I yell and scream his name,

but Death runs the other way.

He is too busy stealing the breaths

of people who are loved,

to cause tragedy and ruin

upon an innocent family

who will be pained, forever.

Feeling the absence of

their missing angel,

which maybe explains why

I am still breathing.

Crawling on to a craggy cliff

Stretched on a rock, I catch a whiff

of frost-nipped poignant pine.

Rocky ridges map my spine.

Secondhand warmth chases the chill

on the sun baked rocks of the south faced hill.

I sniff the sharpness of the coming freeze

heaving up on the nightly breeze.

When the moon comes up, the frost will settle

over the valley like a dew-dropped petal.

But for now, only stars puncture the gloom

A peek through the curtains of a celestial room.

Echoing off of the canyon wall,

I hear the moan of an owl's call,

And the weeping of the river far beneath

Meandering on toward the wild heath.

It took me years decide

What I wanted to be in life

But something I developed in an hour

Was more meaningful than all of that

Combined

See I never believed in truth

Because truth is just a word we use

When part of what we say might be right

But most of time it isn't

So I began to say to myself

That there is only one truth

And this truth is painful

For it's the ones closest to us

Who lie to us the most

But that isn't the truth you see

That's only because they talk to us the most

See the truth is

It doesn't matter what you say

The only truth in this world

Is that everything else is a lie.

You left a mark

On my skin

Where your fingers

Dug in

When you grabbed me

And begged me to stay

But in all honesty

I had to get away

I couldn't take

The way I had to be

Around you

I wanted to be me

Your tears didn't fall

They stopped to rest

On your cheek

Like unwelcome guests

I couldn't help

But to hurt

And our pain

Left marks on the dirt

I stood alone

in a vast field of wildflowers

shielding my eyes

from the sun

crazy dazzling beautiful

it was

patiently waiting

for that perfect flower

to speak up

and

gloriously represent

what you mean

to me

and then I spotted it

isolated

perfect

and I plucked it

from the rich earth

wrapping it carefully

giddy with excitement

but when you opened my gift

you looked puzzled

and sad

the wilted stem

the moldy leaves

the bugs squirming in its center

and

looking up at my face

you asked why…

Fuck you. That’s why.

When I have strong feelings for a guy

I tend to write him into my stories.

Maybe not as a whole specific character

But I'll use his characteristics

Because they're so appealing to me

You know?

I'll write his soulful sea-green eyes,

That sidelong glance he gives me

After he's told an awful pun;

The way his shoulder blades

Protrude slightly from the back of his t-shirt,

And how his face gets so red in the cold.

I'll write the calm deepness of his voice

And the lightness of his laughter,

The way he looks when he's

Lost in thought,

The blush that creeps onto his cheeks and ears

When I give him a compliment;

The shape of his arms when he's lifting something.

I'll write how he mirthfully narrows his eyes

In false dislike

When we run into each other without planning to,

And how his lips then immediately spread into a smile 

He can't control

As his eyes sparkle with mischief and a hint of something

I don't understand

And want to understand.

I'll write how he tries to be a Cool Guy,

Suavely nodding to anyone around him,

And how he turns into an absolute dork

When I'm around.

How his smooth words

Turn into awkward but endearing comments;

And how he's so hardcore when he raps,

But gets just a little bit nervous around me,

And how he wrote a song about me 

But won't admit it because he's embarrassed

Even though it's obviously about me.

And I fall in love all over again with the character I wrote.

And sometimes my writing makes it hard to distinguish

The difference

Between it and the actual person.

I have to remind myself:

You are not my character.

You are not my character.

My character is based on you,

And just because my character would do or say this and that

It doesn't mean you would.

Just because my character has this flaw,

Doesn't mean you have the same one.

Just because my character becomes a hero when he least expects it,

Doesn't mean you will.

Just because my character falls in love with the girl who loves him,

Doesn't mean you did.

Just because my character doesn't leave her at the end,

Alone and wishing

She'd never told him how she felt,

And never let herself be so vulnerable

And feel so intensely 

For someone who would just

Let her down,

Doesn't mean you didn't.

Because you did.

I can control my character,

To some extent.

But you are not my character.

{AUTHORS NOTE} I chose this piece for many reasons, only one of which was more exposure for this particular piece. I have a lot of scars, inside and out, self-inflicted both in unintentional fun and deliberate rage, as a victim of violence and happenstance. This poem is as much about me as it is everyone else.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They mar the flesh, the mind and the soul.

           Yet without them we wouldn’t really be whole.

Every tare leaves its trace, inside or out.

           Some spawn confidence, others root doubt.

A self inflicted relief,

an adolescent mistake.

A reminder of grief,

a blessing to appreciate.

An exploratory outlet,

an intriguing fascination.

A lesson learned,

a stigmatic recreation.

Unexpected interruptions of our reality.

          Causing lasting impacts on our “normality.”

Consciously or not, reshaping our mentality.

           Even provoking bursts of utter irrationality.

Knowing or otherwise, not a soul is pristine.

          Damage to the psyche can go lifetimes unseen.

But not all the wounds we bare are of damnation.

          There may be marks that came of our salvation.

Not just a scar, but a keepsake with a story.

           A badge of honor and a never forgotten glory.

Some come by choice, other just by chance.

            Next time you see one, don’t just side-glance.

|| another-proser ||

For me, poetry has been a release. It has been part of my therapeutic process in life. I started writing when I was a sophomore in high school. For years, I suffered under the tyranny of many a bully. I was the fat, geeky kid that tried to fit in. Even some of the nerds made fun of me. Yet, I did have a few friends that knew how to treat me with some respect. At this time, I got into, The Doors. I remember listening  to them on Classic Rock stations, and instantly fell in love. I learned about Jim's poetry, and found what I could, absorbing as much as possible. My early writes were terrible, long-winded, but a great way for me to get through my days in hell school. Each word pulled the darkness inside, letting in more light and clarity as to who I was, and what I needed to do with myself in life. Over the years, I was able to keep improving, and learning as much as I could, trying many styles as I could. I have 2 or 3 poems printed online, do not remember where though, hahaha! I do have a few self-published books available on my blog (www.thewaytoshaolin.blogspot.com), but no luck selling. Still, I enjoy the process, and what it does for me still, gets my mind working and working, cleansing and purging each time. I have also branched out into more subjects, especially my favorite, Horror!!! I am loving Prose, and the many wonderful writers on here. Hope you enjoy my story! Laterz!! ;)

Never know how much I love you, Prose

never know how much writers care

when you enclose me in your open arms

you give me heat to write and flare

sky’s the limit, I’m not censored

fellow writers flash daytime with ideas

Prose flames moonlight by its challenges

guides me along the fire of promise

shared with group of fevered creators

gypsy souls intensify my imagination

roll my verve down flamed inspiration

flared open to suggestions and thoughts

Prose exposes me to delirium of my essence

encourages me to strike in new directions

I light up when I call the name of Prose

because I know that it will treat me right

now you know how much I love you

igniting creativity until I glow my torch.