Moments in Antiquity

I Hate Birds

by S.W.Thompson 4/13/13

Chirping,
Perching,
Squawking,
Talking,
I hate all birds,
There is no stopping,
Pigeons,
Crows,
Robins,
Blue Jays,
Maybe I’m jealous,
Because I can’t fly.
Maybe I’m worried about,
A hummingbird beak in my eyes.
I don’t know,
I don’t care,
I don’t need to analyze it,
Just keep them away,
Or anesthetize all of them.
Parakeets,
McCaws,
Sparrows,
And finches especially.
Keep away bird feeders,
Destroy all their cages,
Something about them,
Sends me into rages.
I hate them.
I loathe them.
I think we don’t need them.
The albatross,
Seagull,
Turkey vulture,
And penguins,
Collect all their eggs,
Let’s have them for dinner,
Or ship them somewhere,
Where it’s permanent winter.
It doesn’t matter where they are,
Just so long as its not here.
No chickens,
No parrots,
No ostrich,
No flamingos,
No nothing,
Not ever,
I don’t want any of those.
I need my space,
Don’t want them flying into my windows,
Or pooping on shoulders.
I
HATE
BIRDS!

Generosity

by S.W.Thompson 4/12/13

Sometimes it’s a bummer,
Being on the receiving side of a gift.
Makes you question your own recent actions,
As you list them against everyone else’s.
It doesn’t detract from the good you do,
Or did.
And someone else’s kindness,
Shouldn’t be something that makes a man,
Feel guilty, pathetic, or poor.
But it does.
From time to time,
A negative thought or emotion,
Sneaks its way in,
And corrals the positive action,
That was done just for you,
Into a pig-pen,
Of filthy self-hate.
Makes you want to do something,
Not out of the goodness of your heart,
But to make things even.
When it shouldn’t be about even.
‘Cause life’s not fair.
There is no even Steven.
There is no shame in saying “Thanks,”
When someone just wants to show you they care.
So why does it feel so strange,
Now and then?
Why is saying thank you,
Smiling warmly,
Shaking hands politely,
A thing to dwell on even for a moment?
It’s almost as if,
Someone along the line,
Trying to be kind,
Gave us a gift,
Said it was for us to use,
And didn’t know that the packaging,
Was all just emotional baggage.
Samsonite’s Guilty Line.
Comes in all black,
Or leopard Print,
With a lifetime warranty,
Good for birthdays,
Holidays,
Dinner with family,
And Saturday road trips after a friends big pay day.
Oh well,
Can’t seem to shake it,
Guess I’ll just say thanks.
So…
Thanks.

Something Worth Saying

by S.W.Thompson 4/11/13 (bonus)

Each time I write,
I hope I fit together,
Something worth saying.
Often times what I jot down,
Means little to nothing,
To no one but me.
I impress myself,
With clever one liners,
Or rhyme together words,
That meant something to me as a youth,
Taking phrases I heard,
Or stories I remember,
And plying them like putty,
Until they seem like something memorable.
Until they feel like something repeatable.
Until I am able to coax together enough prose to hope,
That someone might just be inspired,
By some silly thing,
That I thought to say.
The value is,
That once in a while,
I do think I find the right words,
At the right time,
With the right amount of inspiration,
To make a difference.
To change an opinion.
Motivate a soul.
Or simply express my most complex thoughts,
Into a few lines on a blank page,
So that I can share my love,
In the only way I have,
That doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
I write to express myself,
To tell stories,
To bleed my feelings onto paper,
Courtesy of my scalpel like pen,
Razor sharp wit,
And a desire to never have to cut myself,
Like so many people do nowadays.
Because they need to feel alive.
Or need to feel like dying.
I share my poems for myself,
And for you,
And for anyone else who needs to take a minute,
Remove themselves from whatever hardship they have,
And hopefully enjoy something worth listening to.
Not every poem,
Not every time,
Will mean something,
To someone.
I’m certain there are someones,
Who will never be touched,
By my attempt to connect with them,
And that’s fine.
Because I have faith,
That at least one someone,
Will take away something I say,
And be all the happier for it.

