You can call this a poem.

You can call this a poem.

See? I already failed.

It is so hard to write something without feeling like

I'm coming across as pretentious or like

I'm trying too hard to be a "real poet".

Is that insane?

Is it crazy to feel like a pretentious asshole

just because you think that you might be coming across

that way to people you've never met?

Sometimes I write a poem and then when I'm done,

I look at it and think "Wow, you sound like you're trying too hard".

And then I wonder if I am. Like right now, is this too much effort?

Should "art" come effortlessly? What makes this a poem?

Is it egotistical to write a poem at all?

Am I assuming that people will take the time to read this,

and if so, is that an arrogant assumption?

These are real questions.

Maybe I should just write exactly what I want,

without wondering if people will "get" it.

But then I feel like it sounds pretentious,

like "Hey, check out how deep and mysterious I am."

I'm gonna end this poem, or whatever this is,

exactly the way I want, with a sentence that I will enjoy reading tomorrow,

even if I look like an asshole, because how you appear and

how you truly are have nothing to do with each other,

unless you want them to.

There is no way you could look at me and know me.

My insides look nothing like my outsides.

For instance, could you tell by looking at me that

I cried when I saw the movie "Remember Me"?

You know, that one with Robert Pattinson, the guy from the Twilight movies.

Well, it's true. A tear fell from my eye.

Maybe admitting embarrassing things like that is the secret

to writing things that are worth reading.

Because I think that people want to read what's real.

I know I do.

So here's the sentence, written for me, not you. But you can enjoy it too:

A gorilla, dressed in drag, was break dancing in the moonlight

behind my eyes, behind a sky of black, which is a machete.

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Randy Conner.

from BLACK to WHITE

First, the boy melted the black

As it dripped he saw sadness, danger, fear, terror, pain.

He saw the demons of his childhood that had taken his innocence.

He smiled, feeling both revenge and closure.

Second, he melted the yellow

He saw happiness, joy, and laughter.

He saw his village gathered around a campfire beating drums and dancing primally.

He smiled.

Third, he melted the red

He found it odd that this one melted slower and the drips were thinner, more watered down.

As it fell he saw anger. Rage. Bloodshed. Death.

He smiled once more, relieved that he was still alive.

But the mood soon changed as he held the white one over the melted carnage.

His smile disappeared and the world around him slowed.

"I'm only following orders,"

the white one pleaded.

The words echoed in his head as he remembered those words being spoken by the American soldier,

gun hanging down by his hip,

justifying himself to the mother who held her elder son in her arms,

his blood soaking through his hair onto his mother's prayer gown.

She wailed while her son died in her arms.

The boy sat there,

locked in that moment,

for what seemed like an entire lifetime,

imagining a life with his brother still alive.

He stood up and laughed, then cried, then laughed again,

The two emotions blending into a cacophony of music.

He turned his back and disappeared into the shadow filled alleyway that lead him home

Leaving behind the black, the yellow, the red...

and the white

Color Etching by Nadia Hassler. Words by Steve Brian.

Oh bloody potential

***

What once was loaded with so much promise of pain

carries itself still and rested.

Abandoned by its own potential.

Because potential is not about what could be

but the risk of what may never happen.

***

I missed you.

Firing all the loving motivation I could,

pulled the trigger of my tongue

and let out all killing affects.

Somehow I missed you.

Glancing your glares, my words shot passed into emptiness.

Damn.

***

Potential is the equivalent of what could be lost.

'Could' trumping all certainty, the negative effect of doubt.

So we hope.

Hope with the grip of a gun that life can be different.

And that maybe we will miss ourselves to find each other.

***

I stand wanting to be targeted by you.

Set me between your eyes, sweet shooter

and may all aim be true and blazing.

Please, I need you to kill me.

I can't even take my own life.

I'm sick of it, I don't want it, so why would I take it myself.

Please have me.

***

Potential is the buzzing middle of greatness and let down.

The moment before the smolder and the after glory unwanted.

To outrun doubt we hope.

Potentially we could fail.

Potentially we could be left, alone, in the middle of a field,

missing out on all that we hoped to hit.

***

Bloodied up, my hand reaches out to shake hands in peaceful thanks.

I no longer want to play our deadly game.

I'd rather hold you wounded.

So take a step closer,

let's throw down our arms

and open our arms.

And for the love of all things good,

lets stop bleeding all over each other.

We cannot continue to push our fingers into the bullet holes.

These wounds are mine to tend

and hopefully yours to love, if you will have them.

***

So set potential free

and live in the hope that your doubt will not harm you.

Hope to kill doubt.

Hope to steep your hands in the blood of all you hate about yourself.

Take aim at the trueness inside and let it rip.

Potentially you will live.

Photo by John Henry.  Words by Jordan Shappell