Lines From the Piedmont Rose Garden

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I sit down at the Piedmont Rose Garden but the roses do not grow; they do not blossom, they do not bloom. My inspiration hath been circumcised, butchered for its own good. It is early February and very few things can grow in the cold. The grass grows more slowly and the soil clings to itself.

Behold for I am lost-

My heart groweth cold but at least it still grows. It bends toward a sun that hasn’t been seen in years. The water in the lake is cold but not frozen. My thoughts create steam. The steam dissipates, and then I have nothing. I have nostalgia like so many baseball cards hidden underneath my bed at night. If it can’t be seen then it can’t be stolen.

The roots of the tree before me plunge downward even further than my soul does. I see cowards in the darkness. I see the weak and I distance myself from them hoping that this will make me strong. My distance disallows me to follow people so it can’t be entirely bad.

I see the ugliest things in the world wrapped in the most beautiful skin imaginable. I touched her lips before I kissed her. I sinned with her long before we lay down. I got up first. With sweat beading on the tip of my nose and soaking my brow I opened the window and allowed the winter chill soothe my flesh.

-YB

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Lost and Broke

 

 

November 23, 2011

                My hot water heater keeps blowing out and I ain’t gone lie, I’m way too educated to be this broke. To be such a well read man and still have to resort to taking a cold shower is almost unbearable. When it gets really hot or really cold ants march through my kitchen in full force as if they don’t know I have a Master’s Degree. Sometimes they make it into my room and bite my flesh at night like they don’t see my degrees on the wall. It’s all so pitiful.

                Not that I’m trying to solicit pity but a little respect would be nice. My living conditions are so substandard that I am honestly considering moving into a library. That would really be amazing. Occasionally I dream about going to sleep reading a book while using another book as a pillow. A dozen dictionaries would be my blanket and my lady. I would be enraptured by words in every state of being. Then I suppose a hot shower wouldn’t matter as much. Nothing ever matters when one is lost in literature.

                Lost?

                So many of us have lost our way. We have allowed the academics to lead us astray. For in life you can’t find the answers in the back of the book. All of the important information isn’t in bold print either. So much time has been wasted and I have learned to cherish everything that can’t be applied. Imagine a little boy with all the book smarts in the world but no common sense. Now try to imagine him being successful. Can you do it?

-YB