The Poetry of Dustin Triplett
[[Over and Out]]
[[Bare Hands, Bare Soul]]
[[Love's Holy Grail]]
[[Home is Where You Are]]
[[A Life Stolen]]
[[Choose Your Own Adventure]]
[[Farewell Old Friend]]
[[Unfinished Thoughts]]<img src="http://dustintriplett.com/PoetryImages/EmptyNight_DustinTriplett.jpg">
Hello there, Loneliness.
You are back again, I see
but maybe you never left.
You are the flowers that
bloom at my feet. The same flowers
that decompose after the seasons
pass. I would grip them tightly,
offer them to the prettiest girl
under the starless night sky,
endure the thorns, cross
my fingers, and hope
that you would relieve me
of the token of my affection.
But I could never do that
to you. Those thorns are
deeply embedded in the
root of our distraction.
There are select moments in time
when I don’t feel completely alone.
Times in which I feel close to you
while I’m farthest from you.
In these moments, I must ask
myself why you insisted
on breaking my heart
and not his heart
or her heart.
I want to know what drew you
to my weakness and naivety.
Most of all, I want to know
when you will tell me
Growing up is…
unsubscribing to that irrelevant email chain
without fearing the repercussions of missing
an incredible deal on something you don't need.
Growing up is…
giving up on your minor dreams
so that you can work up the courage
to give up on your bigger dreams.
Growing up is…
drinking not because you can get away with it
but drinking because it’s the only way
you can make it through the day.
Growing up is…
a socially acceptable coffee addiction
because you will never be able to
afford a proper cocaine addiction.
Growing up is…
writing poetry because you can’t
bring yourself to get dressed
and take out the trash.
I want you to picture yourself in a
museum. You are staring at the art
on the wall, the very creation that
fills your life with meaning. Your
hand firmly grips the camera close
to your chest; a shared moment
of intimacy between your heartbeat
and the warmth of a LCD screen.
Then you feel another, a man with rough
hands touches your shoulder, interjecting
a motive into frame. No pictures are allowed,
the man reminds you, but all you hear is a man’s
inability to appreciate the very thing he curates.
Your grip loosens from your camera, forcing it
to dangle in front of you like an amputated appendage.
A seed is planted. Thoughts of anarchy start
to dance in your mind’s eye, each more intense
than the last. In that fateful moment, against
your upbringing and against all odds, you make
a decision that is exclusively yours, including
the repercussions that will shake your core.
Click, goes the camera. By taking that picture,
you have rebelled against an injustice. However,
your revolutionary act will not be remembered
in the textbooks. Instead, it will be immediately
forgotten by the man with soulless eyes as
you depart toward pastures of green and awe.
The photograph is proof you won’t soon forget.
You have forged a memory contained to an
institution outside of your own confinement.
Under the satin, misfortune lies with tragedy,
clumsy trains veer off the cold steel repentance;
Puppeteers masquerading lies valiantly,
an adolescence heaven’s bliss of resentment.
Tenants of flesh sentenced to monotony,
empty hands grasping at fading echoes;
identities wiped of crippling modesty,
manifesting as the window’s rattling bellows.
Intertwined burdens of reason and cognition,
speaking in riddles to contradict past ignorance;
a connection ridding veins of addiction,
a mere byproduct of our darkest belligerence.
Plummeting stars of dialogue dream of inspiration,
seeking sanctuary in the written word of a deity’s narration.
So this is permanence, love’s holy grail.
A lifetime of memories outlasting
your vinyl collection of b-sides
and musical notes, crumbled up scribbles
of inspiration lining the pockets of the tightly
fit blue jeans that used to drive me wild,
only to be discovered in the impersonal
confines of the cold, solidary bedroom
of the life I willfully married into.
The complexities of your personality
prevented both piles of clothes
and the love I sought to accumulate
on the floor, as you always thrived
for perfection in every aspect of your
young life. I suppose we both knew
it would only be a matter of time before
your compassion got the better of us.
Love would indeed eventually tear us
to shreds, but love would also bring me
closer to you in the years since you made
the decision to lighten your burden.
You would always reinsure me
that the explosions were never my fault,
but the shrapnel accompanies the truth
in the writing of every line you wrote.
For twenty-three years, you perfected
the awkward rhythm of the dance,
but your influence would outlive the shambling
you committed on the stage of the shady
dive bars we frequent. In the spotlight, you retreated
further into the epileptic abyss where
I knew you would live out your days until
the transmission faded away with the dawn.
Go to your room.
