Random Burst of Poetry

Precious

The seed is sown
The plant begins
Planted, it becomes
More than itself
More than anything
It wants
To live
To grow
It will or won't
There is no middle ground
This time
God
Is dead
Or asleep
Or apathetic
Or, maybe, invisible
And still working
Baby steps, don't know
Always there, like
Training wheels
But you still fall
Still scrape your knee
And I clean the wound
And kiss your forehead.

Poetry

Poetry is life,
Only simplified and
More ambiguous.
Tell a story
Only you can hear.

Fore some reason,
Your medium speaks
To me
Flows through me
I am a lightning rod
For words in verse.

Now, as never before,
I understand.
I get it.
Finally.
I am born.

Be sulky.
It suits you.
It makes you feel like
You are more
Than you are.

Contemplation

He sits
On the steps,
Chewing his apple
In the rain.

Is it wrong?
To wonder about things?

His dog sits next to him,
On the steps,
Chewing her stick.
She wants to play.

What is it like to be old?
What do other people think about?

It was a hot day,
Before the rain,
And now the dog revels in it.
The man doesn't notice.

What is it like to be someone else?
What happens when a person dies?

He finishes his apple,
Gives the rest to the dog.
She gnaws happily
On the core.

How long is eternity?
Is something really ever universal?

Man and dog,
Two animals,
Sit on the steps,
Thinking.

Tage

Heute bin ich
Eine Ku, wer
Ist zu alt
Milch zu geben.
Gestern war ich
Ein Vogel, wer
Hatte zu viel
Fliegen.
Und morgan bin ich
Das Maus, wer
In die Eche ist
Und jetzt kommt
Die Katze Mich zu halten
Von weg gehen.

Unnamed Poem

Millions of possibilities died between
Us
And still
We held each other
Closer
Closer
And closer
As close as two people could be
One
Your eyes
Warm brown
A chocolate kiss
A puppy's fur
A slice of fresh baked banana bread
Promising
Things that have been lacking
Since I put down my Bible
My crucifix
And picked up the world
A mess of string
And tried
To untangle it

Thoughts

I know I should not be sad.

But I am.

Why can't I be normal?

Happy?

Realize how good my life is?



I feel badly

that I'm always sad,

because people have to put up with me

and my crazy

bouts of depression.



I need to stop depending on people.

And take control of my own happiness.

Why is it so hard?

Things that make me depressed:

1. Printed sheets, because they have a right way and a wrong way, and when you put them on the wrong way, they annoy you, but you're too lazy to strip your bed and do them again.
2. How your nose hurts when you cry lying in your bed.
3. How long it takes to make hard-boiled eggs.
4. How long it takes to cool hard-boiled eggs after you make them.
5. How you start eating stuff while making hard-boiled eggs, so by the time they're done, you aren't hungry anymore.
6. How food makes you fat.
7. How snow burns your feet when you go running bare footed in it.
8. Common sense that told you not to go running bare footed and in your night gown in the snow.
9. Common sense is always right.
10. How you always have to re-situate yourself while talking on the phone in bed.
11. How your arm ALWAYS falls asleep while talking on the phone in bed.
12. Sex
13. Society
14. Ineffective anti-depressants.
15. People who live to far away to give you hugs when you need them.
16. My father
17. My mother
18. My brother
19. My extended family
20. The holiday season
21. The fact church and state aren't separated.
22. Nice people die while mean ones always live for a long time.
23. The fact life isn't like a novel.
24. I won't be able to read all the books I want to in my life time.
25. The fact I'm too much of a coward to take the coward's way out.
26. College applications
27. Essays
28. The essays on college applications
29. School
30. Homework
31. The fact this is funny and you are laughing at it when I am feeling so depressed right now.

I've been thinking.

If Jesus were alive today, he would have dinner with transvestites, AIDS patients, illegal immigrants, gays, and Arabs. There is so much intolerance taught by the Church. Just like there was two thousand years ago in Israel. Didn't Jesus come to teach us to love one another, to accept one another just as we are? Why, then, do people hold the cross as a banner over them as they hate and loath and teach their children to do the same? Why haven't we learned to accept and cherish one another, flawed as we are? Why can't we just be? I think it is incredibly Unchristian to hate people, especially based on things they cannot change. But it still isn't okay to hate someone because of the choices they make. I don't care if you think being gay is a choice or not, it is wrong to hate people because of their sexual orientation. There have been so many people since Jesus preaching love and coexistence. Martin Luther King Jr. Ghandi. Why can't we actually emulate them like we claim to? We say we have fixed all of our race issues, all of our religious intolerance. That's bull. We're just as hateful as we were two thousand years ago when God decided, "These people need to be taught a lesson!" Let's hope that if He decides we need more teaching, that it is another example, instead of a punishment (i.e. The Flood). What I'm trying to say is: Love others, you jerks!

Why?

She would sit in her chair, and I would wander around the room, touching her things. I never looked at her, never studied her. I had assumed she would always be there. I would sit at the kitchen table and ask questions.
“Why do you have butterfly stickers on your window?”
“So the birds don’t kill themselves trying to fly in.”
My favorite thing was to walk around the house. The kitchen and living room were banal to me; I had been there so many times. I was very interested by the dining room, though. No one ever went in it, so when I did, I felt like its discoverer. The basement also fascinated me. It was dark and dank and scary. It smelled old. My favorite room was the children’s room. The room where my mother hid under the bed, unwilling to do her chores. The room where my mother and her cousin laid in bed and listened to the weather reports, praying for snow days. I have not seen that room, or the dining room, or the basement, or even the kitchen, in almost seven years. When my mother and I are nearby, we’ll drive past the house. It is different now. It seems to miss her, that woman I took for granted.

Camp

Is interesting. It's supposeed to be this big thing, where all these famous writers wrote their best work, but I just can't concentrate. Maybe it's the new environment. Maybe it's the awesome people. Maybe it's the fact that I'm dead tired. Who knows? I have started this really weird story that's going nowhere. It's about a guy who killed his wife and daughter, and then hangs himself. I don't know how I came up with that. Blah. Yawn. I really liked the Duck's song. I think that can relate to a lot of people. I mean A LOT. Like, every country singer ever. They're always crying their hearts out over so-and-so. They seldom have happy songs. I wonder why? With pop, it's more of a balance: some happy, some sad. Maybe all country songs are depressing because country itself is depressing. It sure depresses me. Sorry, Horse, if you are reading this. I know you love country music. That's just your preference. I'd take it over rap any day. I'd rather have hang-youself-music than I'm-going-to-hang-you-then-rape-your-mother-music. Okay, I'm done. You're all probably centering your sniper rifles on me by now. Auf Wiedersehen!