A train runs in the backyard but the wooden fences are still leaning from the previous generation so the train kept going on its own tracks
five executive reps stuck their ears to the ground to locate the incoming sound but the train sometimes runs above so excuse New York City if it seems to have lost its way
maybe a train runs through walls so since the great discovery, the bells have been a mystery and the rolling rocks have discovered the purpose within their spirit
but the people collecting tickets are well accustomed so they will never check the carpet in their living room even though in a rush they’ve broken the plastic tracks
built on the dead heat of playtime because that’s where all of reality makes total sense the conductor on bruised knees. Who’s also the engineer, the passenger, the fuel, and the only one who knows the way.
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the sharp edges hurt like a flower’s petal the texture receives grief like a cloud’s golden smile
if I fall in grace forever, eventually I’ll reach hell so I remain in confort. Soundless movements of my body obedience to my wishes, without complaint
so I ask how? but acceptance is not a choice it’s a decision made after a day of heavy burdens even when surrendering all the weight is done relentlessly unaware of the permanent pain, poison, pressure caused even when it has to bend unusually for your confort
love is only an idea for the amateur, and the cowards who overthink the purest form is “what else is there to do?” but embrace— let me lay my heavy head of a day’s frustrations somehow, turn density into dispersion, dissipation.
the nights are frustrating. they leave you in the morning, with creases to flatten for you to accept a bird’s song that is already rejected so you might as well choose to live in hell. so long as the fire shine for my confort what else is there to do?
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She’s the light of my life! ❤
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your eyes in mine we’re pondering each other’s thoughts we’ve shaken each other’s understanding of life and we know the dust will never settle
there’s a game made to bring us closer but i’ve already fallen into the river in your iris so i hope to always be a part of you, regardless.
let Earth remember us as artists overwhelmed by passion, so we consume each other in the tight chamber with royal elephants on the wall; a forest of sunshine or absolute darkness; a temple with mirrors on the wall
webs of betrayal bundled inside, connecting our eyes; galaxy, flavored chocolate. cobwebs attach—closing the distance between
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I don’t know about your stories with other-balls but in my city, our sport is handball:
where the outsiders and class-drivers reconciled their pride, forces and hides each Friday night, after school: concrete playground blue round rubber band ball bouncing boldly. Man, that was our party!
Our palms would bump ’till peel but this pain, we never feel. Slaps and echo’s drumming our ear drums before it resonates into what seems to be an abyss; a neighborhood made of blocks, corner stores, out-of-schedule buses, squirrels; pigeons and apartments ever too tight to fit our dreams, so the city never sleeps. Some say it’s because we are convinced that we will fix these dreams right each time we’re breaking night.
But days are for society’s demands and kids walking in bands; teenagers mimicking gangs.
Maybe we only mimicked cause we knew. Deep down, there were bigger purposes than parading around corners, down blocks where piggies oink with bother: questions that could never answer why we’re always shooed off our own territory with dictation about school, our potentials which, for now, is in the form of trouble seen in the skin color of our brother.
We always knew. This education: stories of doctorates, laws and a backpedal to instruction, was only the limits we were told to be bounded to. There had to be a way to let wind slide under our capes. Although we, at times, refused to believe it.
But if a brother could actually use these real life wings that he won’t shut his trap about, then, brother, I’ll be the first to slide up and down rainbows.
Sometimes, even we tell ourselves to not believe in our dreams. Though this stubbornness in us always sang else: there’s more beyond being trapped in this trap with a tight cap.
II My city life is: handball sessions at the local park’s handball court. Where you know these Asian kids won’t be beaten. Rounds on the basketball courts where you know the black kids are kings of the court. Skate spots that I doubt are legalized where the white kids are discovering culture.
Culturally divided, we always were culturally integrated, we always are for every now and then, we mingle our differences in the center of the court— qualities of: Professional Athlete, Einstein and CEO losing their differences.
Step behind that white line; cracked line and serve.
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I posted an older version of this poem a few years ago. This one is edited and much better, so I am sharing it again. I also got the opportunity to meet up with an old friend of mine from freshmen year of high school the other day. We haven’t seen each other in 10 years. It was so enriching to talk to him and catch up with our lives. I shared this poem with him. That was very special for me because he is THE ONLY person in the entire world who could fully understand this poem. And he did. After reading the poem and reminiscing over the good ol’ times, we went out to a deli to buy a handball. We then found ourselves a handball court. There we had our first handball match in 10 years! It was incredible, and he beat my ass like he used to do back in freshmen year of high school! It was a fantastic time. Freshmen year of high school, I would go through the day looking forward to go play handball after school. After the bell rung, we would put our stuff in our lockers, run outside to the nearby park, get on the handball court—we each carried a handball in our book bag—and form teams. Then one of us would walk to the middle of the handball court with the ball, step behind that white line; cracked line—suspense fills the air—and the rest is history. Serve.
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I’ve been reaching out to her in every way that I can from my cell
You see, patience is not my best feature
So I tap on the metal bars in search of a rhythm Only her and I understand I launch a sound in the air, hoping I know where her ears are listening
I summon her in the middle of the night in my lucid dreaming if that’s what it takes to see her I tell her I’m here. I’ll always be waiting and looking for her
You see, patience is not my best feature
So my spirit rises in the atmosphere to transmit my prayer The wind causes turbulence. Sometimes I’m cold, and I envelop myself I leave all I have behind because my interests are not pleasing her
There are some possibilities I must accept. But my heart doesn’t understand patience nor defeat My soul doesn’t accept an outcome until it’s bold enough to face me So I strum a guitar chord in her direction “I’m sorry. I’m back. I’m waiting.” So I speed through my daily commitments to leave an eternity of time for her. Forever. Until she decides to come back.
You see, patience is not my best feature
So I apologize to my past. I go back to the event that changed everything Then create a reality where all of our dreams are accomplished Where neither of us suffer and serve punishments
I recreate a bond so inviting We’d have reasons to leave our unimpressive realities We’d abandon the happiness we started forcing ourselves to rejoice in, And go to that part of the multiverse Where we nurtured freedom, peace and safety All of our comforts.
So what are we living for? If not to amount into a higher self that exists throughout the universe how long will it take until my higher self exists with her? In the same room, where we go through our grocery list, separate the laundry and rip our hair over tax forms Did you forget that alternate future?
How bad does the present have to be destroyed to rewrite a future set in stone? How many times must I kill myself? How many times should I volunteer to die before my spirit arises to deity? How holy must a human be to enter the presence of a Goddess who is cursed to these streets and mortal moral? Humanity morality
You see, patience is not my best feature
So I lay in bed unimpressed by lateness I calculate these possibilities. Bringing the guardians of time to anxiety I ask them to pay their debt for my frequent trips to the future, in the past, Because the present had matters to be tended to and resolved But I was convinced these matters already destroyed our future.
You see, patience is not my best feature
So I shoot the dream down out of anxiety. I abandon the boat before it sails I remove the moon from the sky claiming it’s to protect it “Fear” is too similar to “care” so one is often confused for the other So instead of waiting for doomsday or our ticket to paradise I figured it’s best if I never find out.
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I wrote this about 7 hours ago. So it is still pretty new and unedited. If you have any suggestions on how I can improve it, please do let me know. Thank you!
Thank you for reading! If this piece impacted you in any ways, please read more of my work here.
Sircharlesthepoet 