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Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Untitled 8


I opened up to you what once we're scars. My heart began to race.
I'd smile, laugh, and even cry because I loved your face. 

I can't remember life before you because of the pain from when you left. I don't want to remember life without you because when we were together it was the best. 

I used to smile when you crossed my mind. Now I clench my teeth, hold back tears, and promise myself I'm fine. 

I don't quite understand what happened. Why are you not here? I loved you from the first day, now it's love I fear. 

These old scars an image of what life is not. A reminder to cherish what I've got. These wounds made deeper by a knife red and hot. 

Passion is my vice. Change—I cannot.
When I wake upyour face on my mindthe pain runs me over no less than ten times. 

I can smile, I can laugh, I can cry about the past. But one thing is for sure, I'll never have it back—what I thought was mine.

My heart is far from mended. My spirit caught in the past.

I do not like this feeling, I wish I knew how long it would last.

Two years flew by and the pain is no less real.

At the very least I know that I can still feel.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Untitled 7


Apocalypse of the heart,
Stop pretending,

You are worth all but naught,
For this, every battle I  have fought,

I think , to lose you;
A nightmare,
Never ending,

So I will walk on,
Until the end of the earth breaks into dawn,

Die and come back,
Twice;
And once again,
If only to prevent losing you,

-My friends

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Untitled 6


Feet slowly walk,
No two steps are the same.
Mouths move to talk,
Asking why we came.

Wind steadily marching,
Wintery air to take.
Spring slowly starting,
What of this shall we make?

A summer's sunrise,
Things of the forgotten past,
Burnt into the mind, memorize,
Was this meant to last?

With only one way to know,
We walk on, as we must.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Untitled 5


I cannot.

I cannot!

I CANNOT!

I. CAN. NOT.

A season's change, all is strange.
Falling leaves,
A place for snow,
That melts my heart,
At summer's start.

I do not know what I am doing.
Why am I even here?
This place:
once a figment of my imagination.

Now clear.

To fathom the answer.
Life's greatest question.

Why?

The answer is feared
-by fear himself.

Folly.

Life's great escape;
no, never a mistake.

Breathe.

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Untitled 4


I don't think you're hearing me
I'm basically saying not to worry:
disaster is the norm.

After every calm is a new storm.
-High's become low,
down is the only new place to go.

There is no end,
-only a cycle.

The waves and wind crack a whip.
-Motivation.

We go on and on,
as life
the never
--ending
heartbreak song

Disaster is the norm.
Inevitable storms.

The only right conclusion,
-each day is an open door.

Smile:
walk the threshold,

"anxiety away!"

And gone is the death-hold.

-Peace.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Untitled 3

A memory is more powerful than existence, it transcends such mortal things. That which results from a connection is much greater than the connection itself.

I would not be where I am today if connections had not been made, pulled me further, and then broken. I am me because death exists, connections are broken, and my heart's handles are free.

Anchored by the memory of what once was, I am subject to the will of the winds. Wherever connections are made, I will travel. When they are broken, I will be pulled in yet another direction.

Each and every connection that is formed yields a wave, beating on ceaselessly into the past. Having contributed a verse, the cause claimed; eventually forgotten.

The beauty is that loss yields room for gain. Another stirs; memories conceived.

Life's play will go on.

Untitled 2


And so the day came;
my heart and all his desires made clear.
Beating on, ceaselessly into my soul.
One day experience will ablate the hole.

None but a memory,
vapor in the wind.
Wisp that wanders,
a path leading here.

What does one want to do with his life?
-the quandary to take it all
Ceaseless tyrant
-answer sought
Arise, the solution?
-but naught.
Today ponders past,
-paths of life.
A crossroads apparent
-the gift of sight.
My heart before me,
passion set alight.
-A journey's beginning
-ends the fight?

The thought apparent,
yet means out of  sight
-another quandary;
tomorrow's day,
-another fight.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

A Dedication: The Truth and Reason Behind this Blog

Jordan S. Morse,

The week your body left us, I was given a gift. Emotions became a wildfire and I had no idea what to do. Sitting in Mrs. Hall's English class sometime during the week of October 5th, 2008, I began to write. That first week was the worst. I felt forced to delve into the word-wrought world of Shakespeare. Even though we weren't so close, there was a connection between us. Maybe it was that we had something or common...but it is more likely that you never failed to laugh at my terrible jokes. Maybe it is how you carried yourself every single day.

I made a lot of noise in grade school, the kind that drew attention to myself. When you do that, people start to rip you apart. I got dragged down. People would make fun of me, or so I thought, and I would deal with it by lashing out. Then, there was you. Jordan, you never let people bring you down. Whenever something went awry, you found a reason to smile. Life was never easy for you, but it looked so sweet...even though a lot of us knew what was going on.

