If I were a birch tree, I would seize love by the branches,
for there may not be a tomorrow,
and though our time is brief,
our love won’t.
Take me by the branch, and I will sit with you
as my helicopter seeds spin gently
upon the soft river.
If I were an oak tree, I would share our mirth among the squirrels,
where they scramble for acorns amidst my Autumn foliage.
How can you cry when you are looking at squirrels?
With tiny eyes wishing only to be understood.
If I were an aspen, I would grow just a little taller,
where you stretch with deep want in your ocean eyes,
to kiss my thirsty leaves.
Our passion burns with so much fury,
my leaves lost in the fire,
Yet bark would find you safe.
If I were a weeping willow, I would cry immense tears of joy.
Tears that flood rivers and grow forests,
for your brush against my feathery branches
returns me to my sapling years.
Bitten by brutality. Cry and laugh at these words, for our life is but a mere grand dramadey-- hilariously painful.Carve in what you would ask of me.
If I were a birch tree, I would seize love by the branches,
Oh, how the cold wind gasps
in pained delight
slashing my cheeks
bleeding beneath winter.
Would that I could hold you in my arms
so you spring into summer.
Kiss your icicles and melt your snow
to tumble you down into a fall.
Love you a thousand odd ways
for me to die a thousand odd ways.
But for now, let us greet the winter as we would an old friend…
loving, laughing, and stabbing.
The longest pain reels with the winding of a fist and ends through the crushed heart of tomorrow. We talk in tongues and whisper in wisps, yet none in words. And through tomorrow we find only earthquakes of the same punches from the same lovers, until finally heroic sorrow ended such great evil.
I want to one day, finish all of college to support my financial endeavors.
I want the money to break free from one family to make the next.
I want to make my presence known across the room of the world.
I want to end world hunger.
I want to begin a rather fancy Russian restaurant.
I want to find the love of my life… but I want a lot of practice beforehand.
I want to be 21 so that I can drink legally and meet more people for “practice.”
I want to lead a captivating discussion among my peers where we all learn one thing from the maelstrom of ideas flowing through our minds.
I want to start YouTube videos that vocalize all of my poetry.
I want to grow into something famous.
I want to pursue acting in front of millions of fans— all shouting my name!
I want my name to be pronounced right!
I want to want wants so that I can call it Wantception.
I want to travel to Bowery Poetry club, so that I can meet all the Slam Poets who inspire me so to crave for more poems akin to Crack Squirrels.
I want to finally rid myself of depression and suicidal thoughts— just so I can keep my friends from my harm— my neglect of our friendship.
I want to love.
I want to study.
I want to help.
But there are infinite wants in a world of finite means,
With burning desires consuming limited resources.
And like a bad analogy to flashy magazines,
Every verbose sentence stops with scarce punctuation,
Ending a poem that doesn’t end.
I could describe you in a thousand beautiful words,
With ten thousand metaphors all leading to you,
Hundred thousands of punctuation accentuating your every curve.
Millions upon millions of letters could not even begin to form who you are to me.
But instead, I decide to die in a hundred odd ways.
As brief as a kiss, our hearts withered in solitude.
What I lost rumbled two clouds ago— I was not among them…
My humanity was.
Raging genocide slaughtered each and every link I could grasp,
Blinded by sheer anger, I threw myself in a tearful slumber.
It was dark. It was loud. It was terrifying. It was lonesome.
“The sixth pool of energy is the light chakra, located in the center of the forehead.
It deals with insight and is blocked by illusion.
The greatest illusion of this world is the illusion of separation.”
Through the thick of night,
In putrid bog I may find my compassion,
But this illusion has eroded me into a world of madness,
Where only insanity is safe.
Really big ships.
Annoying Tumblr zealots.
Unjustified murder of justice.
Tanks rolling on the Danube.
Metalbending would solve a lot of problems.
Could there be soundbending?
A hypothesis is to a theory as an observation is to a law.
We link one by one, two by two, until we are chained firmly to everyday life.
But is it worth breaking free from the thousands of rattling teeth,
Sawing through the flesh like a butter knife?
Or do we lay down and hug the Earth,
sleeping on a mattress made of mud?
Horny, drunk guys invented philosophy.
Sounds like me when I drink too much.
There was this time where I was able to talk about World War II quite intelligently after the tenth beer…
Those were the few but far times of self-destructive exploration.
Endlessly exploited— we share the common pain of systematic sabotage;
Engineered by the majority, for the majority, and only the majority:
Leaving the rest to fend for the drops of life trickling from a piano wire.
A Dream Deferred.
I set down my saxophone finesse for good— it tore me to shreds more than relieving me of myself.
Day after day, I threw myself into the world of acting… only to be sorely disappointed at my failure. I forgot my value as a human being does not equate to the accomplishments I place on a shelf. Instead it is only the dream that rests upon a dusty shelf— waiting for the call to arms. Just waiting. Waiting.
An incredibly ugly little town!
It’s really boring!
A gilded cage matched only by the golden bones that lay swimming in fragrant shit,
Where starving canaries sing that same ole action-packed lullaby.
Not a single drop of rain falls on this perfect little town—
Only the tears of regurgitated dreams.
Inspired by the Adipositivity movement— more specifically, Tosh.0’s harmful use of signifying agents —-> http://www.xojane.com/issues/adipositivity-tosh0-photo-theft
Here is their main site if you wish to seek more information or more cushion for the pushin’ —-> http://www.adipositivity.com
Also, those three italicized lines were from Frank Zappa’s Tinseltown Rebellion. May such a beautiful creature rest in peace.