Re-Painting Our Slate

Constant metamorphosis

Cannot undo past realities.

Heritage and origin

Remain set once cast.

Growth and empowerment

Are forever before us,

But we cannot transform

Without carrying the past.

Remembered or forgotten,

Experiences create shape

Beyond any given moment

For us to configure.

Wishing and wanting

Provide no escape.

The harshest influences

Of our history still linger.

Desiring to overcome

And create something better

Requires and embrace

With the ghosts of our affliction.

Such bitter tastes

Often burn as they’re swallowed,

But sorrow’s recompense

Is the price of our ambitions.

 

 

My Little Ghosts

Ghosts, vivid as any indelible memory,

Opaque characters complex as any pain.

Whispering phantoms of fancy and debate,

Debased to be displayed within me.

Fragments of former friends and foes

Haunting the pensive moments of my mind.

Frequently visiting my somber silences

To stimulate my passive passions.

Enticing my impulses to aggravation,

My bitter hates and petty joys,

And long past my solemn recompense

They goad me into fits of familiar disillusion.

The remembered and imagined coalesce

Into perfect torments for my indolence,

So whatever quiet moments I acquire

Inevitably fill with vexatious rants.

 

Leave me be, but never go too far,

As long as I need to fill these voids.

As much as I move on, you’re still my ghosts

And I need your stimulation to survive.

Maybe once I’ve passed along

From one sad form into the next,

I’ll fill the quiet with better voices

And forms that leave me better vexed.

Down The Longest Stairway

Past the cellar doors and down the longest stairway,

Down the twisted steps of splintery rotted wood.

The cold and damp walls dripping wet with moisture,

And the dank earthy aroma fills my nose.

Minutes pass before I even reach the bottom.

The floor is carpeted, musty, and filthy with dirt.

It’s hard to breathe comfortably down here,

But there’s work to be done, however bad it hurts.

I tear the carpet open with my bare hands,

I rip and pull it out until it’s completely gone.

The floor is nothing now but moistened black dirt,

And an open pit that was covered so long.

Planks of aged wood cover this open sore.

I start pulling them away one by one.

Dirt and dust cover me, and fall into the abyss.

Slowly light begins to shine through the cracks.

Peering down into the pit I finally see,

I see the creature that was trapped and hid away.

I see it looking out, our eyes lock together.

What I saw down there,.. was me,… but not in just any way.

I shuddered,… I gaped,… My heart’s bleeding again.

So well hidden. So,… cruel and barbaric,… Is that really what I am?

 

 

Twenty-Four, – 01/27

Twenty-four years,

Violence, sadness, life and love.

Enough memory to replay another twenty-four.

Time wasted, time lasted, time spent sublime.

Twenty-four years, and what was it for?

Ten years ago I died my hair black,

I remade myself to become my ambition.

Twelve years ago I made it back home,

from foster care where the youths go as prisons.

Fifteen years since I lived in the west,

In the American desert where religion seduced us.

Eighteen years since we moved to that place,

Since the first time I ever laid eyes on the mountains.

Twenty years now since my mother and I,

Lived together alone inside an apartment.

Twenty-four years to the day in which she,

Brought me to life so this list could be started.

The average lifespan of a man from before,

Before they had learned to last any longer.

As young as I feel, I quite frankly feel old.

There’s times I feel drained, though I’ve never been stronger.

I think I’ll be fine and my life will improve.

As long as I’m asking myself what it’s for.

I’m old and I’m young and I’m anxious to see,

What happens should I live the next twenty-four.