I am greatly influenced by the works of Anne Michaels, Charles Baudelaire, and Robert Frost; The Kills and Sonic Youth have also always been inspiration for me. I find poetry is a great tool to learn from,to expand your mind, and to put things in to context. It to me is the greatest art form.
Autumn has come,
And I walk to school in the rain,
And ride the bus, looking through blurry windows,
Admirring the colours of the season,
Red, yellow, and orange; summer’s final farewell
The people are silent on the bus,
And quiet on the streets,
Cold rain and wind has removed their expressions,
While their voices speak inward, to keep their minds from hibernation.
I ring the door bell and after the mechanical buzz I wait for an answer,
“Hello?” exits the speaker rather muffled, “It’s me” I reply,
The door clicks and I open it hastily before it re locks,
I step into the dimly lit stairwell, I can hear T.V.s glowing and rambling from behind wooden doors,
I make my way up the stairs admiring the scuff marks and graffiti, a work of art in collaboration with the holes in the
walls caused by bulky and cumbersome furniture,
I rise then plateau turn then rise again as I make my way from floor to floor,
Politely acknowledging the few people who decided to venture from their apartments at that time,
“Hey” I say “Hey” they say back, a nod or a smile, and then we go our ways,
I squint my eyes at the sun shining in from numerous small windows lining the walls,
And I continue to walk step after step repetively over and over again,
Finally I reach my plateau, my designated number and I knock on the door,
“Hey!” I say loudly through it. The locks rattle and the hinges squeak as you pull the door open,
And welcome me to paradise(relief).
I lived in a town in the north of Alberta.
The winters were freezing cold,
And the summers were burning hot.
But it was the place where I slept,
And I would do anything to gain back the sight,
Of seeing so far across the fields,
Of seeing so far into my self.
To age and grow tired of existence,
Is to suffer though the years alone,
Like a tiger that has had it’s paws rinsed,
Of blood from pray and is denied to roam,
Like Walking through colourless hallways,
Of self hatred and crippling despair,
Thats life with no love our world will say,
To walk alone looking to love but have no one to care,
But do we really need love from a companian,
It seems to be the reason for the blood in our veins
And the light from our system’s glorious sun,
And the compensations for our suffering and pains,
But I once met an old women with an old heart,
Who had never a lover to her emotions,
And her smile was just as sane and smart,
As any with a significant other in love or fun,
And it may be true what most of the world says,
That to be contained in your own bottle of wine,
Is to be flawed even in anarchist days,
But you will never have to suffer as you dine.
Dark humour poetry on your hotel walls,
Scratch your neck with your red nails,
Love is yelling at you but you ignore its calls,
You’ll always be happy even if it all fails,
You like to talk all night on the telephone,
You like to watch art and violent films,
You never ever want to go home,
As your blue eyes and leopard print overwhelm,
You look at me like you hate me,
You talk to me like you love me,
I guess it all cancels out,
So we just talk and shout,
You like the night because everything lives,
You hate the day because you see whats coming,
You can see with more than eyes,
You know lies are just people running,
With nothing new on the T.V. screen,
You like to know all about our art,
You like to know about all our dreams,
You can see into all our hearts.
This is a poem I wrote a few years back, it was suppose to be a song but I never got around to finishing it.
Waiting for the 130 in the only terminal without a heater,
So the cold Ottawa winter air wraps around us like a blanket
I sit on the concrete ledge in envy of your wooden bench,
I would walk over and sit beside you, but with your sun glasses on,
You seem unpredictable, I can’t read your eyes,
So I stay sitting on the cold concrete ledge,
as cold and as hard as your eyes I imagine,
Paralleled by your flower jacket and many rings
