Hand

i think i've grown another hand
it reaches further than it should
it ties my laces faster
than any other would
it cradles me to sound sleep when
trains outside are loud
it picks me flowers from the mountains
then drops me on a cloud
it writes me poetry and plays piano
then whipes the tears from dwelling eyes
its planted me the greenest garden
and stolen stars from darkened skies
my hand is brave and strong enough
to fight the demons in my dreams
it knows just how i like my eggs
and coffee with some cream
i let it be, for it is fleeting
the way it saves me from quick sand
and when it's gone, i'll turn to patience
to help me hold another hand

oh fuck off, you're not a poet

stop writing in short sentences
like this
like it's more honest
like there is no
need
for a rhyme
as if you've got
some secret
that noone knows
because you're abrupt
and/
or
blunt


it's not edgy
it's not modern
it's not trendy
it's bullshit

stop
it
stop it
stop please

poetry is not a fad
it breathes
on its own
not like your fucking
hand pressing on keys
as if
you're the warhol of
writing

draw a red stripe
on a blue convas
and call it a day,
why don't you?

End of rant.

p.s. this posting is really my way of expressing my frustration at the modern poetic trend happening with fellow young people.. apparently writing is a cool thing noways, and since many lack the real talent and imagination to create worthy poetry, they have decided that writing in brief abrupt lines makes them and their work unique. it does not. it hurts my fucking eyes, and my fucking ears. it is abunch of pretentious crap, so please spare us all and stick to your shopping and LSD trips.

p.s.s i don't mean to hate on anyones creative outlets, and of course, who says i'm any better.. but fuck ... i hate this crap.

My home cries

my home cries
when your footsteps aren't echoing
from the doorway of your room
sound of coughing isn't waking me
too long ago and gone too soon

the walls are lonely with noone
to fall against them in drunk stupor
they call your name when there's someone
who isnt you inside my bedroom

the floors don't creak the same nowdays
now that there's only me who's walking
my mirrors look just like your face
and water runs with our talking

you're not the one the heart is hiding
glimpses of whom i wait to see
but tell that to my home that's crying
and wanting you instead of me