You’ve done a bad thing.
Punishment is coming.
Don’t you dare forget
your mistake. Twenty
years later, you are still
going to pay for it.
Don’t tell your mother.<img src="http://dustintriplett.com/PoetryImages/ThirdEye_DustinTriplett.jpg">
They say when God shuts
a door, he opens a window.
That’s fine and all, but when
some eyes are shut, the choice
of escape becomes the only
way to prevent being blinded
by other’s ill-perceived expectations.
It’s hard to fully grasp the sorry state
of affairs we have found ourselves in
through the use of false lenses.
Some eyes are never blinded
by the knowledge others despise,
even when exposed for the faults
one bears. Forced to the outskirts
of humanity’s tolerance, some eyes
lay wide open, all seeing, because
some eyes, some eyes never lie.
Out in the abyss, looking for signs that
cannot be seen outside one’s own mind.
If you take away the mind, you are
left with a hollow husk of humanity.
When you close your eyes, tell
me, do you still see the light?
A spectrum against your mind,
visualizations of dreams of
brighter days and greener pastures.
Even through the darkest of days,¬¬¬¬
imagination nurtures the future.
I turn to see the back of you swaddled tightly
inside sheets. The t-shirt blanket your grandmother made
you is choked in exhausted, worn hands. When you roll
to face the window blinds you pretended to care
about, I notice that your body curves exactly like the guitar
I longed to cradle late every night. The one you’d hate to hear after
you’ve forgotten the sharp sound of learning,
and I’ve cleaned your scrapes from the dough and coarse paperwork.
You sleep, keeping time with slow breathes
and conducting dream-perfect melodies.
While you doze off my heart shakes. I am anxious
dancer’s legs in our too-big-for-this-room-bed.
I would search beneath the patchwork quilt we couldn’t afford
to shake your shoulder. Have you laugh
away botched tests and my barely editable tofu
with caricatures of my devout disapproving grandmother.
But, I’d rather face looming bills and “Will we last?”
than pull you from so flawless a performance, so rare
a relief. I will feign calm respite and face it
all alone. You rest while adult uncertainties
crush my nervous young bones, and our version
of parenting swishes its tail lazily as it pulls
itself up onto your rising chest.
no ink in my pen
dry as the bourbon river that
eroded my liver<img src="http://dustintriplett.com/PoetryImages/FarewellOldFriend_DustinTriplett.jpg">
He’s already gone
Sing a victory song
Extinguish the funeral pyre<img src="http://dustintriplett.com/PoetryImages/ALifeStolen_DustinTriplett.jpg">
They say work is not meant to be fun
But instead a way to make ends meet
Although when those ends fail to meet
We awaken to bodies laying in the street
Alive as their hopes are dead
Grim reminders of the anxieties within their heads
Irregularly clicking like a broken clock
The hatred never fully stops
Get a job little boy
Or you will never acquire little toys
But what if you already have greatest toy of all
It doesn’t matter, for it is broken
It is a armless, cracked skull of the husk
Of a life stolen<img src="http://dustintriplett.com/PoetryImages/ChooseYourOwnAdventure_DustinTriplett.jpg">
We can choose to aspire greener pastures
inspired by the passions of yesteryear.
Instead of choosing to give up,
to let it control us,
to become fragmented beings.
We can choose to forget,
to block our deepest desires,
to be sheltered from pain.
We can choose to move forth,
to a place unlike any other.
The power of choice is within us.
But instead, we choose to ignore it.<img src="http://dustintriplett.com/PoetryImages/Beckoning_DustinTriplett.jpg">
Wild windmills with a tendency for repetition
Fighting the good fight about absolutely nothing
Always spinning, always sickly, always dreaming
Whirlwinds with an inclination for sinning
We spoke every weekend about running away
As far as our weathered feet would take us
Astray to an expensive, quiet foreign city
And I promise to keep every promise
I’ll keep a piece of you in my pocket
A locket, and I swear I’ll never swap it
As it reminds me of you, only you
And all you do, for me, I do
So please don’t stop this airy bliss
Love will keep this Ferris Wheel turning
Imprinting a daily new beginning
An endless stream of memories worth living
I’m getting better
You’re getting smarter
Fractured little windmills
Dizzy from the ride
Dependent of Dramamine
To get through the night
An expendable shell casing
An endless supply of ammo
Life is over before it begins
I can’t fight this mental weather
When I’m all alone, I’m so alone
A punctured shell casing
Incapable of being ammo
I am more tethered than you could know
I’m an anchor without a soul