I see flowers growing
down the road. I see
them shooting through
the concrete. Under
my feet isn’t a street;
it’s a dirt road only
the roughest feet know.
I hear birds chirping
down the road. I see
the sun shoot rays
down the road. Now,
I stay in place, as I
take up space. I see
what could possibly be
in front of me. Down
the road is where I’ll go.
These words aren’t mine. Well, the configuration,
the arrangement, and the manifestation of them
are mine to tell, yell, or sell. The rest falls on me.
I own nothing. I just borrow letters and words
that were said, used, or abused in old worlds.
I rent these words – these phrases: these upper
and lower cases. I use these words. They don’t
go to waste. These words help me save face.
They can tell you things that my mouth won’t.
I will never dishonor these words as they are
sacred to me. They provide light: the insight
that does me right. Like eyes that envision
better days, these sentences help me create
early mornings and dark nights running late.
These words aren’t mine, but I treat them
like they are. They carry me through the day
when I don’t have anything to say. Anyway,
I use these words to tell you to stay true
to yourself and to never forget about things
that will help you through all of the pain.
He was observed: made from scratch.
He was seen scratching away
at the surface: the stubborn dirt.
He scratched long into the day.
He wanted to reach the hurt.
Not before long, the day was gone.
He found nothing here, so he
scratched there. He couldn’t see
as he scratched deep into the night.
The sun came up, and he looked
down and said: “I can make some-
thing from all the stuff I found.”
Tired and dirty, he walked home
with stuff that can never be shown.
He was happy to have dug below
the surface: a place only he knows.
Today will be just another
day. In a few days, today
will be the past: a shadow
once cast. Remnants
seem to last and remain
the same like a flame
that burns away dark
times. Every single life
is chalk-full of moments
and mementos: highs
and lows: days and nights:
ghouls, goblins, and ghosts.
Thus, today I will be
able to see memories
that have never left me.
Wherever I decide to go,
mementos will remind
me of who I was and who
I strive to be. Really,
they seem to set me free.
Just another name:
More of the same.
A life to be lived.
Chances I take.
To be me is to be
Here. Being myself:
Eager to become.
Death to my ego.
Remember when.
Everyone changes.
And life goes on.
Me? I will, too.
IN YOUR DREAMS POETRY 