She was a princess
from another planet,
pure of heart and innocent,
captured by an evil entity
into the foreign creature
which sits in my lap today.
She was a precious jewel,
banished from her kingdom,
her memory stolen,
and forced to live out
her days in exile
here with me.
She doesn’t remember
and I can’t tell,
but I know she’ll be rescued
And when she goes back
to where she came from
I’ll be honored to have served
the new Queen.
You open your mouth
and the blood tide rolls your heart
out over the kitchen tiles,
a rubber mockery of all those shameful times
you’ve done this before.
You hoped this time
that someone would bring a bucket,
you can’t be trusted with this,
the horrors you unleash, you splash on linoleum,
bowl full of innocent fruit.
You stare, cough uncontrollably,
melt in a heap for less than a minute,
look what a mess you’ve made, what a terror you’ve brought
but you’re up
on your knees all hours of the night,
breathing haze from your bottle of bleach.
I’ve had this thing brewing
in my thinking cap;
I think it’s time to bust out
the poetry rap!
I can’t freestyle-
that’s really hard-
I labor over words
like they’re all tiny shards
of a great glass window
that I am making.
I know I’m not a rapper,
there’s no mistaking,
but I like a good flow
that poetry is music-
let’s get that straight.
If you can’t hear the beat
in a poem, it’s bland;
the rhythm is what helps
the people understand
that you’re not just
reciting pages out of your diary.
The pace can take your point
and make it poignant and fiery-
that’s how you know when it’s a
work of art,
when something you wrote
touches somebody’s heart,
not by lecturing or telling them
how it should be
but by gently inviting them
to see what you see
and to feel what you feel-
of course they must be open-
but you must first be willing to show
how you’re broken.
‘Cuz nobody wants to hear an
it closes up your heart and your ears
and you know it
so an artist must strive to be
humble and honest;
you’ve got something to say
but you’re not here to flaunt it.
You’re here to show we’re all
fundamentally the same-
deep down we’re playing
the exact same game-
a game which requires us
to struggle and fight
but we don’t do it alone,
that’s why some of us write.
We’re leavin’ trails of breadcrumbs
to say we were here,
we found love and lost it,
we conquered fear
and maybe somebody somewhere
in the same boat
will find a little bit of comfort
from something we wrote.
And you could give a whole
crowd of people chills
if you take the time to
polish up your poetry skills
but you can still make a difference
a little at a time
as long as you’re honest
even if it doesn’t rhyme
‘cuz we can’t all bust out
with a flow like me
but we can all have a part
in writing poetry.
It comes up like acid
when you swallow it down,
your numba one stunna roll knocked down a peg
’cause your heart’s too busy leaking its noise-
you know that flavor-
that heart sauce’ll put hair on your chest.
It’s not when your heart is breaking,
not that stuff; it’s not your lifeblood.
It’s the sour-thick coat that boils up your throat
when your heart gets squeezed beyond breath
by all that’s unfair, by all that’s tragic,
by what would be perfect in any other world.
Life is almost too sweet to handle sometimes.
You get your insides coated in pepper spray
and it puts the hair on your chest-
your numba one stunna roll knocked down a peg
because you couldn’t have imagined how bitter
and yet how soberingly perfect
real significance would feel.
I have this friend who is certifiably mad.
All the best people are, you know.
I know I’m not supposed to go
traipsing off with lunatics
but a tinfoil hat is not so far
from a fedora, after all.
Today he’s telling me about butt ducks.
He talks to animals, aliens too.
We are at a nude beach
and I am staring intently into a book
We had apples and a honey bun
and some cheddar chips and orange juice
I selected that meal because I wanted it
and he is not picky.
We are at the nude beach because he wanted to
and I am not picky.
Butt ducks are special birds which give you looks
and speak into your mind, “look over here”
and then lean forward in the water
to show you the moon and make you laugh.
They are for cheering you up when no one else will,
There are some of our wondering mutual friends
who say “Don’t get murdered” and “Come here instead”
but the heart of me is with people who are mad,
who leave their shorts with me,
and don’t mind if I close my eyes
and am comforted,
just listening to their crazed laughter.
Big hurt in the collective heart,
teach me to feel another’s pain.
Teach me to see beyond camouflage,
costumes, facades, and masks,
beyond the walls that keep us all out.
Big heart of our collective pain,
teach me not to add my own hurt.
Teach me to speak boldly but gently,
to listen with more than one ear,
to tug at the walls that keep us all out.
Big heartbreak of Your heart,
teach me to be broken like You.
Teach me to press on through the shadows,
shining a tiny light
through the cracks of the walls that keep us all out.
Signed, waterproof sealed, and undelivered –
your heart is a diamond on the ocean floor.
You are a treasure box of heavy coal.
Your feet are magnets and your eyes tend towards the ground.
Your spine wants to encircle itself under the bed,
on the bathroom floor,
under an ocean of gravity,
down in the depths where no voice can break through.
You want to send up poetry in bubbles
so someone might hear you and come to where you are
and the two of your sunken hearts will lie
set like gems in a mass of coral.
But no light will ever reach to illuminate your face
and you would have a diamond lost
to be set with you;
oh, be patient, whatever it takes to shed
your heavy heart-stone of a body,
to soften by degrees of gradual warmth
as you rise, ever slowly, and rise.
Be patient, whatever it takes to turn
your diamond heart back to flesh.