Poems by Nicholas Cranford.
"In All Honesty"
I could really fail here,
with the rust of a bike, under a roof with Justo,
through a cigarette with Chris, over coffee with Davina.
There's nicotine and marijuana, alcohol and Adderal,
and I'm still relying on ideals.
Tired but walking, exhausted but up,
disgusted but trying, angry but tired.
Get up, I know your legs are wobbling. Get up,
I know your tired and you want to die.
Get up. I. Believe. In. You.
Fight against the gentle disappointments,
rave against the unjust mornings.
Live as you want your favorite person to live-
bravely, with honor; gently, with care.
Yes, that's gonna scar, and yes that's going to hurt.
Chin up and fists raised- this, my friends, is life.
This is life in each crushing moment;
this is life measured in minutes lost.
This is life with rusty plumbing and crooked cops,
with late rent or pent-up aggression-
I could really fail here.
I sigh, take a breath.
Let's get on with it, then.
--
"You and I"
Ask me who I am exactly, in a dirty hotel room
as you check the windows and disconnect the phone.
I am someone who picks up hypodermic needles
from the streets and throws them away.
I'm a hopelessly hopeless revolutionary, a disillusioned ideal,
A relic of the ethics of my heritage.
I'm from a generation of gods, of brilliant thinkers,
of beautiful beings dragged down by debt and reality.
I'm from an era where everyone has a muse and a chip on their shoulder,
where you smoke to avoid the smog and drive to speed past ugly truths.
I'm from a land where we live unhealthily to counteract our long life expectancies
and we destroy our icons and idols because they resemble us too closely.
I'm someone scared of perfection and uncomfortable with myself,
someone uneasy with his talents, someone intensely tired.
I am from a culture obsessed with fear and villainizing,
with arguing to avoid any self doubt.
I'm a product of a rapidly deteriorating environment,
a sum of countless media driven epiphanies,
a number, a name, an idea, an image,
and a perpetual machine run on breaths and regrets and thoughts. I am someone who realizes that the programmer programs to get closer to God,
and the writer writes, the artist paints, and the poet drinks.
I'm not as important as I think, more important than I know,
as relevant as tufts of smoke and as permanent as wind.
I'm a hyperbolic example of the human condition,
as I bitch and whine, piss and moan.
I'm the chain-smoking, silver-tongued, self-assuring
hero of our tale and I have no idea who I am.
You look at me out of the corner of your eye,
smile the smile you give at funerals and for your license,
nod and say you understand,
and you're tired of trying to hate yourself through me.
--
"Dear Estrella,"
On a star, we'll wish and glimpse,
smile deep and ever since,
you punctuated this existence,
I'll love you forever and evermore.
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