Original Poetry about anything and everything.
Bags under eyes, lids propped open regretfully. Blood slows in a traffic jam uncharged by adequate rest. Steps shorten and stumble. A slingshot, a catapult, a trebuchet will do, give me velocity to find my way to you. Fling me high and send me soaring across the night sky, skip me across calm waters, nock me on your bowstring and give me shrewdest point for wherever you’re aiming today.
Vagabond Prophet
4.5 hours sleep
Is not enough to support
Corporate expectations.
I’ll just hope that
I get all my stumbling out
Into this journal.
Oh that my sleeplessness
Transformed to black ink
Would take forms
Unthought of in wakefulness.
So I’ll bleed ink
Until the prolonged blink
Where they begin to
Carve my headstone
With keen edged tools
And heavy blows.
They’ll lower to the grave
Luckily shaped like bed
Then and then only will I rest.
– Vagabond Prophet
If I close my eyes
Could I see my inner workings?
See which gears are turning and which ones are rusting
See the parts of me about to break.
Could I see the edges you’re sharpening
And polishing when I sleep?
Making me ready for the task
You created me for.
Vagabond Prophet 