Sex Tape

by S.W.Thompson 4/11/13

I made a sex tape once.
Well, I made a couple of sex tapes once.
I know where they are,
No one has copies,
It’s not on the Internet,
And it won’t ever be.
Unless I get famous.
And want to get more famous,
Albeit through nefarious means.
That seems unlikely though.
In any case,
I have them,
And I like them,
Not just because it means I have unlimited free access to a very specific porno,
Though that has proven helpful,
On the occasional evening,
When the Internet has gone down.
But I like that it’s personal,
I like that it’s you,
My narcissism especially like that it’s me.
Most of the time,
When I stumble across the video,
I don’t even watch it out of general perversion.
I just like to critique myself,
Like a football coach the day after a game,
Reviewing the footage,
And trying to fix weak spots,
Or applaud the occasional orgasmic success.
There was a time,
When I thought that kinda thing would have been one of my many unique quirks,
But then I found Tumblr,
And it helped me realize,
That no matter how weird I think I am,
There are a thousand people who share my exact sentiment,
A hundred who have done that very thing,
And ten who want to watch.
I should just be thankful that I didn’t spend my sex tape making years,
As a Tumblr user,
Those videos might not be private,
I might be regretting a lot of what I had done.
In the same vein,
I probably shouldn’t write poetry about it,
And then post a link on Tumblr,
But I’m gonna.

Arbitrarily Empty

by S.W.Thompson 4/10/13

I’m a happy person,
I often smile,
I appreciate the little things.
I reflect deeply,
I see the good in everything,
Each day is perfect,
Each night serene,
Every season valuable,
All time worth enjoying.
I find nothing to complain about,
I help people with their problems,
I give without taking,
I respect others,
I’m polite, caring, honest.
All the pieces,
In the pie chart,
That make up who I want to be,
Are made with all the beautiful things I could find.
But somehow,
When I look at the graph I use to chart my successes,
I find it empty.
When I look into the mirror,
I don’t see an accurate reflection of who I am,
Or what I do for people.
When I look into a mirror,
It’s like looking through a window,
Into a vast expanse,
Of limitless nothingness.
Some decision I made,
Long ago,
Has stuck with me in spite of my best intentions.
No matter what I do,
To make the world a better place,
And live a better life,
I still see myself as a carbon copy,
Of a carbon copy,
Of a blank page.
Often I confuse my arbitrary emptiness as self-loathing.
I give myself speeches about how worthless,
Awful,
And inhuman I am.
But then I remember,
Suddenly,
That none of that is true.
The next day I’ll go to the store,
Pick up hats,
Ribbons,
A cake,
I’ll get decorations,
And music,
And throw myself a pity party.
Wallowing in the idea that I have never been loved,
Then I’ll remind myself that, that just isn’t the case,
I’ll think back to all the people who cared.
Family,
Friends,
Lovers.
I pretend like they don’t love me,
Because some part of who I am,
Inspires himself by overcoming adversity.
Some brave hero,
Lingering in the depths of my inner-self,
Wants to fight through the nothingness,
To come out the other side,
With a maiden on one arm,
A sword in the other,
A white stallion beneath me,
And an army of unknown fears behind me having fallen to my blade.
That hero is a boy.
His fight is a fantasy.
His enemies are imaginary.
The man who stands here today has fought them all away,
He has found his maiden,
And found her to be less than he expected,
Again and again and again.
Leading him to casually toss away notions of normalcy,
In search of a great adventure,
That lay elsewhere,
Ever elsewhere.
It’s that nothingness…
That emptiness that draws me.
If I were fulfilled,
Comfortable,
Content,
Who knows what I wouldn’t do?
If all my dreams were realistic,
I wonder how they would limit me?
I see myself as nothing,
I view my accomplishments as empty,
Because I never want to stop defining myself with positive adjectives,
And the only way I know,
To successfully push past,
The walls of discouragement I built for myself,
As a shy, lonely, reclusive boy,
Is to be a hero on the outside,
Who hates himself on the inside.

Yoga Class

by S.W.Thompson 4/9/13

I’m sweating,
Dripping,
Straining hard,
To hold a pose,
I barely know.
My left arm twisted,
Right leg relaxed,
My head is turning,
180 deg back.
My spine is supine,
Fingers interlaced,
Body trembling,
Will misplaced,
Yet here I am,
At Inner Peace.

