Graveyards are so much more than a final resting place
They are a collection of memories, shattered dreams, and half forgotten hopes.
A collection of consciousness laying underneath a curated lawn.
Perhaps that’s why, on the clearest day, a breeze always blows
It’s the whispered conversation of souls
It’s easy to think
I’m abstract terms about “struggle”
But much harder
When your child is hundreds of miles away
And crying on the phone
Loneliness
It’s a feeling we’re all familiar with
But have you heard
Of lonely satisfaction?
It’s the feeling of newly unwrapped presents
The chill of first snow
The scent of your lovers sweatshirt
Found, tossed aside, in the corner of your house.
Lonely satisfaction is
Coming home from vacation
Or 501 pm on a Friday
It’s things accomplished
But a future
Not yet materialized.
In America
Kids are always the battle ground
What they read
What we teach them
How we raise them
Yet in our hubris
We allowed 8 million of them
To be stricken with grief
You see
We were too busy arguing
To care about the consequence
There are times where life
Shows you the road not traveled
By resurrecting
Someone you dated
At the most awkward of times
Those jarring moments
Are the fates little tricks
Nothing to do but laugh and
Steer clear of their gaze
Silhouetted trees
Black against a neon sky
Sway in a cool breeze
Summer is waning
Which heightens the nostalgia
Of teen years long passed.
Empty checkboxes
And a mind that’s zig zagging
Still manage to impress
From the outside in
Yet I have never mastered
Impressing myself
I stare at the screen
My eyes crossing, contacts dry
As I try to paint
Using only words
Some words are sharp, some pointy
Others are vivid
Like a 1972 VW
Others are dull and sticky
Like hour old chewing gum
What’s true about words as art
Is there are thousands
And if they connect just right,
They create not just art, but action
And drama that invokes real emotion
Yet somehow writing is also…
Isolating
Because the art is real
But invisible
We drink our coffee
Skid into our parking spot
Late, by two minutes
The day is a drudge
Much the same as yesterday,
As will be tomorrow
Oblivious to
The obliteration of
An entire culture
That’s what we call progress
Record heat persists
Living beside intense fires
And massive flooding
The stripping of rights
Polarizing of nations
Anger…everywhere
But this damn sunrise
Is so fucking beautiful
That we snap photos
Rather than bask in the bright
And vivid moment
Hipstory 