A
COLLECTION OF THOUGHTS -
from an Aspiring Human Being,
From the moment consciousness first
introduced itself to me, my hands found pens and pencils. Those pens and pencils found paper. In moments of distraught, in early years
spent searching for reprieve – written expression was my home. There were no safe places for me to exist
other than my journals: a setting of freedom, safety, creativity, and
redemption. At a young age, I discovered
that once my pen hit paper, an energetic flow erupted from within. My hand would start moving, ink bleeding into
paper; my mind would come to ease: effortless it seemed.
The following pieces encompass
several years: from political recollections, heartbreak reflections and moments
where I sought direction.
When I write, I place no
barriers, no limitations. I warmly
welcome the gentle flow of words from my mind to paper – delighting in the
result.
It’s not to say that there
have not been dry years; there have been many times, years, where the magic of self-expression
didn’t seem easily accessible. Where I
was unable to hit the same core of euphoric poetry, self-examination &
reflection: years where I pondered, “Perhaps I shouldn’t write anymore; maybe
those dreams were an illusion,” or even moreso, “I have NOTHING to say, and
nothing matters.”
& these periods are not uncommon,
but one must, I must, welcome creativity;
One must, I must, be VULNERABLE.
One must, I must, be ACCEPTING, NONASSUMING.
I can not expect this blessing of self-expression to strike me out of nowhere
--
I can not expect unhealthy living to produce magnificent pieces --
I can not expect that I will consistently write pieces which will touch hearts
& souls.
\\\
Yet,
in those moments -
in those periods -
you better bet your damn self
that if I can, I will.
& pen and paper will always be my safe haven.
Thank you for opening your heart and soul to my heart and soul.
Thank you for your time in reading expressions from my core.
Thank you for your understanding.
Thank you for your judgement.
Thank you for your critiques.
Thank you for being YOU.
I love you.
I love me.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TATER TEARS
Thrusted
into this world, dripping in love;
there, I had my first sights, before memory.
My mother, in tears, I assume. My father nearby.
The years twirl around me.
My mother,
in tears, weeping as she held me;
I’m no older than seven now.
The night passed with mystery –
My mother,
watching me drown in sorrow.
Those wicked teenage years;
the damned days of our family.
She had to be strong, no fragility allowed.
Yet I would cry rivers & lagoons,
submerging myself in intense emotion --
seeking reprieve.
My mother,
she is distant now,
no tears left to cry --
I stand here with pain subsided;
I wish I could ease her burden.
I was once
plagued by an everlasting monsoon;
one perhaps passed down the family line like a hot potato looking for its feaster.
Its not to say I no longer feel,
oh – these eyes still puff & precipitate;
oh – this heart still flirts with anguish.
Yet, with age,
I’ve learned the power of flight, the gift of fins, & the importance of
roots.
I’m no
longer swept into never-ending storms,
harsh & unforgiving rivers,
or psyche shattering earthquakes.
I breathe. I feel. I let go.
I live, now.
August 26, 2023.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------UNTITLED
Pen
strokes,
& not so funny jokes,
a rambling man while he takes a
toke;
the wallpaper drips with the stench of
ancient memories.
Smoke escapes his mouth with the
haste of work horses on their last
mile; it reminds him of childhood.
The linoleum tile cracks from
pressure;
much like his joints that keep him firmly
planted. He breathes in more heavy
smoke; it occupies his lungs; the
sensation brings him comfort—shielding
him from the woes that creep in around
the midnight hour.
The clock hands tick, tock, amongst
his
deep thought. Where company once sat,
filling the room with warmth and
familiarity,
dust collects.
He still hears the gentle strokes of
piano keys; feels the heart tugs of
past loves; smells the perfume of
dancers wearing black flappers, sporting long
cigarettes; tastes the smooth impact of aged
whiskey: only the sights of silent dancehalls
remain.
“One day,” he whispers,
“once the dance of life has
finished,
and the ol’ lady sings, may I return
to
the evenings that felt like joy. Oh,
while the good times lasted,
I sure wasn’t ready for
them to end.”
The clock strikes midnight, and with a
breath
of nostalgia-filled air, his dancing shoes
seemed to take on youthful energy for
a final time. The music began. Laughter and
endearing conversation waltzed in,
& old
lovers returned; his heart happy, eyes
shuts, body still & breathe
collected.
“Home.”
March 2023.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STILLNESS STIFLED
&
there he sat – pen on paper,
a simple gesture, holding so much power.
Those warm, damp hallways he sat in
were just as empty as his mind.
• • • • •
What does the muse do,
When creativity is absent?
When inspiration is found in fragments?
When he feels like a fraud in a reenactment?
• • • • •
Perhaps, he thought, he wasn’t worthy –
Maybe he never had any thoughts at all.
Sweat dripped from his back
As the halls seemed to close in;
Could he get in one more line?
His mind a bastardized inkless pen.
& fear not, he thought;
Everything comes in time.
It's no competition; this should cause no stress at all.
& with that,
His inner critic disappeared;
The magic in writing persevered. . .
We must all remember:
We are not our darkest thoughts;
& Our value is not linked to our production.
September 2, 2023.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------I WANT YOU TO LOVE ME.
I want you to love me -
& not just for one night;
For my curves to be caressed,
To unravel this heartfelt mess;
I want you to love me -
& not just when it feels right;
For intimacy to be the flavor,
To relish in romance’s favor;
I want you to love me –
& not just disappear in flight;
For nights are frigid, & unforgiving,
To find partnership in the wicked, & living;
I want you to love me -
I crave desire and intimacy,
To find passion in our fire and intricacy.
