two more... tonight's been a writing-y kind of night

This Poem Has Metaphors.

So maybe I'm sharp,
but if only I were jagged...
Maybe I'm bright,
but just once
I'd like to burn your eyes...

to make
something
that not only is,
but
does.

No, I've spoon-fed
my lines with meaning
till they're puking up
melodrama,
green with wishing
it were not so green
with wanting, so very
mine.


Essentially, I get frustrated with how contrived my poetry feels sometimes.




Untitled

The crooked saw's
Worn-down teeth gleam,
Wet with blood
From its undead sapling feast.

The sun, perched impatiently
In early morning's seat,
Passes time by scorching dew
Like ants from every leaf.

The river bubbles slowly
Over stones, muttering somewhere
A cold hand creeps behind ancient
Man dozing in a chair.

Out with the old,
Out with the new,
In with whatever's left.
It's all entropy, right?

Yet somehow, I can't wait
For what comes next—
The young tree sputtering
Sugary green life on grateful bugs,

The sun attending the dew
In its heavenly home,
The old man feeling
Warmth of the Alone.



This one actually started out with just the image of the saw, and turned into something else entirely. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but until I decide I hate it, I'll keep it up.