Network

by S.W.Thompson 4/8/13

The foundation,
Of my apathy,
Is found,
In undiscovered misery.
The things,
I didn’t know,
I knew,
That bother me,
Right away,
When I awake,
Every day.
The little things,
Big things,
All the things,
Inside me,
Outside of me,
Holding down,
My best me,
Beating him,
Into pitiful passivity.
That awfulness,
Ignores my best,
Beats it’s chest,
Provokes the rest,
Disdains clarity,
Shames my vanity,
Defies comfort,
Defines my laziness,
And mostly,
Keeps me sitting,
When otherwise,
I’d be succeeding,
At anything,
My mind decided.
Now instead,
Here I stand,
Writing down,
My last words,
Of inaction,
And claiming boldly,
I’m as Mad as Hell,
And I’m Not Going to Take This
Anymore!

Love

by S.W.Thompson 4/7/13

Love,
Is a complex series,
Of switches,
All thrown to yes,
By a chemical release,
Our body pumps off,
As part of a flight or fight mechanism.
A flight that picks us up,
Off of our feet,
And sends us soaring into the clouds.
And a fight that makes us unstoppable,
Fearless warriors of chivalry,
Dedication,
And kindness.
Love is our body,
Saying to our brian,
Ignore what you know,
And just feel for a while.
Love is an anesthetic,
That blurs the line between,
Who hurt us last time,
And who,
(most likely)
Will be the person who will do it next.
It’s the greatest gift we’re ever given,
Until…
(of course)
It’s ripped away.
Or fades away.
Or until the disappointment sets in,
When the chemicals wear off,
And we come to slowly realize,
That what we thought we had…
(love)
Was really just a cocktail,
Of internal chemistry,
Prompting us to say,
No…
To SCREAM!
“Yes! I do!”
Then reality sets in.
And love is only a sporadic gift,
That shows up late at night,
Or during a romantic song,
On a beach during vacation.
The rest of the time it’s just choice.
Choice to say love,
When what you mean,
Is a little more like appreciate,
Tolerate,
Am amused by,
Inspired by.
It’s more like,
I care for you deeply.
That’s what my experience tells me.
Or,
Told me.
That was my definition of love.
Now it’s just my definition of romantic love.
Because real love,
Love that doesn’t snap in,
And burst out,
Feelings that don’t fade or change,
They don’t drift out to sea and back,
With the ebb and flow,
Of passionate tides.
Real love is reserved for family.
Real love is for your children.
Nieces,
Nephews,
Cousins.
For your mom and dad,
Good or bad.
Brother.
Sister.
Love.
The worthwhile kind.
Is family.
Not just blood,
Family can be chosen,
Adopted,
Inherited.
The goal,
I suppose,
Is for family to become everyone.
Each man our brother,
Each woman our sister,
Each child our child.
So that we form a family,
Built only on,
And only for,
Love.

Hip Hop

by S.W.Thompson 4/6/13 (bonus poem)

Hip Hop,
Is just poetry with a back beat.
Words strung together,
To move your feet,
Inspire your mind,
And jump through time.
Music and words combined,
To change your life,
And invigorate the blind.
Pulses etch out feelings,
That the words indelibly carve,
Into flesh and bone,
Heart and home,
In an easy to share,
Happy to hear,
Impossible to fear,
Be all,
End all,
Combination of things that define us,
As human.
When man made music,
It was to communicate.
When man made words,
It was refined.
When man made music,
Mixed it with words,
And rhymed it,
Into blurs of passion,
Poignancy,
Alliteration,
And meaning,
It took the beauty of what it is,
To introduce your soul,
To another,
Stretched it out,
Shook it up,
Sped it up,
And spun it on a turntable.
What could be better than that?
Communicating meaning,
Performing passion,
Expressing emotion,
Entertaining millions,
All at the same time.
Hip Hop,
Poetry,
Music,
All integral parts,
To the piece we play,
For others to hear,
So we don’t have to just say,
I love you.
Instead we shout it,
Mix it,
Remix it,
And blast it on the radio,
However we can,
Whenever we can,
For as long as we can.
That’s the magic of the modern age.
Freedom of communicating how we choose.
When we choose,
And for what we choose.
It doesn’t matter if your preference isn’t hip hop,
Mines not.
But the act,
The desire to communicate with my fellow man,
I respect that.
You should choose to respect it to.
Choose respect.
Choose respect.

Tag Along

by S.W.Thompson 4/6/13

I didn’t come to tag along,
I’m here to make my mark.
I gave up all my freedoms,
All my belongings,
All my heart.
I’m proof that pre-determination,
Is a myth for those who fail.
I have failed,
And I have overcome,
Only to fail again.

