Dog

They treat me like dog.
I see it.
I see it in eyes and lips and body.
They think with little looks and giggles
that I do not see them,
but it make not one of different color.

It treat me like dog,
the world,
but who said a dog did not live a better life.
Who said dog not find wife
Find joy
Find love

For in dogged brain of me
Fishies swim in open stream
Golden Stream, of mercury
While gold and mercury not similar in feel
Dog brain make it real.
That worth a bottlecap of drink
No? It worth something, I think.

Something. A little old.

Last year I couldn't write.
Last year I couldn't type.
My hopes were down,
and with an agitated frown,
I failed to make things light.

This year I think is better.
This year is much more fun
I've made myself a go-getter.
But I still need more time in the sun.


Strength comes in many forms, each requiring their own faction of pain.
But the muscles can learn to work together, Letting their strengths fill others' strain.

Rime

Blossoms frozen over

Hard ground

Tough to touch

Rough to feel

Yett, ensprouted vines, shrouded in bushels of hardy grass

They pull something out of such torn earth.

They tangle up and out

They Ripen to a crest of leaves

At a crest of rosy crimson and silver

--Taking a peek o'er the peak

Diminuative sprites: Ashtolomer, and Synet.

They seat themselves to see their partner

Until a time of chime and sunshine

Where they wish to fullfill

For now, it satisfies to simply entreat

A frozen globe, Enwrapped in time.

Warm within, old housing of Djinn.

A Hope-dance, Ignorant of Rime.

Games poems essays.

    When I read poems and I write poems, I categorize them. It began in Language and Composition. After writing an essay, our teacher pointed out to half the class that their main fault there in was a tone of prescriptive writing. Implementing should's and would's gave the whole piece a forward expectant lean; the writer proposed change like a doctor. He then went on to say that the entire point of this essay prompt was for descriptive, prospective writing. He intended us to look at the here and now, and to explain and analyze and discuss this topic.
     I never forgot this lesson. It opened up a whole new way of looking at the world, muchly similar to my revelation into the meanings of Subjective and Objective. Mostly though, it turned up in the worlds outside. It colored my poetry and the poetry of others with names. I began searching and diving through this new hole I had ripped. I found more aspects of directive tone(as I call it). I picked up words like Prospective, Descriptive, and Direct,, and started applying them to Poetry.
     This became quite worrisome as I mused on others' pieces. Each work seemed trapped in this half world in between all these terms. They don't cut and decipher like an essay, but they neglect the true flow, ambiguity, and metaphor of poetry. This Direct poetry doesn't suit me. It doesn't cut it. It fails my expectations and brings me no joy to read. I've therefore begun to examine poetry, uncontrollably, on this scale--in this spectrum. Does the poem leave options for others? Does the poem try to say one thing? As I asked these questions, I realized that a No automatically relegated the poem to misery.

     Whether I know what poetry specifically does or not, I know that, like a question, if the poem reads to point at one thing, it doesn't suit me, and better the words go towards an essay than a mock art piece.

Child of Asymmetry

In spindle's jungle, a darter Breathes
Racing from tree to tree, it seethes.
It whispers with him, older than sound:
"set fire to towns
purify the grounds"
The child of asymmetry

Spindle, to peak mountains found
Weaves nets for catching the unbound
They catch the air
Where the child, once there,
runs, breaking through
Flies, speeding true.

now up to a pace the child approves
like a heart-healing sin
the flurry of unbroken east
the burning of a freedom beast

Personal Demons

Forms of placid alarming white

fingers long and thin

hunched backs for dodging and reeling

blood spatters their maniacal grin

As swift as a shadow

and as sharp as a knife

Demons of fear

ready to take a life

When the last chime is heard

and lightening flashes

a message scratched on the wall

leaving blood red gashes

Without reading, it means

Something of ill disposition

"We are everywhere" they say

Tormenting me in my superstition

My personal demons

My unwelcome entourage

Keeping me awake

in subtle espionage

 I wrote this because last night I had an image come up in my dream. It happened in an instant, and I couldn't fall back to sleep. I had this overwhelming sensation that these things that I saw were still there. Not in the room or even in reality, but in my dreams--In the darkest recessess of my mind lies a fearful aspect that I don't know what to do with--I eventually had to imagine people were there with me so that I could fall asleep.

This is the first dream I have remembered since I was nine. I wish I hadn't.