink permeated most

To create a perfect mirror

Of our burdens, the hollow

Just being

Reaching common ground

As if to say; “hey, I do my thing, you do yours”

The rest, we can discard

It doesn’t matter.

 

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Scarlet

A self-editing mechanism, mutually shredding a guitar

The blues of it, the itch, the ache in running sandpaper through infant skin

The different ways I come back to you, the same way you receive me

Too many humans, their vagueness a stream you drink from, time and again

The embezzler in you they think is rogue; you qualify as honest

What is dishonesty but honesty to few?

What is honesty but diplomacy to the masses?

I changed the day you looked at me odd when I picked the cherry with the longest stem

You thought it was a no-brainer I did so for the knot, just a tease, but I didn’t

At the time, the only thing with a knot was my tongue, yet, I wasn’t tongue-tied

Let me walk you through the irony of it…see…the deeper the roots of the stem, the kinder the juice to spill when you pull it out

‘cherries belong to the rose family’

The big five

The most economic, yet the deadliest

If you can’t kill the culprit, at least get your hands on his partner in crime

The brighter scarlet, the sour in tasteless sweet

An old encyclopedia you just dusted off, and put back on the shelf

After all, wasn’t there a dead rose in it? Ah, but its fragrance remains…

 

As the smoke lingers

In and out, of rehab

I mean, most of the time, no one quite speaks literally.

They don’t know, they can only assume

of what it takes to shatter a soul.

What robs you of your sleep, probably, maybe, most definitely, what do I know?

Fragmented  little puzzles, crossroads of the mind.

This piano, these hands, this rusty ol’ surface.

The out of tune, the mystery yet to swoon.

You can’t mold me, this telltale realm of space, my voice metamorphosed.

The margins within are so narrow, the wisdom of things scarce.

The fear of your own oblivion, you say you wait for nothing

but the gutless in you knows, that’s what you have been surrounded with

and so the familiar comforts in its veil.

This overflow of the conventional, makes me yearn for masks

aesthetically unacceptable, it amuses me.

The joyous music, the bitter tongue.

But then again, tenderness outburst,

defies brutal rage, beauty repelled at those that sought it only with their eyes.

You stare long enough at the gush, static motion

of paralyzing waves; this sonic rumble, and you understand.

The stronger they rush, the slower they recede

The dominance in the force, a halt in the hearts

In the eternity of a second, stretchered far too long, far too far.

Subtle

The smoothest crimes, are perfected subtly
Less asphyxiated, too little to be this much
Punctuation marks, shouldn’t be judged
Slamming doors shut, shunning the ambient
A hollow sand dune you dip your head in
And walk in, with your hands
I mean,
To be quite honest
Sometimes I walk for miles and still wonder where everyone’s at
And other times, I look straight at you, without moving, and crumble
Fear of abandonment; and all you did was abandon
Attachment disorder; and all you did was pull and cut
Hold and slaughter
The wire that wasn’t meant to be touched
Or so it said
On the last note you left
After all,
Smooth crimes are subtle

Poet Robot – Now Available, Also… Goodbye for now

Couldn’t have said it better. I haven’t been blogging for a while. This is as relate-able as it is overwhelming, in a good way.

A Narcissist Writes Letters, To Himself

Today’s the day.

You can get the book here:

https://www.createspace.com/5919886

And now for a farewell (for now).

All methods, ideally, self-destruct.

I began this blog as a means of coping with depression, anxiety and anger.

I did so by expressing said depression, anxiety and anger

in jokes which made me laugh,

converting pain into something light and joyous.

But eventually, the natural pain subsides

and I was left with a vehicle

which demanded pain

such that beauty could be created.

So for many months, I asked myself to bleed

beyond what wounds were innately there,

and so the means of liberation from pain

became a trap within itself.

This is not to say I am done writing forever,

only that it is time to change gears,

and for that to happen one must give space.

You can write to me at poetrobot@gmail.com

and I will do my best to reply.

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Rain Man

I will contradict myself in every way, to drive you in circles

and say these words, that mean nothing to me

Maybe I was wronged; flowers don’t grow from concrete

The hidden meanings, motivational phrases,

out of context.

 

So advanced, double-think, nervous laughter

Pedestrians; both figuratively and literally

Every step taken is supposed to leave blisters on feet this sore

Only the morally superior, will possibly observe dementia

as a two-way road to salvation

Just as the witness becomes the culprit

For not confessing

The day to day musings, suddenly fall to place

“I have plenty. Look, I can count as many fingers

as toes” said the ruler to his foes

“I’m left-handed, is that bad luck?” When a confident man becomes conceited

There’s no going back

“I… excuse me

sir

it wasn’t raining till you got here”

“Well, in that case,

umbrella for two?”

And just as I prayed for mud, the pavement was washed cleaned.

 

The mind in things

They write what you want to say, you just speak it
Every talk show, every speech
Programmed applauding, foreseen
Quite a grounded universe, false freedom

Meanwhile in a parallel universe; feet in the air, hands that talk
Mutes that understand, cripples racing olympics
These games we play are either in the mind, or I’m crazy
Because certainly, the mind in things, has ever been a lost practice