I have succeeded,
Don’t get me wrong,
But those little triumphs,
Aren’t enough.
That’s why I keep climbing obstacles,
They make my callused heart tough.
That extra layer of embittered skin,
Keeps egging me along,
To something grander,
Something greater,
Something I hope to inspire others along.

Fortunately if I don’t succeed,
My mom taught me to try,
And try again.
Words of wisdom,
I take to heart,
And I’ll use to the very end.
Why?
Because I have to.
Because there is no end in sight,
Just events,
Options,
Choices,
Each one affects my life.
So win or lose,
I move on,
Making my way,
Refusing to simply,
Tag along.

Suspenders

by S.W.Thompson 4/5/13

This isn’t a metaphor,
I assure you.
I’m really going to do a poem about suspenders.
They hold your pants up.
See?
Not a metaphor.
Suspenders really hold pants up.
I’m not going to try to sneak in,
Some silly philosophy,
About life being pants,
And suspenders being some,
Some,
Some new approach to keeping yourself held up,
Despite the gravity of life,
Pulling you down.
I’m not going to relate,
The elasticity of suspenders,
To some yo-yo effect,
That most people,
Myself included,
Have in regard to their inner veracity.
No sir-e-bob.
When I wrote a poem about suspenders,
It’s only about the X shaped,
Single purpose,
Mono-functional adornment,
That helps to keep a persons pants up.
Well,
Sometimes I suppose people wear them for humors effect…
Like a bow tie.
But that,
My friends,
Would be a poem for another day.

The Whole Truth

by S.W.Thompson 4/4/13 (bonus poem)

I don’t ever lie,
But I don’t always tell the whole truth.
I’ll say the right thing,
The accurate thing,
The honest thing,
In a way that distracts from the obvious.
You’ll think I am joking,
Or that I’m pulling your leg,
But the reality is,
I’m throwing the truth in your face.
I say things boldly.
Without remorse.
Without Care.
So you think it won’t matter,
So you’ll think I don’t care.
But I do,
And I’ll hide it,
I’ll keep it from you.
You won’t get emotion,
You won’t know my fear.
All you will see is a smile.
The truth is all you will hear.

BART

by S.W.Thompson 4/4/13

Milbrea first,
Then SFO,
Before you know it San Bruno.
South San Francisco,
Colma next,
Daly City is a popular dest…
…ination.
Balboa Park,
Her Brother Glen,
24th for all your Latin American needs,
16th for Hipsters and Weed.
Civic Center,
Better walk real fast,
Powell St watch your ass,
Montgomery is great,
Just not for dates…
Embarcadero is the last city stop,
Before all points east.
Richmond bound trains transfer at 19th,
For Pittsburgh/Bay Point stay on board,
Dublin Pleasanton?
You got the wrong train.
Fremont for the Southbound Chaps,
Switch at MacArthur,
You’ll be fine,
Thanks for your business,
We hope you enjoyed the ride.

First Kiss

by S.W.Thompson 4/3/13

My worst kiss was my first kiss,
And I try not to stack rank the rest.
But my best kiss,
Very best kiss,
Was one which I should never forget.
But my problem,
With that memory,
Is that it changes every time,
Every time I meet a new love,
Or think back on an old love,
Of mine.
Each one was my favorite,
And each one sent shivers down my spine,
But not one,
Not ten,
Not even ten of them combined,
Were the kind of kiss,
I envisioned in my mind.
I have this expectation,
Each time my kiss is shared anew,
And each time it is perfection,
It is justification,
It is mesmerization just divine.
The problem with that expectation,
Is that it always lead me back to my first.
It wasn’t the kiss,
But the expectation,
That was worst.

You Know What’s Weird?

by S.W.Thompson 4/2/13

You know what’s weird?
Hmm,
Well I dunno what’s universally weird.
But I’d sure love to know,
What popped into your head just now,
I bet it was really weird.
Like,
The kinda weird you’d be uncomfortable sharing,
In a group of strangers.
The kinda weird,
That, that,
Rule 34 thing,
Is all about.
My guess is,
Whatever you thought about,
Isn’t half as weird as something I’ve done.
Definitely not as weird,
As something I’ve said.
Come to think of it,
This is pretty weird.
Hmm.
Go figure.