When the moon casts its light into our bedroom,
& you press me up tight amongst you,
Our breathes finding synchrony,
Our skin lighting up to each other’s fingerprints,
Like shockwaves triggering newborn stars;
We no longer have to hide our love
behind dark nebulas and molecular dust.
I want you to love me –
September 9, 2023
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH
JUMP IN
THE TUBE,
& LET ALL YOU KNOW
BE CONSUMED.
I AM THE BEARER OF
NEWS & DISTRACTIONS,
GIGGLES & RETRACTIONS.
I AM THE LAST THING YOU PUT TO THE BED,
& THE FIRST THING YOU DRESS.
A SOCIETY SO RELIANT,
BUT IT KEEP THE MIDDLE CLASS
QUIET.
SO JOIN ME --
ON A FAREWELL OF THOUGHTS,
& EVENTUALLY, WE’LL CALL
YOU,
“SIR SCROLL-A-LOT.”
So, I sit --
caught in a duality --
where balance is screamed for,
but I’m stuck in a SCREEN
TOUR.
BOUND BY THE VIRTUAL
& FREED WITH KNOWLEDGE --
SURE – I ACCEPT YOUR TERMS & CONDITIONS,
AS THIS LIFELINE IS DWINDLED
DOWN TO ONE BOGUS RENDITION.
I SWIPE & LIKE,
BEGGING THE A.I. FOR ATTENTION -
& STEP UPON THE WORLD
STAGE
OF CHARACTER ASSASSINATION AUDITIONS.
I DON’T CARE IF I LOSE THIS VOICE -
AS LONG AS I HAVE THESE TENDONS,
TO BEND & SCROLL,
NEVERMIND THE GLOBAL TENSION.
WE’RE ALL ACTORS,
& IF YOU PLAY ALONG,
PAY NO REGARD TO OUR MASTERS.
STATS ON STATS,
YOU & I ARE JUST NUMBERS.
PRIVACY WITHHELD,
ALL THIS SCREENTIME JUST MAKES US DUMBER.
THEY’RE PULLING OUR STRINGS -
LET’S SEE WHICH POST CREATES THE MOST THUNDER;
A DROP IN THE VESSEL OF
THE COG IN THE MACHINE -
SO, TURN OFF YOUR SCREEN,
TOUR YOUR CITY, &
YOU’LL SEE WHAT I MEAN.
THE WORLD DILUTED DOWN TO
A SINGLE PLATFORM -
& WE’RE ALL FIGHTING FOR SPACE -
IS THIS WHAT ANY OF US ASKED FOR?
WE’RE TAUGHT:
LOVE THY NEIGHBOR -
BUT WE’RE PLACED INSIDE POLARIZED CLOUDS -
OUR INFORMATION CONSTANTLY COMPUTED -
TO KEEP THE MASSES SEPARATED, DISTRACTED & MUTED.
WE’VE ALREADY LOST OUR VOICE,
BUT REMEMBER THE TENDONS?
LET’S CLICK-CLACK THESE KEYBOARDS
& WAGE A WAR. . .
BUT FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH,
I’VE ALREADY FORGOTTEN
WHAT WE’RE FIGHTING FOR. -
FOR THE POOR? FOR THE WHORE?
FOR OUR POLLUTED SHORES?
SHIT, WE’VE ALREADY BURNED THESE
BRIDGES & SHUT EVERY DOOR.
& SO, I WILL SAY NO MORE.
April 11, 2018.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
.jpg)
may I splinter off into a million
branches, catching the breeze
of gentle greetings;
may I root into worlds
unseen, a reminder that
life is so preciously
FLEETING.
Less than a cosmic nanosecond of being;
oh, what a blessing it all is,
now that I’m seeing.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ABOUT THE AUTHOR -
Logan has always been fond of the arts, from growing up in small town America, trying to find reprieve from the lackluster day to day life. He was always fascinated with the ourdoors; picking up any insect, spider or crawler he crossed paths with when he was little child. His parents worried one day Logan may bring them a black widow or brown recluse in excitement, “Mom! Look at what I found!”
Eventually, he would discover journaling around the age of ten! Marveling at the prospect of writing down your emotions, self-reflecting and having a safe place all to his own sparked his heart. Throughout the years, Logan has completed over 500 pages of work; most through stream-of-consciousness and simple reflections.
At 27 years old now, Logan continues to write, still finding marvel in the world around him, and occasionally still picking up the small critters that we share this world with. His writing has improved – refined – and journaling is still one of his safe havens; his most political reflections which left readers in a whirlwind of emotion, found in “For What It’s Worth” (2018), propelled his writing forward, but that was just the start.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
REVIEWS AND RECOLLECTIONS
“There is hope and perseverance in your poem that encapsulates transcendence.” – M. Contrerass
“The rhythm of
the lines shape a sharp metaphor
of ships and winds.” – J. Inglett
“Your poem is wonderful. It captures the true essence of entering this world and growing up in it – learning new things, experiencing new emotions, struggling with new situations you’ve never experience before, etc.” – D. Barrett
“Your worlds would resonate with many people, especially women, who crave true love and romance in the modern world that we live in where true love is not so prevalent.” – D. Barrett
“Your poem is deep and pensive, as you cast the shade of reality upon the reader’s thoughts. Your poem mixes stream of consciousness with poetic forms toward the end.” – J. Inglett
“This poem is really deep. I like the narrative you drew with young dreams vs reality. This poem sounds really vulnerable and open minded. It felt like I was reading a story. It makes me think about how time is precious and that the night is always young.” – K.Davis
“Your preface
is so beautiful and captivating. I love
how it feels you are almost writing a letter to yourself as well as other
poets. While the experiences are your
own, I can relate to the way you have put them into common words.”
–
A. Lakins
