Tag: original

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Spirals

The strong-aired curves swerve – a typhoon, perturbed, as

forceful winds flurry with feverish words –

our, mind’s micro-tornadoes dictate the day-to-day of this play, though,

society keeps us locked in to the track we’re on, molding us, like Play-Doh –

the goalposts are moving targets, dancing to wind-chimed rhythms, floating through life’s maze

and throughout the thoughts that run through us, our ego survéys –

these, hurricanes are in the brain, gusts measured in emotions-per-moment,


we circle through the cycles of love, peace, fear, and pain, – swirling,

the storm dissipates – and we’re left in a space with no humidity nor rain,

just a calm, cool, cloudless view of the dark hues of outer space.

Back around we go in our roles on this never-ending, traveling Broadway show,

as the strong-aired curves swerve – a typhoon, perturbed, as

forceful winds flurry with feverish words…

– RSM

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Breathe Vol. 2

Been there and back but the panic attacks clap with the sound of deep thunder and return with the whiplash of a well-thrown boomerang,

Random and abrupt these emotions emerge, the flood’s surge suffocates, a work-stoppage in my mind and I’m unable to produce words

Energy sparks like a super saiyan transformation, but all the wild hair and screaming is on the inside,

‘Alive and well’ turns to a silent hell at the blink of an eye’s notice,

The day’s events’ recap just kindles the flames, stimulating the flight/fight response, my

Heart rate goes off the charts, looking just
like this poem, when you rotate your screen 90 degrees to the left –

Engaged in a battle with the heavy, inner winds, but I win all these bouts when I just follow the first letter of every line, and remember to breathe. – RSM

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The Sculptor

A chisel and hammer stammer with the speed and clamor
of a hand driven jackhammer –
and the artist, the handler –
is precise as he is impatient,
sparring with the marble slab to carve a sacred new representation.

The stone was flown in from the doldrums over in Moldova, and
he’s crafting a goddess – so graceful, so flawless.

His hands cultivate a muted peace while fighting against time;
unfocused energy heads up his spine,
increasing his heart rate
with each imperfect puncture of the stone he molds.

As somebody once told,
it’s the work done preparing for the future that makes us old;

He make these fine cuts and chisel away.

He sculpts his dreams into the waking day. – RSM

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Haikus Vol. 4

A single leaf leans

forward, out from the main branch –

it leans toward the sun. – RSM

–

A ladybug runs

around the tip of my cup,

changing its direction. – RSM

–

Brightness prevails on

the highway’s grand horizon.

all hues stripe the sky. – RSM

–

Fatigue is the weight

of heavy experience.

Rest. Lighten the load. – RSM

–

Consciousness surfing

is the way we all traverse

life’s chaotic waters. – RSM

–

I get just enough

sleep that ‘one more episode’

is barely worth it. – RSM

–

The body protests

the mind with fatigue; the mind

answers back with guilt. – RSM

–

Silence is the world

reminding us to listen

to our deepest thoughts. – RSM

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Seven Years Later

It all worked out, despite the odds.

It’s on me to keep the good going.

A setback or two has no place in my mind

cuz I crush those with one hand now, without even trying.

The strength gained from it all isn’t seen on the physical,

Rather a strong mind, soul, my ‘guns’ are metaphysical –

I love the love that I have, it’s a skill

that’s built through the storms of life, even still,

I know our lives are a painting or a novel unfinished

as we look back on our bad times when we felt diminished;

But trust me, my guy, my ‘rock bottom’ is a flex

Cuz I know the grit and grime it took to manifest

The present, past, future that rises each morning,

Seven years later I’m not just flying, I’m soaring. – RSM

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Life is Funny

How many mountains so we have to climb

to finally feel worthy of a little bit of time to unwind?

How many victories require a tax?

How many little breaks ended up bringing us back?

How often does a good life moment have some heavy fine print?

How do the happiest times turn to shit?

How does a celebration end up a challenge?

How do emo songs at midnight once again become valid?

How does paradise come with a catch?

How are we to face this? How are we to act?

How many little tricks does life like to play, and what do we make of it all, anyway?

– RSM

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Looking Forward

I look forward to being a morning person, reminding you of the time, and making breakfast,
while you sleep through your alarm clock.

I can’t wait to cook with you, clean with you, run errands, watch our shows, go on walks, have long talks over dinner, and make more routines with you.

I can see ahead, we’ll be pushing each other to be our best selves, having tough conversations, taking on new adventures to new places, both close by and far away, packing our love for each other wherever we go.

Every time the moon rises I look forward to our next day, because when the sun rises I get to be a morning person again, and be your sunshine when you wipe the sleep from your eyes.

Each day together has been a gift, and with every sunrise I look forward to being blessed again with your love. – RSM

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The Corners That We’ve Turned

We don’t often realize how sharp, nor round
were the corners that we’ve turned,
such feats, so unfound.

It’s only when we glance in the rearview mirror
that we see the long road behind us – then it becomes clearer.

The beaten pavement, faded, lined with trees
weave a long, winding set of all of our memories
that we forget to recall, like when friends became enemies
or that scene in Finding Nemo where he can’t say ‘anemone.’

We’re caught up in the present, racing against some kind of clock,
hugging that highway divider wall, but it’ll bring you to a stop
when you look back at the journey that brought you to this moment –
our lives have been our own path to create
as we find our true selves in each curve of the road, and
we don’t know much more about the way going forward,
but, slowing down, and looking back, provides a renewed focus.

You don’t often realize how sharp, nor round
were the corners that you’ve turned,
until you look back
at the map that you’ve crafted, so detailed, hand-drawn,
a trajectory travelled from our first few notes until the end of our very last song.

We’re so busy trying to hit the right notes that we forget to sing our own praises,
so smile back at the road behind you, no matter how beaten, no matter how faded. – RSM

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Keyboard Rapper Vol. 7

I’m so complete, I flip things around and make the drums march to the sound of my own beat,

Never discreet, I bring heat to the mind, my thoughts are alive
as they flow out from my crown and vibrate toward the sky.
It’s science, guys! Like hot air, my rhymes rise – the literary paintings I craft
are the kinda masterpieces that canvas can’t grasp.
I’m a key-er, not a rapper, I just type in my writin’s
that take y’all’s minds on wild rides, like psilocybin – pardon me, I’m vibing.
Lyrical bread, thrown out to the masses,
like emboldened Romans from times, olden,

I’m the Emperor of this whole-thing, I roll in with the royal guard chanting my slogans
and rain these brain-baguettes on the people, just knowing
that they’ll be back next week for the word circus, and more bread,

“My coliseum bars will shine throughout time, long after I’m dead,” – The Emporer said. – RSM