Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 Life punches me in the face And I see heaven and earth kiss and merge. Life punches me in the face; The balding trees have more leaves, And you have a red soul screaming to get out. Life punches me in the face And I fall sideways like a sleeping cat; A pillow torn by its claws. The world rotates And I fail to stand my ground. The world rotates And there are no directions to follow. I’m lost. And keep falling without end. Life punches me in the face And I see heaven and earth kiss and merge Again.

 I'm a building with glass windows. They look at me and see themselves. I reflect The stairs, The cars, People passing by. They don’t notice me Because I become them. They don’t notice me Because they aren’t allowed to enter And have a look. They don’t see The dull bulb that hasn’t been changed. They don’t see The many people who work like robots to build their days. They don’t even see That I exist. I'm a building with glass windows. They look at me and see themselves.

 The cloth was laid there for the picnic, But the stray dog makes it his own. The cloth was laid there for the picnic, But the dog lies there, Sleeping like a baby Even though the hair on the side sticks together In glowing blood. The dog sleeps And the picnickers return. One of them shoots at the air. But he is not frightened. One of them sends their own dog charging, But he is not frightened. They all run at him, And for the first time in his life, He isn’t frightened. He sees them coming; A blurring mass, Shaking wheat, A butterfly. He sees them coming And sees darkness fall...

 An open book waiting to be read, A wrinkled orange waiting to be thrown away; The book waits, The orange waits, For the reader who walked off to get some snacks. An open book waiting to be read, A wrinkled orange waiting to be thrown away, And the reader who never comes. He used to exists And he could have come back. But He walked into the library instead of the kitchen. He picks up book after book And reads the blurb behind each. He picks up book after book And feels like he's read all of them. But he doesn’t remember That one book on the bed With that one wrinkled orange. He doesn’t remember That one book on the bed Whose blurb he did not read. He never returned for it And his knowledge remains incomplete...

 Two swans come together to make a heart And I see a ballet within it; Arms like pendulums, Legs like butterflies Flower to flower, Landing on toe-tips And becoming weightless. Two swans come together to make a heart And I hear the blood in my heart Wash up against the walls Like waves hitting a ruined castle. Two swans come together to make a heart And the heart breaks away And sets of fireworks that light up the eyes, Blood that cools. The swans go their way As if they've never met.

 I want to cross this lake, But some of the rocks I step on will bite. I want to cross this lake, To the one wicked tree on the other side; Leafless and howling with the wolves at night. The mountains stay inverted in these waters, Insects tickle these waters with the needle feet they stand on. I wanted to cross this lake, But now I just want to stay here And admire all the beauty I can see. I'll say it's because I want to live in a simple way. But I think they know.. I want to cross this lake, But some of the rocks I step on will bite. So I'll stay here And keep admiring the beauty that stays.

 The blue air, The sea, The rocks grunt like television static. The blue air, The sea, And I walk through it all With only my footprints following me, Hoping more will join. But for now, This is enough; This silence, The smell of salt on black moss, This blood on stepping on some dead shell; This blood the sea tries to hide By breathing into the shore And wiping it off Again and again. For now, This is enough. I can’t imagine anything more.

 I'm sick, And I wake up to find an apple on the window sill outside, Stern in the wind, Snow collecting in its bellybutton. I'm sick, So I can’t get up Even though I know the apple keeps the doctor away. I can’t get up, And the apple stays there through the spring, The snow in its crater melting for me. But the birds snatch it away, And I lay hoping That at least the apple is for me. I lay hoping That it'll stay. It stays And develops spots, And wrinkles And wrinkles. It stays Until it falls out the window one day; A skeleton being buried And nothing more.

 The wind blows And the feather on the ground is reminded of flight. It shakes and it takes off And comes down swaying Like a child in a cradle Sound asleep. The wind blows And the milk weed seeds take off Like people on white parachutes. The wind blows And snatches a child's kite, Pulls a woman's hair. The wind blows And we hear it talk In the languages of rustling leaves, The birds, The unidentifiable sounds of this vast forest. The wind blows And we rarely notice. But when we do, We hope it blows again So that we can listen to what it has to say. We wait And what we get is a storm; A shouting for our patience. What we get Is torn a clothesline, A fallen tree, An umbrella coming out of nowhere, Turned inside out.

 They make me kneel down And put down candles on my back. The wax falls And the skin burns like coal from hell. The wax falls And soon The wax falls on wax itself. It no longer hurts as much. They make me kneel down And put down candles on my back. They've melted away And the wicks have sunk deep in. They've melted away And I’ve now got a useless shell That won’t protect me. All the pain, All the sacrifice For nothing...

 People look at you Like they're taking a photograph. And like any photograph, It captures you Cross-eyed, With your face flipped. Like all photographs, There will be a red glow in your eyes. But these things aren’t you. What is You Is never understood by these people. What is you Cannot be captured. Only you know that you’re eyes have lost all spark. They are windows to the soul, And the soul has no more embers to burn. People look at you Like they're taking a photograph. And like any photograph They thing they've captured you.

