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Poems by stubbs


Flown

I fell from Grace
And she was worried that my descent had been premature
But you were the one to catch me
So she laughed at her mistake and my pretense of virtue
And it seemed as though I was the butt of another joke
Armored words I spoke as defense made me an eternal target
I always took too long to catch on
And when I did the rope was gone
Leaving me clutching at a spotty vision
Of what might have been my savior
But I never was religious
And Grace would dry my tears with hands that bled from trying
She and I developed a mutual affection,
Sharing a similar vision
Hers was much more romantic,
And I've always been a cynic.
Falling was a freedom I had feared but she pushed me to embrace
the perplexities presented were emotional
insanity was a conceivable consequence
But living on the brink made it easy to imagine.
Taking chances meant risking my defenses
false happiness wasn't something I was willing to let go
Like the emperor with his new clothes,
I was proud of my pretense
And affected an elaborate fabrication to clothe the naked truth.
But you, the full-lipped scholar
Dropped words of the ripest proportion
In the orchard of deceit where I lie
You would know me better than I thought to know myself,
And pruned the weathered, ancient boughs that shaded my perception.
Whereas Grace would have me deceived, you sought to enlighten me
And the torch you carried never burned in passing,
Though it served well to illuminate blocked passages of faith.
But I was slow to wake,
The rainbow that stretched over my eyes kept a gold-potted end on each lid
And my slumber was fractured by your hand,
stirring the puddle in the parking lot that held my gaze with oily fists
the rainbow only a polluted illusion-but deep enough for me to drown in
I wept tears of glass for my shattered hallucination and wondered why it stung
You gathered the fragmented fantasy and pieced together a mirror.
On its faceted surface you showed me myself-
A million different personalities blinked and stuttered into existence,
Spinning in the reflection you exposed.
And I held your face in my hands like a book
Reading the words of your lips like the gospel.
Those words passed from the open portals of my eyes like rose petals,
Falling to the bottom of the cage my heart sang from
Touching the floor and gilding the cage-leaving the door swinging wide
And the captive heart left its prison to land in the hands of the one who had tamed it.



all choked up

I dreamt that you were watching me when I thought I was alone
you saw the tears that stained the face your lips had graced
and wondered why I cried
I felt helpless to explain when I saw your eyes as question marks
foreign punctuation had me scrambling to find an answer that would translate the situation
you didn't get me so you can't have me
layman's terms seemed fitting
not too tight
I wouldn't want you to choke just struggle a little like I did




absorbed

The walls are bleeding
They watched me crying
And bled themselves for the sins they saw committed.
Convenience store rain came to wash it away
So the sidewalk preacher didn't muddy his loafers tonight
The clouds absorbed it all
Rising pink-red on the horizon before nightfall
Closing like curtains in a cheap motel.
The moon pulled the tide that flowed from my eyes
And tears burst through the sandbag dam to morning
I wake to find I've fallen once more
Through empty dream to daylight on a soggy pillow
And the sham that covers the cotton does nothing to disguise the devastation of the night before
It'd be cliché to call this way of life a vicious cycle
So let's pull the wool over the children's eyes and sugarcoat the future
While we're at it, let's coat ourselves as well
With fake nails, because the ladies have been scratching at the backs of men to get ahead; hair plugs because
the fellas get the kind of cancer that grows on a soul; tight clothes for the working women because the physical
outweighs the mental every time; name brands because you can't remember your own; new cars to give you
something to live for-(a drive if you will); cell phones so we can stay connected; trashy magazines
because you're so well read; collagen implants accentuate the glamour within; fake idols with airbrushed
faces deliver affordable reality; and shoes made in sweatshops that cost as much as it takes to feed one of
those kids in some backwater third world country for a year-the only food they get comes off the back of a
truck that daddy had to fight for, but it's “all good” right, because the only truck your
daddy has to chase is the one in front of him on the interstate each morning as he makes his way to some hi-rise
office in the heart of a city that was built on the backs of the dead.
But the clouds still rise pink-red in the rearview mirror
Eating the sky, not because they're hungry
It's an emotional thing-compensating for the emptiness




slow pulseTell me,/
What's the temperature at which you stick /
So I can set the thermostat to make you stay with me tonight/
Mercury said you like it cold/
But his pulse was to slow to hear/
The chill should ward off any infectious emotion/
My passionate virus was extinguished upon contact/
So you needn't worry about finding a cure/
The purity of isolation lasts only until you die/
After that your memory is perpetuated by worms/
Odd little creatures-surviving evolution by feeding on what didn't/
Kind of like religion/
But an argument of controversial content might become heated/
And your defenses would liquefy/
Leaving only a puddle of intention where a man once stood/
I don't know if you'd survive the melt down/
How much of yourself would be left if I confiscated your fear?/certainly no more than now/and less than
yesterday/there's a cold front coming in tonight i hear...



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Biographical sketch: What can I say? I'm 17 going on a forever and writing is my life.

stubbs recommends:

The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot

Reason: T.S. Eliot has a nice way of putting his thoughts down on paper, and that much is reflected in The Wasteland. I particularly enjoy The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock.

Recommendations for writers:

I believe tha poetry is based on one's preception of reality, and if that is conveyed effectively through the work then it is a success.

 

 


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