Tag Archives: rebirth

LUNGS

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15

i never really considered my lungs before
it was as if my heart was the mob boss
and they were just these two goons on each side of him
but now i know what it is like to dig deep for a breath
and come back empty handed
i know how it feels to not have the wind within you
and i’ve come to love the lungs i was given

i’ve been reduced to whispers and murmur
i’ve found an invisible hand of a criminal
clasped tight over my mouth
my face turning blue then black
like day then night
and i have found myself dizzy

i know what it is like to miss screaming
to reach deep for the demon within you to find it comatose
sound asleep in the passenger seat of my bloodstream
i will never again deny a battle cry
i possess within me
a twin set of speakers
designed to project from the core of me
the biggest fucking symphony you can imagine

the stage lights meandering the audience
flashing blindly bright to all those around me
my bass will shake the foundation that you have created
empires were made to fall
otherwise, we’d become too god damn content

these lungs of mine
they have each other
we think we are a lonely heart
but maybe we should focus on the fact
that we are a pair of lungs
within all of us is a golden libra scale
tipped by the slightest hint of a kiss or a war

i will never deny my lungs again
i will breath in everything
and spit back fire
i will burn down your false empire
and my own, and i will keep you warm on cold nights

i never really considered my lungs before
but the ash has been cleared from my throat
and i sing like a new born baby cries
i sing like our very last breath dies

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

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GENESIS

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8

in the morning
the water disappears down the drain
the bathroom floor is always wet
the mirror never lets go of all of its fog
there is nothing outside the window
the kamikaze grass beneath the rotating blades

in the morning
the news report is muffled and uninteresting
the television screen is blurry
there’s never enough time for a cup of coffee
there’s never a good place to put my keys
the apartment is stale and the lights are synthetic

in the morning
the car is never warm enough
the radio is always commercials, never the song
the stop lights are always red
the cops are always bored in their long-snouted cars
the roads are always a collection of potholes
the mirrors always need adjusting

in the morning
the gate never opens when i enter the code
the totalitarian parking lot is always full
there’s always someone double-parked
the headache is always hollow like acid in an empty stomach
the people walking in with me never want to talk
the security guards at the door are never friendly

in the morning
the world is always new
genesis
it needs some conditioning
it’s learning how to become better than it was born

in the morning
it is literally impossible
to know which side of the bed
is the right side to wake up on
and by the time you wake up
it’s too late to decide

this is why
we have the afternoon
and the evening
and the late evening
and night
and the night
and the late night
and the later night
and the refusal of dawn coming
to correct this all
and if we fail
there is always the new morning
ugly as hell
and ready to be loved

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

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HANGOVER

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9

i sold most of my books, almost sold my guitar
i have cleared the shelves of this apartment
emptied the attic and the stale memories of a different me
i have burnt break-up letters
and let go of friends like a hand off the edge of a bridge
i have kissed goodbye the roads i thought holy
i have watched the sun be swallowed by the mountains
and thought that maybe if i head west i too will be lost
in the gut of the earth, alone with echoes and hollow
i took down the pictures of a younger me
and now i spend my days painting a portrait of an older me
and now i just don’t know what i’m doing
i’m looking at ants through a magnifying glass
and i can’t look away when the heat condenses and they start to set on fire
i put my car up for sale and i sell viles of my blood in the wanted ads
i sleep in a white room with no posters, hopeless and cold
on a perfect bed with one half severely empty and i wonder
in porcelain moments like these
that knock on the door at two in the morning
am i practicing how to die
or trying to give myself another chance to live?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “WHY I WRITE POETRY”