After a Brief Hiatus

So I've been really busy lately with trying to write up new stuff, and finalize some old stuff.  Here is a couple of poems that I wrote awhile back, and kind of revised.  A few new ones will be up later.  

Cigarette Smoking Man

I watch the old man smoking his 
cigarette across the street. What 
the hell, I’m almost positive that
he had lung cancer a few months
ago. It definitely takes some real
dedication to survive cancer, then
start smoking again once it’s in 
remission, what a trooper.

But for the past few days, I haven’t
seen him. I decided that he has moved
or is dead, one of the two. It was Sunday 
morning, and I see his newspaper laying in 
his driveway. I wanted to look at the ads, 
do the crossword, and since he was gone, I 
might as well make good use of his paper.

While I’m sitting out on my front porch, 
studying what looks to be an easy crossword,
I see him. The old man coming outside to
smoke his morning smoke and get his 
morning paper…I’m such a dick.

I thought about rolling it all back up and
taking it back to him, but I wasn’t done 
with it, and I really wanted to do the
crossword today.  

I watch as the man walks up and down
his driveway, looks around his lawn, every
spot where the paper could have landed.
He’s done with his cigarette, and slowly
walks to his door, disappointed I’m sure.  
I hope this isn’t the only thing he had to 
look forward to every Sunday. I don’t 
want to be an accomplice to suicide.

I know what I’ll do; I’ll just leave a buck
and a quarter on his doorstep tomorrow. If 
he’s still alive, when he comes out to smoke
his morning cigarette, I’ll be doing the same,
and have the satisfaction of knowing that I
paid him back for my wrong actions. But
if I don’t see him in a few days, looks like
I have my own Sunday paper subscription.

There's No Place Like Home

My phone is ringing. I normally
never answer my phone, just wait
for the machine to pick up. If the
message is pertinent to anything,
I’ll call back. It’s my mother calling,
and I let the machine pick up. She 
says that I haven’t been back home 
in almost 4 years, and the family 
really wants to see me.

I know how long it’s been mother,
you don’t have to remind me. I
swear to God, sometimes I think 
she’s on drugs, with all the quirky
shit she says. The other day she
called and asked me what I was 
doing, and what time it was. Why
are you asking me what time it is?
There has to be a clock somewhere
in your vicinity that you can look at.

Its instances like these that make me
not want to come home. I already 
know what is going to happen. I’ll
get there, my mother will want to be
around me constantly, while my father
will just be sitting in his chair, drunk
out of his mind, probably not even 
knowing that I am in the house.

I’ll get away from my house as soon
as possible, and go to the coffee shop
to see all of my old friends. That’s 
okay I guess, but listening to their 
stories of success will annoy me, and
I’ll walk out without them even knowing.

I’ll go to the bar to get away from them,
and see a couple friends from high school
that haven’t changed at all. I’ll see my 
ex at the end of the bar, and when she notices
me, she’ll hang all over her boyfriend just
to try and make me jealous. I don’t give a
shit. I was over her a long time ago.

Then at the end of the night, I’ll come
home, and my mother will be waiting up
for me. She’ll tell me that she was worried
about me, and when I’m at home she can’t
sleep until I get back in for the night. I’m
24, and she still tries to treat me like I’m 16.

I’ll get up in the morning, as early as I can,
and pack up my stuff. My mother will ask
me why I’m already leaving, and I’ll say that
I have stuff that needs to be done before next
week and I have to get started on it. I’ll tell 
her that I’ll be back in a few weeks, but we 
both know that’s a lie. I’ll kiss her goodbye,
attempt to wake up my dad and tell him
I’ll see him later, then walk out, throw my
stuff in the backseat, get in, start my car,
light a cigarette, and drive away.

I call my mother back after a couple hours.
I tell her I have a ton of stuff to do, and I
can’t make it this time, but I’ll try and come
up in a few weeks. She says she understands,
and hopes that I’m doing well. I tell her I love
her, and she tells me the same, and I hang up.

Enjoy,

Sean

Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder

One of my poems that will be placed in my book probably.

Heartache's Pride

Love kisses the tears, aiding the end of a heartbroken memory.
Love kisses the lips, takes over the ties of a heartbroken memory.

The pain of this split-screen sadness offers to sight an end of misery,
leaving a gaping hole from the wound of an arrow that was once love’s memory.

If there was a hint of glory’s light, the life of this love might be healing,
but all that remains as of yet, is a lonely sign of a love’s lost memory.

