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.