Doggie Valhalla

I hate cutting leashes, but I guess I got to see the dogs run

in circles, endlessly spiraling and there's green littered all over

the fields that they frolic in, the sun bathing their bodies

I set them free and typically they'll do me the same favor 

so we run around in circles, chasing each others tails

till we're tired and have nothing but a thirst and hunger

I go back to the trough we came from, but I'm alone

Such is the fate for the unchained, he will dine alone

Such is the fate for the unhampered, he will wine alone. 

Still, those moments scurrying over nothing were great

I think I dug up some holes to commemorate them. 

Now you treat them like mines, the field a minefield 

No field and no companionship, what am I to do? 

Eventually I'll be given entrance to a new track. 

I ran quick enough, I've won apparently. 

So I leave you

And you don't give me but a whimper, because we're all bred

to leave our comrades. And while we thought change wasn't gonna come. 

It is our master, playing fetch with each of us individually, driving us apart. 

I ain't bitter

I ain't bitter, only sad. A man who no longer wanted to fight
Forced to wilt as you grabbed onto my stem, ignoring the bulb
instead you gripped tightly and as your blood slowly streamed downward
you smiled straight into my eyes, my abdomen was crushed, but I smiled as well.

I ain't angry, only disappointed. A man who's voice gave out right before the duet
So you went into a perpetual solo, I sang background and held alto notes
and as I gasped for air, you persisted in your merriment
I am the merry-man who moaned into oblivion, fixedly asphyxiated

I ain't vengeful, only exhausted. A man who's vigor has faded
Yet your magnum iter was clear. I continued an ox pushing a cart
And as I grew tired, my limbs buckling under your load
You began to plan my consumption, dark meat and all.

You are cold. You are disheartening. You are disloyal.
You are regretful. You are selfish. You are delusional.
You are despicable. You are pitiful. You are pathetic.
Now you may call me bitter. But now I'm better.

Sellout

Yeah, you're a fucking sell out
Don't worry, just ring up and cash out
But this ain't no rap
I don't got time to rhyme through this shit
I'm too busy clipping bars
Look at my eyes, they'll twinkle
That way you know I'm blind
I guess you can't blame me if I don't know where I was going
But you hear the warnings all the time
limelight, the root, illuminati, everyone is doing the twist
Still I guess it's absolved if "that's just how I feel"
light pockets make it easy to run
and when they're weighed down we buy safes
I have four and they keep me busy just fine
Still, I've got to keep dancing, ballroom of course
one two, repeat, I'll stay on that beat
and profanity is a must, nah fuck that
I'll be vicious and shock, call it contrarian
then convince mountain dew to pick me up
still even now as I delude myself into believing that I am a mockingbird
I realize that I am complicit. I follow the strictures and instead decided to talk white
And instead of staying on beat, I'll call it meter. And instead of rhyme, I'll call it a sonnet
And I'll talk about philosophical hogwash. And the person I show it too will give me an obligatory nod
At least I ain't wearing chains. And I don't decorate my poems with a Spanish I don't speak.
But perhaps I should. Because no one is reading this shit. I hardly read this shit
The one person who does read it, right now, is probably scratching their head,
wondering who to believe? Grills or Stroud?

Zero Commitment

Please, don't take my sadness for sorrow

Instead cherish today and its promise

For I cannot promise you tomorrow 

Though many anecdotes we borrow

The impending end brings no solace

Please, don't take my sadness for sorrow

And into the late nights we burrow

Though our conversation seems flawless

I cannot promise you tomorrow 

You pierce me like a gilded arrow

And look sheepishly as if you were Adonis

Please, don't take my sadness for sorrow

In the late nights I bellow

Wishing I could finally be honest

But I cannot promise you tomorrow 

As I leave to the borough

I leave behind your serene calmness

Please, don't take my sadness for sorrow

For I cannot promise you tomorrow 

Spinning Top

I am an errant spinning top

Teetering at the edge of the table

And I see you gaze at me

Captivated by the flurry of indistinguishable colors

Anxious over how dangerously close I come to falling

Will you catch me?

No, it’s foolish to expect to be saved

Instead my base continues to pen the table

Writing invisible scribbles on the surface

That you can barely read

Coin isn’t spent on my affair

Nor is it skill or glory

I spin because I am compelled to do so

By the hard surface beneath me

I hope to make a garden

Perhaps my constant friction will till

The wooden surface beneath me

And I’ll leave it to you to plant the seed

Hopefully we will have a bountiful harvest

I sense myself at the edge

I know you are watching me so dangerously close

You tell yourself this is my chosen fate

But how I wish that I could possibly

Slow down and tend to my garden

Furrow by furrow I will be delicate

And plant many different crops and flowers

So that I may give them to you

But you have already decided my fall

I spin resigned in gravity’s wake

At least the friction has stopped

Until I hit the surface yet again 

Re-entering the atmosphere

I can still write from time to time
Too bad the well is dry for today
I'll drink tomorrow

Though yesterday was plenty hot
Today is a cool summer day
Not thirsty now, I'll drink tomorrow

I know you've been waiting for me
Or at least that's what today's sun has been telling me
I'll come with the wine, we'll drink tomorrow

I have been running like you told me
Now we're stuck in the Dog days
Can't stop sprinting now, I'll drink tomorrow

Cold Winter days coming soon
Then today will be summer
You'll be gone from me, I'll drink to you tomorrow.

