Pen to Paper

There is ink in my pen
And I'm pretty sure
If I put it to the page
It would come out,
Creating some sort of mark
On the blank pages.
Of my spiral bound
College-ruled notebook

But instead, my pen rests
Hovering above the page,
Hanging over the space
In-between the evenly spaced lines
Of faded red to off-white
Like a cliffhanging thought
On the tip of my tongue,
Unable to make a sound.

I truly want to write,
But I am struggling to
Break the imperceptible gap
In between the electricity
Running through my body
And symbols on the page,
Translating myself so others
Can feel the same emotions.

"The simple possibility
Of something
Cannot create anything."
I tell my overthinking brain.
I combat internally, knowing
If I force the symbols out,
They aren't pretty or proper:
They don't mean as much.

But then I look down
At the blank lined page
And about give up hope that there
Are any marks I know
In the language I've spoken
Since I was in my infancy
To describe what I need
To tell the rest of humanity.

There is no feeling,
No emotion transmitting
The hurt or happiness
But I attempt forcedly,
Cracking the separation
Of unknowing desperation.
With the simple words:
"To be".

Zen

I'm scrambling my zen
Writing jumbled thoughts
On the back of letters
I thought I would send

Asking myself why
The words aren't working
Frustration filling,
I let out a sigh.

Way more than enough
Ideas traveling.
The words want to scream
All sorts of loud stuff.

Contradicting thoughts
Screeching round my head
Definites mumbling
What if's and if not's
--
Handcuffing one hand
To my wild brain;
Holding for dear life
Dragged across the land
--

Breathing in and out
Slowing down the frantic
Discord of my heart
What is this feeling?

Closing my lost eyes
Searching for vision
Or simplicity
Among all my neurons.

I calm myself down:
In mixing colors
I know all I get
Is a shade of brown:

Yellow, red, or blue.
I forget sometimes
Why I'm terrible
At painting things true.

Pity

I think God looks down in pity
As we cover the simple streets of our city;
(Almost like it's our mortal campaign)
With our motley assortment of buildings again
It’s Sand. Earth. Metal. All the same
Since the world began. Only us to blame.
Building up and up and up from the dearth
But creating nothing, only modifying the earth

We demand the heavens wondering
Why we have smoke and pain and suffering.
When it was us that created all these things
Trying to mess with nature and heaven strings.
Not realizing we cannot make the world turn.
Our thoughts only on what we will earn.
Higher and higher to our metaphorical sky
Of hauteur and rank and power. Why?

I believe that if we stop forgetting
That the hallowed ground
On which we stand
Is a place to learn, to build:
Not the world surrounding us
But rather, our own soul
We could become a bit more happy
With our little days that are sunny,
And stop caring so much about our buildings
And cars and houses and jobs and money;
Simply listen to how the earth sings.
Bridges of sand fall apart anyways.

The Doctor

The hours wasted
In self-reliance and pride
Believing I have something to give
Realizing I have nothing to give
I can only take the grace
And in return, follow.

The price was already paid
The dagger already laid
So, shall I take the sacrifice,
And use it to heal my life,
Or just continue in myself?

My natural self is
Breaking the heaven-sown stitches
Trying to heal my heart.
They weren't ready
To be pulled out just yet.

Coming back with a guilty plea
And with His infinite love He heals me:
Over and over the great physician
Binds up my wounds and broken bones

He was broken for every time I was,
Bruised just to understand how to heal
Lifted up through the greatest sufferings
Just to succor his people from their infirmities
And to heal with love from his now infinite heart.

B

The reservoir of memories of her and I
Is suddenly empty. I'm startled:
I expected somehow more.

When you throw yourelf into
something and put in everything you have:
The reserves, the backup plans,
All get dissolved and evaporated.

I'm left staring wide second glances.
I hadn't really considered plan B.