I can’t seem to shake off this hurt, my mind racing back and forth, trying to
obtain what once was there, her hand in mine, a single, blissful memory.

If I could see my jumbled mix-up, where things went wrong, it might be possible to salvage
the past, throw out all my inconsolable thoughts, create a new memory.

But through all of this, she is still there waiting, for a sign that she is still treasured,
still a part of my only memory.

When I finally see my faults, let my pride slip away, 
I’ll be able to tell her that I’m ready and willing, that I want to be her last love’s memory

Abstraction

This is one of my favorite poems I've written, by far.

Apathy

My girl is screaming at me,
nothing new I suppose. She
says she’s gonna leave, grabs
as much of her shit as she can,
stuffs it in a bag, and walks out,
slamming the door behind her.
I really didn’t have anything to 
say, and besides, She’ll come 
back, she always comes back.

But if she doesn’t, oh well,
She wasn’t that good anyway,
and I have better things to 
waste my time on. I grab 
the beer next to me, the one 
I opened the night before.  
I take a swig. It’s flat, 
but it’ll get my drunk,
and that’s all that matters.

I move around until I find
the perfect spot on the couch,
find the remote, and turn on 
the TV. Flipping through the
channels, I find nothing of
any interest to me, so I settle
on an infomercial, one about
knives.  

The host is cutting through 
a shoe with one of the knives,
and I think, “why would anyone
want to cut through a damn shoe?”
If I had one leg, and some extra
shoes lying around, then I might
have a use for such a knife.  

My girl walks in, just as I thought
she would, and gets in the path 
between me and the TV. She
always does shit like this, it’s
the only way she can get me
to pay any attention to her. She 
says to me, “I heard somewhere
that apathy kills.”

I look at her in a blank stare,
and say, “Yeah, but I don’t care.”  

Bukowski

I was at Roasters basically all day today attempting to put the finishing touches on my portfolio.  Now I've been writing a lot of poems about love, or rather the lack thereof, but for some reason, I changed that up a bit today.  I've been reading a lot of poetry by Charles Bukowski, and if you haven't heard of him, I totally recommend him.  He is one of the greatest contemporary writers of our time.  And, David Duchovny bases much of the storyline of Californication on Bukowski's writing and his lifestyle.  Anyway, I wrote this today, and it's in the same contemporary style of poetry; raw and honest.

Thanks For Nothing

The coffee shop is empty
I usually get my 
inspiration from this 
place, but not today.

I figure I might as well
go outside for a smoke.
It's a beautiful day,
so why waste it.

An old friend I haven't 
seen in years walks up
and says hi.  We strike

up a conversation, and
after a couple of minutes,
he asks if he could bum
a smoke.  I say sure, and
hand him one.

He lights it and says thanks,
then gets up and walks away.

Inconsiderate prick.

After writing this, I felt like I should keep writing like it.  I never really thought about poetry as being like this, but I like it much better.  And if you haven't checked out Bukowski, get on that.

 

Things Never Change

I'm having a bit of writer's block, being that this is my first time to use this.  Lately, I've been having problems figuring out where my life needs to be heading.  It's scary, knowing that I'll be 24 in a month, and I've done nothing big in my life...I want a change, I want to break out and start over again.  If I could, I would move to NYC right now, and leave everything behind.  Sadly, that cannot happen, but one can always dream.  My poetry class that I'm in right now is finally making an impact.  I'm finally able to write things that are meaningful to me, and that hasn't happened in a long time.  Granted, there haven't really been any changes in my life that would spark me to write again, but there is now, and there will be plenty of writing coming from these changes.  I'll leave with a poem that I recently wrote.  Enjoy.

Summer Romance

This love is as a shooting star,
a burning tale of romance.
Offering a quick glance into eternity,
and extinguished as quick as it was lit.

A burning tale of romance
lives between two young hearts
and is extinguished as quick as it was lit.
It is a soul-awakening summer flame.

Living between two young hearts
is an unending feeling of forever.
It is a soul-awakening summer flame.
His hand reaches for one more caress,

an unending feeling of forever
meeting its bitter end in timeless silence.
His hand reaches for one more caress
as love exhales its last weary breath.

The bitter end in timeless silence
fills his tattered and tired heart.
As love exhales its last weary breath,
The words, “I love you” leave his lips.

His tattered and tired heart
hangs on to love’s burning ember.
“I love you” leaves his lips
and that is more than enough.

Hanging on to love’s burning ember
he feels as though he could find forever.
And it is more than enough,
this love is as a shooting star.