Sorry I couldn't keep my promises
I kept my promise today
Tomorrow I'll lose it. So I'll toast to you tomorrow

I know our lives were sorrow
But there is a buzz about today
Our thirst of life will be quenched tomorrow

Under the Ramparts

Sometimes I don't want to fight at all
instead I want to take red white and blue streamers
and then wrap myself up like a mummy
Then I'll sit down and listen Louis Armstrong,
he's wrapped up too.
We both smile and then pretend that the world is doing it with us
Too bad we're alone and nobody knows we're happy
Fireworks appear each time he sets off another note

And yet people would still scoff
They'll point out we don't have any clothes on
Fine
We'll take our medley somewhere else
All the irony in the world won't deny us this performance
All the sarcasm in this poem won't deny me my happiness

Rhapsody in my writing

May I stutter?
These notes are scattered.
You can only hear whispers of my voice.
Pianissimo please
shadows of birds perch on my shoulder
They whistle, with the treble clef
I hear your pencil tapping on your book
it's worn out, with its cardboard corner peeling off
My pants brush on this bench as I get up
Oh here we are.

The ants look up at me
one foot after the other I make the ground tremble
I am big and fat. I am unashamed
I yell, " Hey Come over here and look at this"
But I immediately take back the statement
One final plea for this poem
Crescendo please
Finally

Resignation

You've relegated me to this prison
On here I am caged in an infinitesimal emptiness
What you see are my echos
What I hear are my own musings
The river can never be seen from the outside
You can only see its condensation on the glass wall
Yet I am drowning every night
You can see my sullen clothes drying by my side
So now I sit naked on the floor, while you peep in.

The floor is cold and black.
There is no light in this prison.
My echoes serve as the only indication of life
You cannot hear them. Instead you see the condensation of my breath on the glass panel
A rainbow appears when you try to wipe it off
You are cold, I know, but this warmth comes at a cost.
There is no real bed for me to rest on here
Such idleness is pointless when you live resigned
You will soon leave to your bed

Now I am once again alone
I talk only to myself here
And once in awhile I'll crack my knuckles
to create a percussion for my discussion
My musings speak out your name
But I know you are not there
So their colors fall on deaf ears
What does it matter?
They are a symphony
I am their maestro
I shall take my bow now.

God complex

The world's family tree splinters off in an erratic pattern that dips and dives into each other. We look at this an call it entropy. But for those lucky enough to take a step back, they can see an intricate snowflake waiting to be completed. 

Cardboard cut out

I'm a lackluster cardboard cut out
with a hastily etched crooked smile
And I'm up for sale
Please purchase me so I can be designated value
Then you'll look at me whenever you want to laugh
I won't ever change, I'll remain static
there will be times where you forget I'm there
So I fall into the crevice behind your bed
where I will become bent and deformed
But my already imperfect smile will never subside
One day you'll no longer need me
So you'll throw me out
That's fine, us cardboard cutouts are recyclable.

Where we are prim and pressed together.
One giant conglomerate of  cardboard
Put through that wretched machinery
that cuts us out into our misshapen forms
And then you come and buy us
scissor in hand and puncture a smile in our face
as if you were Joker himself, your scissor cupid's arrow
And we love you, as no one else loves
We have no choice, we have been purchased
For if we were to deny your ownership
then what are we worth?

Firewood

"The piano is not firewood yet" -Regina Spektor

I don't want to forget you,

I just want to forget the memory of you. 

But not the real memories, the could have beens,

Romantic figments that found their way into my mind.

They came as could have beens in our lives

could have beens we threw in a bucket 

Do we still carry that bucket? 

Can you recite its contents to me? 

Such an obsession isn't healthy. 

And we've gotten past the impasse

No longer do we play tug of war

instead we sit in exhaustion, our clothes grass stained

our lungs out of breathe, ironically in a rejuvenated synchronization.

Such irony isn't poisonous. We aren't fated, 

but that doesn't mean we aren't symbiotic.

Clinical assessment of where we stand is bleak. 

Even the language is short of enthusiasm.

But time is still running. And summer is still coming.

So I propose we stop carrying this bucket around.

Instead let's fly kites on a still day. 

Run in futility for hours, laughing at the inevitability

of gravity, aero dynamics, and our own stamina.

Then we can fall in the grass. Our hair grass stained.

And then we'll make a bonfire out of the sky. 

Connecting the stars until finally summer comes.

And I will leave. And you will leave. 

Fall will come. And our bucket will remain untouched. 

Momentum

A push off

a cliff, doesn't mean you'll fly. 

To slide off

a hill, doesn't mean you'll sled

And certainly don't expect a rainbow

whenever there's some rain 

But you can still pretend 

Falling can be flying

sliding can be sledding 

a drizzle can be kaleidoscopic

So when I see fireworks 

that don't mean there's a BBQ 

But I can still buy a hot dog

And when you see cascades 

that doesn't make that place idyllic 

But I'll still write a poem about it 

When we see a sunset

that doesn't make that day perfect 

But we'll still call it that 

And eventually, perhaps 

we will fly 

we will sled

we will see a rainbow 

Eventually, we will be full

And nature's beauty will be revealed. 

Perfection aside, this is the best ride I've ever ridden.