Just Like Everybody Else

Wait, am I just like
Everybody else?
I don’t hurt people,
Like everybody else.
Well, I hurt people a little,
Like everybody else.
But my heart’s real big, right?
Unlike everybody else.

Wait, am I just like
Everybody else?
I don’t steal, I don’t kill,
Like everybody else.
Well, I steal just a little,
Like everybody else.
But Facebook too crowded now,
Unlike everybody else.

Wait, am I just like
Everybody else?
I don’t get mad and hate,
Like everybody else.
Well, I hate just a little,
Like everybody else.
But I hate all the right ones,
Unlike everybody else.

Now I see, I’m just like
Everybody else.
I complain and I moan,
Like everybody else.
Well, maybe a bit more
Than everybody else.
But I think I’m the best,
And keep it all to myself.



A poem is a bad joke

A poem is a bad joke.
It’s all the effort of thoughtful writing,
Without the pay off.

A poem is a lazy novel.
It’s dumbed down and trivial,
Beneath the art of literature.

A poem needs melody.
Songwriters are like poets,
Except they have an audience.

A poem needs visuals.
People process with their eyes,
Really a painting is better.

Poetry is dead.
It was a form that lasted for a while,
Then vanished.

Unfunny, uneducated, deaf, and blind.
Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

A joke is her when she makes you laugh.
A novel is her full body of work.
A dance is her arms and legs moving.
A painting is her when she’s real quiet.

She dies every Friday and Saturday night.
But on Sunday, reborn! Cause I write her new life.
She dies on the sidewalk, she dies on the stage
But alive once again between the lines of this page.

She cannot stay dead, it’s not in her thick blood,
She much prefers life, than to lie in the mud.
I’ve held her in arms as she gave her last breath,
Resurrect her did I, saved her from death.

A poem, like a phoenix, is never quite dead.
A poem’s when the heart, sings to the head.
A poem, like a phoenix, is never quite dead.
A poem’s when the heart, sings to the head.


We grew older than a Cypress

I saw the future and in it,
I gave out wisdom like wishbones,
Sharp cuts like sawtooth,
And prayers like candy cigarettes to grade schoolers.

I saw the future and in it,
I was round faced and gray beard,
Laughing more at misfortunes,
And crying less for singleness.

I saw the future and in it,
I danced till dawn-dew,
Toasted with best friends,
And was married to my main squeeze.

I saw the future and in it,
My children saved less and gave more,
We grew older than a cypress,
And the kids raked our leaves.

I saw the future and in it,
I was not another suicide,
I was alive.
I was alive.


Better Story

At this moment, at 1:54 am on a Saturday, I wish God was telling a different story. I wish he would have called me into his office before he gave this life the green light; I would have shut the whole series down before the pilot episode.

I’m tired. Just tired. Of the pain and pulling and tugging and tearing and weeping and wishing and caving and crying.

Struggle. I’m tired of struggle.

Perhaps wanting things to be easier sounds like a cop-out. Maybe it sounds like I don’t want to work hard. That I think good things should just be handed to me. Well, it is a little of that, truth be told, but it’s also that I just want more moments of peace and clarity and contentment and they don’t seem to come.

I know it’s not just me. I see every person wrapped in self doubt and insecurity. People that have dreams and can’t make them happen. People who are abused. Rejected. Run-down.

There is a thought that flashes through my mind when I hop on this train. It usually hits me about now … what if this is hell? What if this is eternal separation from God?

God feels like something we all want, but can’t reach. We want things to be better, but we know this is as good as it gets. I call out to God, but the phone is disconnected or I forgot to pay my bill or something.

Don’t get me wrong, we, the human race, we are resilient. We laugh when all we have is taken from us. We sing through the loss of life. We create. We adapt. We love.

But the struggle is still there.

Every night, I ask God for a new tomorrow. For an event that will change my life in a radical way. A peace that transcends all understanding. A paradigm shift.

But so far, it hasn’t happened.

Then, I think of stories of a New Heaven coming down and resting here on earth. I think of God wiping away every tear and abolishing death from every grave. I think of an end to every sadness. An end to hate. An end to struggle.

I want you to make sense of my struggle, because it has cost me my joy almost every day and my life almost every night.

I am upset with you, God, that you knew how bad this life would hurt me and you pushed me in without my consent anyway.

You expect so many things from me everyday. I’m just letting you know, that now, I expect some things from you.