goodsitizen

Words matter

Tag: poetry

Park Life

All the time spent next to you on my couch and in my thoughts,

playing games and chasing shots.

Holding in silence the moments  lost,

You exhaled, I pushed away, we drifted apart.

All those nights alone in my head,

never put thought to paper from pen.

Not that you didn’t deserve it,

you oh so did.

Not that I didn’t think it,

I’m just a kid.

Too much focus on the micro brew selection instead of your vanilla scented neck.

Dying to have a taste with my hands upon your waist and a giggle as I nibble.

This is where my future comes alive!

If not for my indecisive nature and movie fiction story lines,

I could have a shot at happiness with you asleep by my side,

with you wrapped in my quilt, reading the lines on the crooked sheets.

The lines show your life and where you’re supposed to be.

I couldn’t read them but I knew,

so I did what any man would do.

With bouts of silence I wore a disguise to never look into those big green eyes,

this suffering character isn’t you,

you tried to show me the life you knew.

I fought with contempt and so much haste,

love is a struggle and in bad taste.

Word for word with tears in your eye,

I held you close so you couldn’t see mine.

This wasn’t the time nor the place.

I wouldn’t fight or tie up shoes and chase.  

The worst excuse for a man and human race. 

My thoughts, my life, my hate, my dark.

Do you ever think about those days in the sun, down the street, on the grass, 

in the park?

We weren’t asleep just absorbing every moment and imagining we never had to leave.

I can feel the grass tickle your skin as I lay here alone.

Eyes are heavy,

thoughts are spinning,

walls are building,

days are ending.

Feel the moonlight shining in, through the shades on photo tin.

Take a picture, watch this life

go down in flames, no love in sight.

Words matter?

Off in the distance on these grassy fields,

searching for a truth among cardboard cutouts and mirages of perfection.

Bugs crawl, playing with the hair on my legs,

the truest feeling about this day.

Watching for movements and stories told.

Stories and lies, heard them all before.

A days projection is merely exaggeration.  Can one tell hopefulness from pure imagination.

Taken out of context it may all be true.

When put into perspective, your friends are the ones you’d save.

Across the valley and through the flames, the words expelled are children’s tales. 

What ends up of the words you tell?

Do they go into the abyss when no one listens?

Do they stay in your thoughts when no one asks?

Do they manufacture disbelief under your own pen?

Words matter when they state the truth,

even if no one believes, not me or you.

When searching for movement in a far off land,

Remember that motions lie,

actions pretend.

Remember that paper is the earth and God is the pen.

We must learn to love despite the lies,

off in the distance people go on with their lives.

Feel the sun beat down on pasty white skin,

grass itches every moment, while across the field

the truth is expressed from what they are told.

Lessons are given while some grow old.

No one may listen, the day will die,

but the book is always open and the pen always writes.