poetry.

it's nice. i really feel like it's been growing up w. me. this is just something i threw together last night, instead of doing my midterm essay for art appreciation. i'm planning on breaking it up into separate pieces, but that's for later.

THOUGHTS.

it only takes one "it's over" to make everything that preceded those words irrelevant.
and while you're hell bent on trying to mold mud into something that's heaven sent,
we're moving on, through broken bonds. clogging our tear ducts like tampons.

i remember the words exchanged. from me to her. from her to me.
but unlike van Gogh's work, real life's Starry Nights don't last an eternity,

life is about balance. finding the right mixture.
we live life
with only enough time to catch a brief glimpse of The Big Picture

a reference to the last note on perspective.
i write to vent truth, not to be remembered or accepted.
it doesn't make a difference whether you admire or reject it.

i said when it's over, it's irrelevant
whether you embraced, adored, or ignored us.
whether this leads to a homeless poet or a rapper with a tour bus,
me and my clique of words i keep in my backpack like doras
will keep inking murals of morals.

the verses i write. the stanzas i say,
whether forgotten like dreams,
or remembered like P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way,
are here to stay.

-Dan.