Please excuse the comma splices, tense changes, verbosity, etc. I was just a youngin' and now I realize the error of my grammatical ways. Plus, I preferred the flowery and descriptive writing styles of the early 19th century and beyond rather than the short, journalistic post-Hemingway-style of writing. I love intense imagery and descriptions in general. Still deciding whether I should edit my old poetry for grammar mistakes or take the Beatnik approach and fuck it.

Disclaimer: I only wrote/write on bad days. Grand days have never inspired me enough to write as I've always used writing as an outlet. A majority of my poetry is angsty, dark humored, or depressing, however, I don't have depression, and I'm not self-destructive or suicidal by any means. My writing is mostly a tenfold representation of the kind of day I was having at the time. Embellishing the realities of my bad days on paper helped turn them into good days. Not sticking my head into an oven anytime soon (or ever, actually). :P +10 points if you got the reference.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment

Thursday, September 13, 2007


I canoe along the ocean-like lake,
Not a care in the world, not the sound of a motor.

My paddle, caressing the water with every stroke,
The canoe, walking on water, careful not to capsize,
Just my paddle and I, skimming the water.

Gazing upon the forest edge that meets the shore,
Noting the fire-burdened trees to our right,
Twigs and trunks, burnt and charred,
Victim to a decade of fires, vulnerable.

The forest, isolated and lacking inhabitants,
Centuries old, nearly forgotten,
Greets the world, "Hello", with its gift of oxygen,
No reply, no appreciation, no thanks.

The island just up ahead, holding a deserted house,
The crimson paint, chipped, the windows, broken,
The rocky shore of the island, barricades the house,
Years of memories, hidden behind its doors.

Remnants of its garage, hanging over the water below,
The foundation, crumbling and eroding away,
Days away from calling the rocky lake bottom "home",
The lake's castle, in its final resting place.

An old beat-up fishing boat, anchored at the house's dock,
The boat, natural, matching the landscape,
In its rightful home and place,
The ancient boat, swaying to and fro, in its own harbor.

Pondering creation's great accomplishments,
Reminiscing the beauty that surrounds me,
The serene setting, unknown to most,
Away from bustling cities and at peace.

I continue on my journey to nowhere, enjoying nature,
Bird calls surround me, the quiet splash of the water below,
The many throngs of mosquitoes, decorating the air above,
I make my way along the silent waves.

Home, sweet, home...

Copyright © 2007

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