Death · Everyday Life · Religion · Travel

My Dear Goliath 7/6/2018

Somewhere out there waiting

my Goliath stands,

a titan among men,

blinded by his strength

cursed by his own size

 

so high on his mountain

he can not see the truth

of the world around him

the glare from blooded loot

 

so fat from his treasures

he can not hear the screams

of those his might has crushed

stolen or demeaned

 

and though I may die

or even god forbid,

 

grow giant just like them.

 

right now I am breathing

right now I am being

happily collecting rocks

 

no it isn’t steel

nor mighty bars alike

just pebbles, hopes, and dreams

on the slings of all my might

 

for the blind can not see

the fat will not hear

the titanic never feel

 

and by the gods,

some curse or gift,

I do rightly feel

 

and oh, those dear Goliaths

will know my worldly weight,

for all my rocks and visions

will move you from that space.

Death · Love · Uncategorized

Suicide and Bad Dreams 5/19/18

Sometimes I dream of stars

and I hear water bubbling

and I think about our memories

then they dissipate

dissolve

dismantle

into dust.

 

Sometimes I dream of you sleeping

I sit beside you and try to speak

then the dust spills from my mouth

and onto your face

I try to clean it up

but I’m smearing the dust into your eyes

as they fill with blood and tears

then you turn to water

and I hear bubbling.

 

I wake up in a pool of sweat beside you

and roll over to face you.

 

I want to cry on your shoulder.

I want hold you forever.

I want to scream at you,

punch a hole in a wall.

I want to shake you,

until those thoughts stop forever

 

 

Instead I get and get a glass of water

and for just a second,

I hear bubbling.

 

Bad Dreams.

Death · Everyday Life

The 3 Gates of Hell. (written by a correctional officer, a friend, and a human)

If only if only…

 

If only if only they could see what I’ve seen

 

If only if only they could hear what I’ve heard

 

If only if only they could smell what I have smelled

 

They would know why I don’t tell anyone how I feel. I protect them by letting them

think all is well in the world when In reality it is truly not.

 

You haven’t lived until you have smelled that fresh blood smell

 

You haven’t lived until you have tangled with death

 

Once you smell fresh blood you stop living though

 

You haven’t lived until you have seen another grown man take another man’s life with his bare hands

 

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen two men stabbing each other trying take the other’s life, and you willingly jump in the middle to save both of them because well, that’s your job and you secretly enjoy it

 

You haven’t lived until you run into a 15 man gang fight and have a warning shot fly

past your head on multiple occasions.

 

You never forget that crack of a .223 flying by your head because the

asshole in the tower has tunnel vision.

 

You don’t know frustration until you have to walk past maniacs in a cell every half an

hour and get piss and Shit thrown on you and you have to keep walking by.

 

Do you enjoy the risk?

 

Do you enjoy the adrenaline?

 

You don’t want to get hurt but you know if you do get hurt that will give you the excuse to beat the shit out of one of them

 

You haven’t lived until you have felt that high of being in a life or death situation and coming out on top

 

There is no greater feeling.

 

How do you exercise the demons which haunt your every move?

 

How do you escape the reality of death when it happens In front of you so often?

 

I’ll tell you how..you sack the fuck up and move out,

 

The difference between you and everyone else is that you can handle all of it.

 

It’s almost nothing to you

 

Is that scary?

 

Is that bad? That you understand there are bad people in the world and people die?

 

How do you listen to a grown man brag about raping a toddler and pissing on her, and then go home and joke with your family?

 

Then how do you see that man nearly an hour later almost beaten to death and you have to try and save his life?

 

You just FUCKING do it

 

Is it bad that it’s not hard for you anymore? That you don’t give a Shit?

 

Your only goal is to protect them, so you vowed to yourself to never share those stores with them.

 

The only scars I have from working in a prison are the mental scares. I got out lucky, and I got out in time.

 

I can deal with the mental scares because no one can see them, so it is easy to move on in life.

 

It’s a lot easier pretending you’re fine when you wake up from a nightmare, rather than telling them what it was about.

 

You can’t Imagine the look on their face if you were to tell them.

 

Once you see another man try and take another’s life you stop living

 

The world stops right?

 

Nope you just go home and pretend you didn’t Just witness a tragedy

 

You do it to protect them, because you know you can handle bottling it up more than they can handle hearing those words come from your mouth.

 

How do you do a round at midnight in the pitch black and see a man swinging from a rope by his neck in his cell and his face as purple as midnight itself with his lifeless eyes peering into my soul as if his is trying to find a place to go. Then go home a few hours later and laugh and joke over breakfast.

 

The day I witnessed another man lunge and continuously drive a sharp piece of metal into the other’s neck/face I stopped living, my world stopped turning.

 

But didn’t anyone else’s world stop along with mine?

 

What’s insane isn’t these men. It’s the fact that I am okay with keeping all these memories to myself to protect the people around me. It gives me joy knowing I am protecting them from hell on earth.

 

If god exists why does he allow things like this to happen?

