when darkness falls upon my death
this heart is reaped
head laid to rest
do not weep
nor steep regret
you mustn't grieve a hollow chest

the calling of a soul to shed
all mortal sheaths
and specious breath
divinely deemed
a doom beset
by shadows of a hollow chest

as darkness breathes within our breast
our spirit clings
to walls of death
envisioning
a light bereft
imprisoned by a hollow chest

there's a certain song that's wept
within the halls
of sacrament
grief begone
and faith beget
freedom from a hollow chest

© Jason Cole

i.


the stars do not shine
loneliness presses the air
into a tangle of last years withered
leaves,
loneliness in summer leaves
that whisper to a grey moon
a song of regret.


ii.


dreams of midnight,
cool rain,
songs more alive
than this low-roofed night.


iii.


teardrops like the ghostly moon, lost
against the heart that
flutters like a dark sky
breathing stars.
  

iv.


the mottled horizon
pools into greys,
tender eyed with
soft sadness,

in these dim hours when silence
cloaks the woods and
human laughter disappears

we sink against the softer sky
and the slow fade of moon and
long for dream, for everything
to reawaken and unwind.


v.


we are swimmers heading as far
out as we can get. surreal silver
stars, opening like flowers,
refusing to drown.

These days,
talking to you is like
screaming.
Under water

No matter how loud
I am,
the waters will always drown out
my pleas.
To the ears that need to hear them.

I think I'm cracking under the pressure

Vegetables ~ loose LEAF
Candy ~ passion
Meat ~  words
Utensils ~ your hands

I am a mash-up of mishaps, strange facts and movie quotes.
A cacophony of cool dancing tin hats,
and concerned-looking men,
watching in white lab coats.

I am the hungry seagull searching for salmon,
dodging waves and annoyingly landing on ferry boats.
Dropping gifts to the sunbathers by the  shore,
they never seem to appreciate.
Until they do, I will just drop more.

I am the spinning cactus made of rock.
I am the wealthy, rich millionaire
who sleeps in cheap hotels
and wears odd socks.

You are the last bit of toothpaste
you squeeze out of the tube
before throwing it away.
I haven't brushed my teeth all week.
What more can I say?

I am the broken toy tossed under the bed.
I am the breaking glass, the slamming door,
the words misquoted, misused,
and more than often misread.

I am the one who bites off
more than they can chew.
I am the one who tries and
tries and
tries
to
forget you,
but can never quite seem to.

I am the one who stays up late
sometimes,
to ponder, wonder,
and write these confused, riddled rhymes.

Today is Sunday,
and yet it's already tomorrow.
In my mind, there is no time:
But there is sorrow,
and bursts of joy
and glimpses of hope
and snippets of happiness
and times where I cope,
but most of the time?
Nope.

But today is alright.

Couldn't be more grand!
They "catch your drift"
They understand.

The company of writers
The company of folks
Who "get" your pain
Laugh at your jokes!

They know the need
For being heard
Most people think
Our "play" absurd
And how expression
Can be burred
And inspiration
When it occurs
Can clear the mind
of weeds and burrs
They don't know
The written word.

Through a world
As black as pitch
It's a puzzle
It's a *****
I don't know
I can't say which
Is worse... the scratching...
Or the itch!

But you, my friend
Are part of me
You have my eyes
So you can see
Though we may bicker
And disagree
We are poets

Our mind's are FREE


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/27/2015

You asked me to write a poem about you so here it is:

Hell is brown-eyed.

Today I watched him put his heart into an empty locker again...
He did it slowly and cautiously,
As if to put emphasis onto how long it's been since
He's satisfied himself and not satisfied me.
He used to indirectly claim
that I was smaller than his textbooks-
that I was smaller than his backpack, but just a more heavier weight to carry.
I never knew if he saw the strains I felt more as a burden than he did-
but if he did he ignored it because I never lost an opportunity to turn my pain into a fire-alarm.
Every day we talked about how if it ended it was worth it and
how it still made sense even if we counted days like a bombs detonating time.
His locker grew colder,
And I watched the clock more and more-
I guess he couldn't tell that
I was measuring my heartache with each heartbeat
That burned per second.
I guess he couldn't tell-
Because we talked like we knew each other.
Now I watch him put his heart into an empty locker...
I guess I shouldn't be surprised when I hear a heartbeat inside of there,
That belongs to neither mine,
Nor even belongs to his own.

When you are a poet
you don't place yourself on a pedestal
don't spit venomous hate
think fellow writers are dismal.

When you are a poet
you don't feel a superiority
fellow writers you gleefully berate
make yourself perversely witty.

When you are a poet
your heart is a little more wide
you don't fume and fret
readers are not on your side.

If you are a poet
you know better than to be arrogantly vain
don't carry ego's sinful weight
but let your art pour through your pen.