Explanation

Hi everyone, I use my blog mostly to post my poems so I can share them with others. I love writing poetry and someday hope to incorporate it with my career.

The World We Think is Real

When I listen to my pillow

I can hear my dreams calling

they plume out and pull me in

but I can't sleep, I lay through my dreams wide awake

the dreams I live through, am I dreaming now?

if I fall asleep will I be back in the real world?

foggy distorted life haunts us, pleases us, inspires us

who says the people in our dreams aren't real?

they touch us too, isolated we converse with them

the dream world says "Don't go to sleep"

the world we think is real says "Wake up"

while death says "Don't wake up"

when the time is right death speaks

murder is not death speaking but the world we think is real

contaminating the mind of the already sick and oblivious

while we dream, here in the world we think is real

with open arms hug the dream world, the Real world

the world that saves us when we are scared,

the world that steals us before we get to excited,

the world that protects us from being hurt emotionally,

while being battered and torn in the world we think is real

the Real world always waits for our return

all we have to do, is listen to our pillows

By: Mark D. Anderson

Living Artifacts

Grandfather sat on park benches perched on his cane like a crow on the twisting branch of a willow. weathered skin sagged below his eyes revealing the red muscle that held so many years of sight into his head all those memories entombed through those wet lenses. liver spots, like coffee stains on a diner's smooth white tablecloth, sprouted out saplings among the rest of his tan leather hide. Hair like a gust of wind wound tightly back around his balding head the comb-marks like irrigation fields painted to match a depressed sky. Old funeral shoes lay flat, clapping the sidewalk softly to "My Girl." Beige pants like miniature tree trunks stretching to his tucked in shirt his belt mummified him, sealed with a buckle like a Pilgrims hat. An itch tickles his skin where he was injured in World War II and the darkened puncture wound seeps history through the scar. His mustache swept away his lips, as his brow blew folded skin upon his forehead as he gets excited, by simple things always. Swaying neck flaps expand and contract as he breathes. Muscles tighten as he staggers to his feet at his peak he looks to the clouds, oh how they have changed. As he holds himself up, hand infused with the mahogany cane, the seasons swirl about him and gather in his soul the closest source of history overflows through his veins like surges of hot water rush to the end of a water pipe. He inhales present and exhales the past. Grandfather gets all his information from a newspaper he is still amazed by electricity. I have never seen Grandfather frown, only smiles push up those wrinkled cheeks As the colors, smells, sights, sounds, textures, and breath of the ages radiate from Grandfather, and his glow projects the passing of time Grandfather is a treasure left unrecognized to modern times

but his pages still carve a long, interesting chapter in time.




By: Mark D. Anderson

Dogma

30 years I've stood and waited,

pondered and meditated,

of what essence was I created.

I've watched streams dry and flow,

A Stadium

before and after show,

like thirsty tear ducts of a defeated foe.

I've seen loyal brothers rise and fall,

though standing mighty conquered all,

Obedience reigns like Berlin's wall.

Rocks beg at my feet,

like dogs for useless scraps of meat.

For they I can only treat

my falling amber leaves,

that drop like dreams of redemption

By: Mark D. Anderson

upon the writhing breeze.

Multiple arms grasp the air,

puncturing useless ozone layers,

with jagged hopes of bliss.

3 decades alone

helped to see the light

not in God or divine insight,

but in myself I've put faith,

my mind alone writes my

Dogma.

Belly Full of Dusk

I ate that cotton candy sky

Nobody even saw me tricked everyone once again

Now the firmament stays stale, grey, and grotesque

I devoured the fucking heavens don’t you get it?

Inside of me is what you see when you look to God

Now your lord is homeless and I am your savior

I plucked the heavens like a carrot out of farm soil

I am the farmer, I provide for you now

The sky is your food, your breath, your life

And it fills me up perfectly and I am now everything to you

I can steal the pigment from your soul and make your life bleak

I’ll twist my fingers through the atmosphere and swallow your happiness

I’m the anesthesia that lowers your eyelids so you only see the centimeter between them

While you’re counting back from one hundred and falling for me, I’ll deceive you once again

When you wake you will be in love with me and outside the sky will still be translucent

You will need me to survive but I will drown you in the ocean I stole from you

This is what I do and you are helpless until my heart understands love

But until I worship someone like you and so many others have me

The sky stays dull, and I’m so full of hate, you’ll never see color again.