A.J. Walker

writerer

Writing Words. A Worry

Writing Words. A Worry.

I'm writing words which may bloom into a poem or a song

But most likely they will end as a trash

But maybe if printed those words could decay to mulch and feed a perfect flower

More likely it will help a weed, to destroy what lived before.

Rotting words to kill what already lived.

Writing words with the handbrake off. It’s always been a worry.

This here page is destined to feed the weeds again. I am sorry.

The Bruise That Never Fades

The Bruise

You left me scarred with a bruise that never fades

Left me in the gutter hidden in the shade

You told me that you loved me once, then said that was a lie

That you were just filling time and I was just a lay

Wrong time, wrong place, right face; wrong woman.

And now that bruise wont heal

Your legacy a war crime,

When you just walked away

Your legacy a war crime and this bruise that never fades.

D i s t a n c e

Distance

I still behave much like a kid
Keeping my emotions largely hid
Still afraid of commitment and all that it entails
And the distance between us acts like a rail
Between me and commitment
Slippers & pipe
Choices, decisions—trouble and strife

But when I think of you
It always makes me smile
And the distance between us
Becomes not a mile:
You could be beside me
Here in my bed
Or we’re in the front room
Getting well fed

Life is built on choices
And I keep affections hid
Still afraid of commitment
And all that it entails
But when I think of you
It always makes me
smile

Wake Up

Wake Up

The landscapes in which we live are lies told by poor memories
and unfulfilled wishes.
If you could really see the truth though it is
- and always was -
wondrous.
Wake up and smell the coffee, hear the birds, and hear the bin trucks down the road.
Clean out the dinner waste from the plug hole. Wash the car, and cut the lawn.
Take the smooth with the rough. Enjoy the rough for what it is:
life.
Wondrous life.
Wake up. Wake up. It is beautiful. It is once in your lifetime.
It is once:
your lifetime.

Going Home To Bed

Going Home to Bed

Sculptured isolated hardness,
skyscrapers of tumbled fossiled ocean-life.
Sea rumbles in relentless.

Sonic booms when the waves strike just right.
Jurassic souls separated from their sedimentary beds,
Restored to the sea by its might.