One of my fondest memories of you comes back to my mind at least once a week--whenever I eat a salad. You were trying to change your lifestyle in high school, so you would eat a salad every day for lunch. We did that together. Albeit, the salads were probably 60% ranch dressing (or whatever other kind was available) and the rest was croutons, cheese, and ham, with a few leaves scattered here and there. I just remember those 45 minutes of most every day freshman year of high school to be filled with joy.

We were all sitting in the gym the day that Dan told us you were in the hospital. I remember that pretty clearly. I can see myself sitting there thinking about how you would pull through, and how we would be back eating salads at lunch soon enough. But that never came. A little while later--Sunday October 6th, 2008 actually--I was wasting time on Facebook when I noticed Matt Stone's status, then I saw a few of your other best friend's statuses...at first I thought it was some kind of a joke, but then Monday morning came and Dr. Hackett told us that you were gone. I cried in school that day.

The rest of the week, was a blur, with the exception of the day I started writing. I had a lot of pent up emotions, and your death gave me so many more that I could not contain them anymore. Thankfully, I was able to find an overwhelmingly positive outlet. Writing both poetry and prose has served as a way for me to wrestle with emotions, to twist even the most nasty feelings into something beautiful.

So, without further ado, Jordan S. Morse, to you, I dedicate all of the poetry that I have written.

Here is the one that started it all, a pastiche on EE Cummings' if strangers meet, it's about you:
 ----------------------------------------

GONE-missing

where people fall
hearses roll
not happy not sad
(Just there)
awake neither
nor asleep
(only missing)
me not not him
not conceivable
only longing
-lonely, once
after dusk (those
lives too short everyone's
departed) gone:
forever

(but not in a light)
 ---------------------------------------
Thank you Jordan S. Morse, for all of the inspiration that you have provided in your life and death.

Forever grateful,

-Matt

Friday, September 12, 2014

A Piece of Prose

William Shakespeare has held no physical relevance to life in nearly four centuries. He has, however, touched many hearts over the course of the past 400 years. Unfortunately, mine is not one of them. My cells were first exposed to the virulent words of William Shakespeare in high school at the tail-end of first semester sophomore year. As most tail-ends, my introduction to Shakespeare involved an utterly feculent affair.
Starting from no less than a pound of flesh, I got my first taste of Shakespeare in the form of a twisted tale entitled: The Merchant of Venice. The Bard of Avon was unable to find a fortuitous foothold in my freshly facetted encephalon. If but one drop of blood had been spilt on a single page, I would have caught the Shakespearian plague.  My adventures with The Merchant of Venice are but a dying twinkle in my memories, a stellar collection, but one thing I can remember: the play granted a certain quality of mercy, by which I was saved.
            The Merchant of Venice is hardly Shakespeare’s most potent form of infectious verse; Macbeth on the other hand—one of history’s darkest tragedies—would nearly cause me to lose my head. Lines of “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” running in circles ad nauseam, beginning to accept Shakespearian tongue. My defenses down, I stumbled into a deep dark battle with the daunting dreams of Duncan’s demise. I stood to resist chronic infection, Macbeth ripped into my conscience late. Now scared to manipulate fate, the bard formed a deep connection.
            The final encounter with this Shakespearian fellow featured a Moore called, Othello. I was pulled in even further than before when Roderigo claims death is a physician. Infected once more, my defenses were struck with newfound force. Refusal to participate in class discussion, time was spent writing words for musicians. Lyrics would flow; poetry came as breath to my lungs. Seemingly lost in my poetic world I listened to every single poisonous line. My attention averted, mind alight; every encounter with Shakespeare yielded a well versed essay—I heard enough to write.
As I mentioned from the very beginning, my experience with Shakespeare was indeed a feculent affair. I say such things to be fair, seeing no importance in reading classics, I did not care. On that note, I must address the most pertinent of questions: just how was it that I resisted infection, if the bard was capable of forming multiple connections? Listening and hearing are not the same word. To listen requires action, but the distracted mind hears verse without intention. And now a confession: to this day, I regret to admit that I did not read a single page.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Keeper


A face in the back of my painted mind,
Tickles this heart from head to toe.
Brought to light—a brand new day.
A perfect mold,
cast plastic.
Time and time it rolled,
dream filled story—
over told.

Weary eyed traveler,
seeking an unknown goal.
Key to his soul,
never bought, crafted, or sold.

A simple remedy:
-the face beloved— fine art,
 worth seeing.

Tunnel shapen passage,
 direct line to his being.

The painted lady—builder—
the, the keeper of my heart.