The Guide

You were once so peaceful
In the casual disarray.
Now your footprints
Guide your friends into the fire

The whispers of a problem
Dropped with minor insignificance
On the outskirts of a perfect morning

The woes of expiration date love

Flash

The rain reminds me of
Thought-ridden afternoons after school
Where the sprinkler would be the sky
And the street a river
Carrying the lawn clippings and bottle caps
Into the storm drain

We wouldn't tell our mom
About the thunder -
Instead watching the bright contrast
On each other's faces-
And told ourselves God took
Pictures with every flash

The Baker

You know you unfollowed me
And I haven't felt the same since.
Do you still care?
You said I was your best friend
But I don't know you anymore.

You looked so skinny
when I saw you last
Your skin white and veiny
Your lips pale.
I worry for you, friend.

Cakes and muffins;
Lemon bread and blueberries
Not even for sale
You work with the very thing you spite

You drown your worries
In tasteless wine
And hang your insecurities
On the clothesline

I don't know if you mind
My intrusion,
But I had to see you.
You mean too much:

You were always there to shake
The demons off me,
To pray like a believer
And offer your opinion

I cannot tell you what to do

But please think of yourself

Before you think of others.

Pray.

And above all, friend

Don't go down the tunnels

Of your self-thought misery

Without someone else.

History

Is it a crime to take things slow?
For sure I get anxious -
But that's not the reason
I don't trust just anyone anymore

I don't want caution to blow away;
You can't blame me
People never change their nature
History repeats itself to no end.

Scars run deep
and heal shallow.

Irony

It is somehow clarifying
To let something fall out of your life
And realize how little you needed it

How ironic that we don't talk
anymore

Fog

I don't know exactly what it is -
It doesn't ever seem to fall apart all at once,
Thread by thread it's tearing
Like the faded knees of her blue jeans.
Heads turn in half-shame
As half-truths replace the infatuation phase.
I'm too scared to admit
what used to be her constant support,
Is now a hole
Shaded grey to disguise itself
Into the crumbling ash buildings
that make up my love

I think back to how my heart
Would turn in circles
When she would sing in her car.
Now I'm left grasping for simple answers
As we sit in tense silence.

Eyes avoided,
While secrets and old habits are stealing
Back to the surface.

Excuses made,
Worry stains the back of my throat
With a bitter taste like copper

The lights in her eyes dim when she sees me;
I'm gone in her eyes already.
I'm just the fog she's wading through

Contrite

Crushed under the weight
Of all the many things I've done

Finally I see the missing piece,
Struck senseless again with guilt

The simple truth is that I am wrong
Once again I am stuck in this place

Every time I go back to this
I marvel in amazement

The blindness of my own eyes;
My hard-hearted pride in full view

Help me come back to the light

She Left Today

Physics can't explain the gravity
Of when someone tells you
They are leaving for good;
The hanging, deafening silence
Of exasperated emancipation
Lying open in our living room

Thrown towels and soft vowels
Underneath the breath
The missing consonants hissing
Like the bit of oil I left
On the frying pan in the kitchen
When you tried to make pancakes
(It's always my fault you burn things)

As you slowly brush past me
In the unearthly breath of silence
I catch the scent of your cinnamon skin

Now I am just wondering
Who is going to tell me
they love the mole on my
Left cheek when I wake up
Next Monday morning?

Leaving for Africa

Hey!!!
So I am sort of taking a break from the poetry blog for 2 years to go serve a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints
But before I go, I'll give you one last poem. entitled Simple


Simple
The course humid windiness hit him
With a million smells
A million new faces looking straight at him

Why?
Why would this kid drop everything
To go across the world?

He's so out of place,
Doesn't even know french
Doesn't even know how to teach...

Not afraid,
Not scared of foreign lands
Or his trembling hands

Relying wholly on the Savior,
Giving everything
So that people he meets
Can have a chance

To find the truth.
And help others find it.

Save the Art

A drop of water
Falls from the furthest reach
Onto modern art in the garden:
Flushing the angles of the sculpture
And moistening the gum
Someone had stuck
to the bottom of it.