 The wind blows And the feather on the ground is reminded of flight. It shakes and it takes off And comes down swaying Like a child in a cradle Sound asleep. The wind blows And the milk weed seeds take off Like people on white parachutes. The wind blows And snatches a child's kite, Pulls a woman's hair. The wind blows And we hear it talk In the languages of rustling leaves, The birds, The unidentifiable sounds of this vast forest. The wind blows And we rarely notice. But when we do, We hope it blows again So that we can listen to what it has to say. We wait And what we get is a storm; A shouting for our patience. What we get Is a ripped clothesline, A fallen tree, An umbrella coming out of nowhere, Turned inside out.

 Sometimes I wonder if I exist. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a hat with a pair of sunglasses On a chair at the beach. The ocean is beautiful. But having glasses isn’t enough. One should have eyes. And I wonder if I have them Any more. I wonder why I don’t feel it, I wonder why I don’t see the boys in palm pants surfing away. Sometimes I wonder if I exist. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a hat with a pair of sunglasses On a chair at the beach. Now is one such time.

 Water leaking from pipes on a building, The child sticking gum to a wall. Dogs lick the water, People slant on the gum. They leave the gum there itself. Lights hanging on rusted chains Swaying Gently. The bulb blinks  And the chain cries. But they leave the bulb there. But they leave the chain there. It will fall one day. One day, there will be darkness. One day, the pipes will break And the gum will go where it belongs. But until that day, we must wait. The day isn’t tomorrow. But we must wait; Just wait  and do nothing. Just wait Until someone does something. Just wait To wait. Do nothing.

 I stood on the grass And my shadow fell on a yellow flower With a ladybug on its petals. There was a marker in my hand That I stole from someone's desk. I stood on the grass In the morning When the sunlight makes the dew on the mead Glitter like the ocean. I stood on the grass And forgot for a moment That I was sitting there alone With no socks And a hole in my shoe. I smiled at the flower Like I was possessed, And those passing by stared at me; At the young man with frizzy hair Who has lost his mind. There was a man selling balloons to the children. I called a little girl towards me. “How do I look?” I asked, smiling. She took the marker from me And drew something on the balloon Before giving it to me. There was a sad face on the balloon; The lips turned downward. I looked at it And smiled even more.

 I can’t help it. My mind is a naughty child Who swallowed something he shouldn’t have. Now that child walks around, Puking everywhere what it swallowed. It's like having a cloud with words written on it Above one's head, Like in the comics. I can’t help it. Everyone reads my mind without trying. It's a naked fountain in Greece, Pissing as long as it lasts. I can’t help it. Others cant help it. Everything shows on my face. I guess I should live with it.

 The fern; Spines with little fingers, Dribbled over by glistening tears of the morning. The wind blows, Slightly raising a weary leaf, Cooling it. The tears roll down like globes of glass. The tears roll down and the Weight is lifted. The leaves now rise To look for the wind. But they can’t see him. The leaves now rise To redden their chests with the sun's mighty light; Their guardian, Their king. The leaves now rise And rustle in the wind; A collective laughter. The fern; Spines with little fingers; Using those fingers to play an anthem On the melodica of the wind...

 The sea erodes rock, And rock erodes clouds that merge into them. The clouds may be elated and exploring, Dull and looming, Or drunk on the sun's wine. The clouds may be rustling leaves, Tempting the seas, Or uprooting red woods centuries old. The sea erodes rock, And rock erodes clouds that merge into them. And what kind of a cloud it is Does not matter. But we all like to think it does...

 I stay awake in the night Chewing gum, Spitting, Chewing gum again. I stay awake in the night To write. They say you have the whole day. Yes you do; A whole day To listen to someone else, To speak for someone else, To be present for someone else, To write for someone else. But I want to write for me; I want to write poetry- Love letters to my own soul, Music score for my heart. So I chew more gum, I spit, And drink coffee again and again. And I take a walk  Through the veins in my heart, Through the misty paths of my soul. The veins may be throbbing in flowers, Or deadened by the cold. The paths may be drawn over mountains with vultures Or valleys with hungry wolves. But I walk through Without weapons, Without maps, Without hope. And I cry into my pillow Or laugh at the bug hurling itself into the lightbulb. I may lose a leg or kill a wolf; But I never let the vultures or wolves kill me. Broken Or in one piece; An adventure is an adventure. And they don’t understand the joy I go throu

 The wind tickles my neck And the sun beams in. But I cry “what the heck.” And choose to sleep in. The birds play morning quartet But what a useless act it is. They could instead lift this blanket Or the entire day I'll miss. When did it grow so heavy? Why is it roaring in fire? Yet why won't it burn away As I desire? These bottles of beer They disturb me. Yet I desire one more near That I want to empty. This open window and morning air They suffocate me. They remind a world that isn't fair For people who true be. It is a world of optimists. I am one of them. People who hammer on Smiling masks. Those nails hurt, but no one will know Except, everyone you ask.