november lost

november comes in underneath the wooden door
it doesn’t knock
to the bone, I’m chilled alright
my spirit may be frozen in a long stream of ice.
light up, warm my lips
on a dizzy mind.

all up and down, I’m fine
I’m surviving a golden spell.
the music brings me through, though
the promises which mostly commit suicide on the wind.

A puff of smoke helps hush all the doubts away
I’ll clean up again, my own trail
and find another way
again, sweeping through the heavy brush
scattering ashes in my wake.

It’s a time to die, after all.
We all deserve it anyways, at least we’re free
we’re all preparing with our different religions
hoping it’ll end eventually but not too soon.
I’ll take my coffin in dust

Rise from the ashes of the sea
born again, a great fiery bird
to see the world from greater heights
feeling strange to be happy
The world looks OK from up here

maybe I’ll survive another year,
I fall, day from day.

Let’s take a closer look

in·fi·nite
/ˈɪnfənɪt/ Show Spelled[in-fuh-nit]
adjective
1.immeasurably great: an infinite capacity for forgiveness.
2.indefinitely or exceedingly great
3.unlimited etc.: the infinite nature of outer space.
4.boundless; endless: God’s infinite mercy.

Constant inspiration are the books on my shelf, perks of being a wallflower, most recently read. Constantly I am affected by my environment. 50% of the time, my environment is mostly me. Am I partially affecting myself?
This poem is very off the top of my head, which is a trend of mine…I suppose I don’t understand why I should create art unless I personally am going to feel pleasure through producing…and being able to give something to my fellow artists, something that will make them feel good.

 

 

Let’s take a closer look

I feel invisible
or was it infinite?
I stepped towards that doorway
which opens into a meat locker
cold, icy air pouring out
I checked on my life,
in the little pocket book dictionary
I kept it in the inside pocket near my heart.
Someone told me words were powerful
letters on paper could feed me
my own pen, black ink, could set me free
I suppose I believed them
I wanted to believe in a peaceful world
I guess it was the artist in me, the social deviant
I only ever hurt myself, I swear.
And now the war has come…and gone,
strange, war and all, I stay within my walls
sometimes I go out to bathe in the sun
I find the cracks in the light
where freedom of expression can be found
like a long, empty beach,
or sandy green mountains in the distance
waiting to be lost in them, dizzy from the spray of a sea breeze.
Oh to be young, they all say
Oh to be alive, and free and out of my head
Oh to live moments upon moments,
like in a slow motion or stop motion picture
at least to pretend to enjoy it all,
and fight for the laughter in life
fight for all the right music, and
pizzas made from the heart on teenage weekends
Nothing seems like a waste
yet I like it when I find ways
to waste time when nothing seems more important
I’ll draw a line across it all
the subjects we don’t want to get too dirty in
then I’ll plunge in, discovering in the corner of my eye
a path skewing aside from the stream of life
I suppose I had a gut feeling that day
I reached out and was pulled this separate way
I felt relieved, grateful that I could now look upon myself in an undisturbed mirror.

x

imaginary guitar

Hello! I just wrote this…I’ll edit later, probably kinda weird.
Lukewater

I’ve played your songs so many times
my imaginary friend
thank you for the cd.

Shh, trent reznor, quiet your emotions.
You were so loud, so cute.
I have a couple good arms, and I can beat myself up, too.

Smooth melodies that make me—well
make me orgasm in some ear-related way
l—there, I said it.

Yes, I still leave my underwear draw open, occasionally
but more often I stay golden, as Hinton mentioned,
I don’t get caught, no one comes in, anyways.

Asks if anyone can hear me?
a woman with words, fear, and forced protest
time for the future, kids. Ready?

Just stare into the sun, smell the spirit in the air
take sip and then just walk away
a death in personal religion, begins with a death in hope.

Yet we are all reborn again.
Doesn’t matter how you live or where you’ll leave to
the love and the loneliness always spills

the cages start to look more like freedom,
and the freedom more like giant cages
the only escape being…the obvious age-old answer.

In death we remember our manners, I guess.
It isn’t as gruesome as an old flick
just an unresolved—or resolved, resolution.

Putting it all together.

trying to stay together
my limbs melting in to the earth
red like sun, soul traveling all the way from me to the center of the earth
trying to keep it all together
pulling away at the cracks, coming apart
my world is not like it used to be
it was nothing but seams and walls, seams and walls
but I am started to see the light through the tiny holes
tiny scratches, at least, I saw through them at one time
I want more, I want light, or I want heaven
I’m living to breath, which doesn’t feel like enough
not with a heavy conscious slumming over on my spine
turned up crooked, incomplete
smells like humility and salt

in my dreams I walk to the sea
I feel my heart beating, the sharp rocks beneath my feet
I see a thousand miles in the pale clear water
giant blue whales swimming, sharks, long and weaving ocean weeds.

a failure to deliver
breeding fear like mice
black marks across an imaginary page
throats rearing—ugly, full faced on stage
black little paws, carefully selected prints,
claws covered in soot, turned over
drawn across the cooled floor
a failure to deliver, right
the words red branded
spine of the soul, heated
absolved, dissolving in fate.

poet’s voice

don’t know what to say, never knew what
a teenager stranger
walking along the seashore
looking for familiar faces in the blankness
checking over my shoulder–for angels in baby’s corner
watching trains pass by, always trains
going opposite days, speeding along the metal track
gold dripped, warm, through my fingertips
liquid time, losing mass, smoked to the ashy grime
her red box fits inside, I’m just a teenager
buried chin high by the seaside
eternally watching, dusk settling
Wishing on a dying star
I count my age, scratch a tear across
the door, the dove white paint, the door
slowly, I soften and melt, determined–yet worn
I disappear through the cracks in the wood
looking on, across the lines in-between
disrupted muse, ruined, imaginary A.D.D., occasionally abused
shut the fuck up world, I’m packing up.

x
x

–thanks for reading : )

sway.

ball of knots
thrown queasy
off side of sinking ship

night moon low
fading fast light
coma approaching

grasping on
to burnt leaves
echoed, distant sounds

letting slip
ice and fire—
ending, eventually, the waterfall.

(don’t read if you have a brain. This is just what inspired this poem, which is simply a stomach ache, the far off sound of a plane over head, and the sadness that is my life, I suppose everyone’s life, and how these days and nights are sneaking by me…and I can’t seem to stop anything, ever, at all.
good night, lukewater)