 

If god doesn’t exist why isn’t there a god to prevent things like this from happening?

 

The sooner you accept the universe is a cold dark place that doesn’t give a Shit about you is the day you really start living, because you realize none of it matters.

 

Again, I am okay with keeping it all inside because I know I can handle it.

 

If only if only they could see what I’ve seen

 

if only if only they could hear what I’ve heard.

 

If only if only they could smell what I’ve smelled.

 

Maybe they would understand why I can’t sleep anymore or why I awaken every night sweating and trying to be quiet because I am embarrassed.

 

If only if only they knew what I was protecting them from…

 

If only if only…

Death

Cheerios 4/28/18

I see my grandma

in the best parts of myself

like crops that were only allowed to grow

because her pure and innate love

planted the seed.

 

In times of turmoil

In times of useless atrophy

I think of wondrous stories

I once again become the child that used his grandma’s cane

as a pirate sword, rocket ship, lazer gun, or dance partner,

the ornate colors of my imaginations

weave tapestries that brighten my life,

all because she fostered that creativity

all because this woman spent her afternoon

with me and my brother

being dinosaurs, fighting crime, and sailing seas

 

she taught me to take the ideas in my hand

and make them a reality,

 

and that lesson allows me to create the things

that give my life purpose and passion

 

so should I ever do anything of importane

it is because she showed me

how to forge brilliance and wonder

from ideas in my head,

 

and even though she won’t witness

the culmination of her influences,

even though she won’t witness

the things I create,

 

I believe that in a way, she has already seen them

 

As a sophomore in high school

I first learned to code, HTML,

I made a box appear on a computer,

I told it how big to be,

I told it what color to be,

I was lit on fire

 

Directly after school, I raced to her apartment that day

and made her a little website,

explained every line of commands

and what they did,

 

obviously she had no clue what I was saying,

her computer knowledge started and ended

with solitaire..

 

but still,

she saw that spark in me,

and I believe she has already

seen all the technological creations I will make.

 

and even though she won’t hear the musicality

in the lines of my poetry

even though she won’t see the face

of the loved ones I read poems to

 

I believe she already heard it

 

I went to her apartment often,

and every time I played her songs

on that little keyboard

 

and sure I was no Beethoven,

and more often than not

that keyboard eventually ended in DJ mode

where I played her an “Avante Garde”

symphony of record scratches, lazer sounds,

and whatever noises I discovered the keyboard made that day

 

but still,

she saw that gift in me

and I believe she’s already heard

every song and poem I’ll ever write,

 

she unlocked my creativity

she became the canvas

I painted my dreams upon

 

Nan I see you

in the best parts of me,

the only parts I like,

you are the reason I dream,

you are the reason I create,

your influence brightened my world

and I will love you

and carry you with me

forever.

 

Thanks for listening.

Death · Guest Author · Nature

I hate the rain: by Trevor S.

I hate the rain

 

I hate the way it looks

I hate the way it makes me feel

I hate the way it reminds me

 

of my failures

my pains

all the times I’ve hurt…

 

…the people I love

 

I hate the way it slides down windows

I hate the way it makes my clothes stick

 

to my skin

my mind

all these memories…

 

… that drown the present

 

pour down my throat

until I’m coughing

until oxygen is a memory too

burning in my veins

ripping me apart

 

I hate that it rains when love dies

 

when you died

it rained too much,

and you drowned

 

and I want

 

to drown too

 

I hate the rain

Death · Guest Author

The Soldier: by Penny Preston

The bullets whizzed by as the war raged on.

My training was put to the test.

I saw my friends fall. My mind became numb.

Then a sudden pain filled my chest.

 

My world turned gray and all sounds grew faint.

Life’s end would leave so much undone.

As I slipped into darkness the last thought I had

was I wish I could just hold my son.

 

I was jarred awake as man carried me.

We reached the top of a hill.

He set me down gently and squeezed my hand.

Then all of the sudden grew still.

 

My sob burst free when I saw he’d been hit.

The injustice filled me with grief.

This man who’d saved me had just been killed,

and I stared in pained disbelief.

 

Now several months later it’s Easter. I’m home.

I realize the gift of God’s son.

He knew he would die to save all of our lives

and a new life for me has begun.

 

I freely accept this precious gift

by no earning or deed is it gained.

But by the way that I live, may he realize my love

and know he did not die in vain.

Death

Rhymes are for the Living 3/2/18

(Today at my college of Central Michigan University, there was a shooter, at least two people died)

 

 

No rhymes this time

rhymes are for beautiful things:

 

love, nature, and friendship.

 

Not this,

fearing for the life:

 

of the woman I love

the friends I’ve made

the familiar faces,

that feel like home.

 

But home is supposed to feel safe

 

home should be games

making warm meals

laughing in the hall

 

not locking the door

close the blinds

have a knife nearby

 

somewhere between knowing there’s a shooter

and learning what happened

 

I cried,

 

and imagined my life

without every friend I’ve made here

 

No rhymes this time

rhymes are for beautiful things

rhymes are for the living.