Phantoms

Things aren't so light

like the veins in a butterflys wing

But rather startling heavy;

the rock where my heart should be

Memories are just like people

arbitrarily kind or cruel

I behold a kingdom of memories

over my soul they rule

The mind is an unjust kingdom

it beheads young bodies of thought

premature actions cropped and numbed

the lifeless receipts of each intention bought

 this intent is paid with uncollected debt
phantoms owed to the next set of deeds
"Next Time" written in fine black ink
each little ticket reads

Prompt: 06/20/14

It is not up to us to correct the mistakes of our parents

but to pave over our own paths with hope, ideas, and solutions

adding value to our individual and collective experience

assuring ourselves and our ancestors that whatever attempts

were made to insure a promising present and future, 

those attempts both successful and otherwise, 

are surely not in vain, but rather cherished events

that will forever be hearkened  in the chambers of our hearts.

I Am Defender

Against the throws of war

I am the defender of my heart.

Poisoned arrows with sharpened tips

soar with accusations dripping down their silvery lips 

ready to puncture my every pride.

But I am the defender of my heart.

When lovers complete the idea of me 

with incomplete ideas of me, 

a hollow shell of my actuality 

is animated 

and mocks me like a cartooned parody.

I am the defender.

A patient heart is a determined heart,

not waiting, but patient. 

Indeed wading, patiently, through thick 

and sticky scores of sluts, tramps,

and hooligans, all waiting with bows and arrows in hand.

Here I stand, the shield, the man,

the only defender of my heart. 

The blade sheathed in me is sharp and quiet, 

can reduce a loose tongue to a 

removed one, and will pierce the ears of 

any fortunate enough to hear what truth I speak, 

or stab, for my blade runs deep.

And it must. Because in me, my soul has trust. 

I seek within, beyond the moths and rust, 

between the unsettled dust, 

beneath the copper crust. 

I am the defender.

When chicks play games and lick the names 

of the many men they've fucked and bent, 

I write the boards and bar my chords 

pressing ink to page while burning sage.

Needless to say, the nights are solitary 

in my home. 

I thrive by candle light, 

fire helps me write, 

the flame insist that much burns inside of me. 

The pain, the shame, the 

misery, all melt off like calories.

I exercise the defender in my heart.

I have friends in many places, some wear 

two, three, four, and five faces. 

Some are copy cats and rely on traces 

to shape their lives and like glass blown vases 

are full of hot air. 

Speak your peace or let your words rest peacefully, 

because only deeds can be 

resurrected successfully, 

and the groundsman gave the keys to me, 

I run the graveyard shift in to the early morning. 

Would you believe how many thoughts are buried in this cemetery? 

Six feet beneath actions, respectfully. 

Where is the love you ask? 

Well where do I start? Begin where it ends.

I am the defender of my heart.