The Poetry Marathon

It drips off slowly

Off the corner of my sleeve, 

The side of my smile, 

Maybe I will stay a while 

And let the flakes fall 

and melt 

Let tomorrow call

What I felt 

today, 

Hope, as she falls to the ground, 

Well now my hair is wet 

And desire set, 

In the tips of my fingers blue 

The cold

The snow 

Doesn’t sting, 

I embrace distance, and wring

my heart, of my home scalding.

You are flowers blooming,
River flowing,
You flow through my heart
My darling,
A work of art!

I am the river and I am the shore, uncertain and afloat

Tumbling in the dark, and well

They say I’m only twenty-five

So how can I fall, when the sun has just arrived?

It’s so bright, I should be able to see into the horizon

The sunlight that flies in

Into my eyes, well now I’m blinded

And reminded,

That there’s no reason for my fears,

Cheers!

The realization, did not seem to remove them

Neither reprove them

And so if there’s no illness, there’s no cure,

But my soul, is still trapped

Wrapped, in a dark cloud of doubt,

And no matter how many pills they come out

With, none work because I am not ill

Only ailing

And the road, through hardly assailing,

Is not a friend,

With no end in sight, I turn around and

And now another year has gone by,

But I’m halfway through

And used to the dark cloud

I platter paint on the canvas, every color, every line, every shape I could think of

I must create something, an image, if words elude me

When it’s quiet inside and my thoughts are unsure,

My canvas makes sure my art lives

You have only winds birthed in the desert,

A desert so mighty it birthed a religion

A sun that glows over each inch of your

Despondent, glowing, always bright land

No escape in an oasis, not even a mirage

The long shadows merely slaves to the sun

The might of your summers,

Brings worshippers to the desert,

Settle among sandy winds,

Build homes on scorching lands

What spirits live here, I know not

But saints have travelled here from far and wide

And the summers have kept their shrines alive.

Time, grants me many favors,

The greatest,

By passing by

And letting me forget

Reminding me how inconsequential

I am, that for a moment

I too am one with its flow

Passing by

The street runs red with blood,

Only I can see

He flees, the perpetrator,

And the world goes on

Every world except mine

Her shrine,

Is built, and rebuilt each night in my heart

How hard is it to take a life?

The one that gave you life?

He covered his sins with her blood,

Called it honor

And I weep rivers from my land,

In a language they don’t speak here

You and I
We suffer for art
But my heart
It aches
For your sake
It withers, engulfed in agony
Blistered, burned, bound
To the words you surround
Of lies and battered
Tattered copies of unread pages
Ages,
Ago I would have bled less
Said less
But you have shattered to smithereens
My love, my heart and each peice now sharp
Has a voice that stings
And rings in the music you recall
Of all the songs
You sang for art, my heart
Remembers only one
That you never sang

It’s a long road to home,

I’ve had some time to roam, to mourn

It’s been a long journey, and I was hardly ever alone

Sewn, into my fabric are now tales

Of when the wind was in my sails, and the oceans rough and wild,

And mountains hard to conquer,

Of battling with the monster,

Inside of me

And now that the sea,

Is calmer, I can see the shore

Not at war at anymore,

With my uncertain self

I came home to myself,

And it was the warmest of welcomes

I moved to the city and was welcomed by rain

Rain in the mornings, rain in the afternoons,

Dripping down my window, when I go to bed at night,

I realized then maybe,

I only loved the rain before,

Because I lived in the desert