There is nothing –
in this house –
I want –
to do.
Tag Archives: poet
Ownership
What does it mean to own a thing?
To have a rightful claim to it
which the consensus ratifies?
To create, deserve, or control something?
Do these words belong to me,
that came from my unconscious mind
and are not kept, but spread abroad?
I cannot say who now will read them,
nor change what their effect will be:
they have gotten already away from me.
Thus it is with life and words,
with feelings, thoughts, and actions:
we only own what we own no longer –
by claim of memories.
Starving
They walk around like animated corpses,
eyes glazed, feet moving them automatically onward, hungry,
toward individual destiny.
Eyes on their phones,
buds in their ears, connected, and
completely unconnected.
Each one of them knows they are the exception.
The only exception.
This they know better than anything,
This they know regardless and
in spite of what they learn or do in life.
This they have been taught above all else,
in classes, movies, and sacred text,
on billboards, on websites, and in the stars;
this alone they believe:
“You are special.”
“You are different.”
“You
will change the world.”
And so they wander, starving corpses,
without purpose, feasting always
on the empty promise of immortality
dangling ever before them on a string
that hangs from their ears, meets at the chin,
and plugs in to their phone.
Mirror
I love they way your eyes turn up
on either side when you smile.
They do the same for everyone, I’m sure,
but yours are the only ones that infect me.
And when you fix your hair,
and ask me how you look,
and smile in the way you do
I simply cannot help myself –
and then I smile too.
Teacher
My task is not to give you
the answers of the soul
but to plant in you the questions
you must answer on your own.
A Poet’s Thanks
I’m but a little flame
flickering in the night
a warm and hopeful yellow,
casting dull shadows on the walls
Igniting what experience
and reflection impart to me;
and every “like”
every comment
every subscription
is fuel for the fire
of my existence.
Because of you
I will one day burn
in the hearts of millions.
Patron
Packets of truth
eloquently stated,
in definite form
or indefinite,
produce a fleeting feeling
of connection,
of epiphany,
of truth,
in the minds of those
who read and linger
or move on.
Truth
There is a place where truth exists
and facts are left behind.
For those of you in doubt of this,
search in the human mind.
Meaning
Too often my search for meaning
discourages rather than fuels me.
I’m too focused on theme to enjoy novels
and too focused on purpose to enjoy life –
but for those rare moments when the world shrinks
and exists only in my arms or the walls of my home,
babbling, exploring, and grinning up at me.
Then I’m no longer searching,
either because I’m distracted or
because I am reminded.
Is it enough?
Is it enough to live vicariously
through fake lives of fake people on TV?
For some, perhaps, but not for me:
there’s so much more I want to be.
Sam Bartholomew's Writing Blog 