Light Comes

For my Brother...you are inspiring and so very strong.

Light comes in lonely places,
when the dawn wakes the slumbering soul.
And your fingers fracture the thawing heart
as they clutch each other for warmth.
The look on your face when the first rays of sun
break the darkness, it always makes me inhale my lungs.
It's so quiet.
But a smile comes when the dawn breaks
because for a moment you feared that it never would.
And you would have to lay there,
on your back for the rest of your life.
Wrapped in the blankets like a coffin.
But that glow streaking across the ceiling
lets the blood return to your cheeks.
And the sleeping dead leaves your body
and you are shaken with life to your core.
You made it another night,
that means you made it another day,
and that means you've made it further than ever before.
And the strength inside you does not amount
to any weight you could lift.
It is the strength to rise when all else would have fallen.
So light does really come in the morning,
and darkness shatters when I see that smile on your face.

Here's a song for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8b_hngUHB8&ob=av2e

Continue to be strong my brother. Love you.

Let the Jazz carry me

There are many times when
I wish the jazz would just carry me away.
Let the music notes snuggle against my arms
and gently
       t
    f
  i
l
me off the ground.
I want to feel lighter than a kite,
than a bird flying alone at midnight.
I want to let the beat do the thinking for me,
the bass line be my blood line,
and melody will hold me.
Love is something I hold dear
and life goes on
when you start playing our song again.
And though the jazz notes groove me
and shake me to the core,
it never seems to be enough to make me fly.

Of course

He would call you,
of course he would.
I would call you even,
who wouldn't?
But an icy coldness
fills me and fights with
the fiery jealousy breathing in an out of me.
Of course he would call you.
And the sitcom perfect situation occurs:
He likes you,
you like another guy,
and that guy could care less.
And I'm the cooky friend there just to make the laughs.
Falling to the ground when I've had too much to drink,
tags still unknowingly attached to my clothes,
the "Laugh" sign lights up when I am around.
But I don't get an arm wrapped around me on a cold walk home.

Sad Poetry

I think you can see straight through me
when I start writing sad poetry.
It manifests and consumes
and my heart becomes an open book.
You can flip through the pages,
see all the tragedy
scoff at the melodrama
and groan and the melancholy metaphors.
And then you can toss that book aside
on your bed side table
and sleep with sweet dreams.
But that sad poetry
and that inspiration for those words
boils within me
and leaves tiny gashes in my skin.
Because for me that poetry is not simply
a list of pretty words.
It's a fabricated figure
of my hopeless heart
of my shattered confidence
of my lonely existence.
And I feel ridiculous
because I'm not usually one to complain
when all around me are gifts of
laughter, friendship, joy, beauty.
I see it and regret the instant that I spent precious time
writing a sad poem and let the dark overtake me.
Stupid sad poetry,
I write you too much.