Modus Operandi

Old poems are faithful things,
Little cottages dotting a hill
Often I fly past, 
Float above them
On my way to build another

A skipped stone gaining distance

But then,
Sometimes I step in
Fill my lungs with old inspired dust
Got to close my eyes at first,
Walk my hands along peeling paper 

Faded but infinite

Words stain the walls
This is a room for violent scribbles
The next all thoughtful chaos
Then sentences leading nowhere in particular
But collected in this room,

My concise pearls

Little glass boxes house them
Sitting huddled in a large space,
They are the first few blossoms
And they are few when my eyes are open
But dear to me

For, "Rome was not built in a day" 

Reasons

Used to ball my fists

Used all my tiny strength

   Hanging, chalky spheres at my sides

Did it when I couldn't fight back

Did it in art class when a voice above me said,

   “Drawing is dumb.”

I ceased my crude cross-hatches

I ceased my paper and pencil holiday

   Obtuse classmate, spitting lies in the air

How could I precisely enter his oddly-shaped skull?

How could I precisely determine my argument?

   There were reasons, I felt them, but couldn't make them words

I still don't think there is a perfect set of things to say

I still don't think there could be for that

   Not one set, no

There have got to be more reasons than there are stars

There have got to be more purposes for paint than shades of it

   But they aren't for throwing at a frustrated 5-year-old

   They are just for your secret-self, those billions of stars.

Tassels

I've always been fond of them -

Weighty ornaments, or floating frilled things

Such a silly luxury, a tassel, but 

Historically, present at noble events

Some lined the robes of Arabian rulers,

Or perched along the King's crown-carrying pillow

Strung about the bed-curtains, lulling an 

Emperor to sleep, little reassurances of wealth

But the once-rich reds have grown poor

The oily ocher has watered down

The deep blue oceans have evaporated

And royal purple has been dethroned

The tale of the tassel in unsung these days

Hung crudely, only tugged to turn a lamp light

Sat on, strapped like animals, to a throw pillow

Grandma's dusty curtain decor, kitsch

Sporting faded fool's gold now

Overlooked, never-altering shades of beige

Like the paled cheeks of a once-rosy Lolita

It's a sad story, that of the tassel

Atonement

No, you can't smoke out the sinister things

And you can't drink away the demons

You never really beat off the bad

And there's no use in scratching at a scar

You can build things up, though,

To cover them, drape and dress them up

And set fire

Hope it's a glorious blaze – when it all goes up for good

Or keep it, keep it all

The filthy white rag of yourself

You have to look at it, crushed and damp

You can try to squeeze the ink out

The blackest bits of you

Drip, drip, drip

A reversed constellation would assemble

Cobalt freckles, flaws on tile floor

Then you would face it,

The black and white mirror at your feet

Only the ugly

And you have to look at it

You have to look because no one can look for you

At your little devils,

Damnable thoughts,

Starless

Then you'd see it – the delicate darkness

Negligible jots on an expanse of white

Such a slight stain you made

Your sins, on this infinite marble