Categories
Poetry

John Maurer – 1 poem

A Globe in a Dark Room

            

I will save myself from myself

That fact sounds like fiction

The world is too complex to make sense

That fiction sounds like a fact

            

None of your novels are novel

More like how-to-guides on how to get nowhere

Stop telling me what I already know, let the chorus swing slow

Fading in and out, saying 

I’m sure

I doubt

The cure’s

Not a house

Some kids

A spouse

            

I sit in the dark alone developing photo negatives

Into clones so when my voice reaches silence

my vocal chords can be restrung like an antique violin

I’m no virtuoso, I have no virtues and I’m virtually a hobo

Going from town to town but never moving north or south

Off track because that was how I was trained.

            

John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than sixty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)

Categories
Poetry

John Maurer – 4 poems

Synthesizing Honestly in Aggregation

            

Oligarchies and dictatorships 

have fallen all the same

If two heads were better than one

evolution would have seen to it

            

The auteur theory sustains, no matter 

how hard deep-pocketed studio owners disagree

If greatness was measured by financial success

than Van Gogh is the worst painter to ever pick up the brush

            

If riskless perfection is the goal, Hendrix should’ve never 

picked up the flaming guitar by his LSD dripping teeth

I’d rather break my bones to break down the door 

then wait for it to be opened

            

I’d rather speak with meaning 

and be ignored than placate.

            

Confidence is the Infrastructure

            

There’s no doubt in my mind, there certainly shouldn’t be any doubt in yours-Bob Ross

            

Doubt will kill the poet before the Plath Syndrome gets a chance

If you don’t believe you have something worth saying, what are you saying?

If you speak for a response, you aren’t an artist but a reaction

The bard does not differentiate between love and hate

That is not his lot in life, that is the lot of everyone else

Some people will love you, some people will hate you

If you change to be loved by those who hate you, those who loved you will hate you

            

As they should, as you deserve, you are not a model, not meant to be beautiful

You are a heart bleeding and beating at an exponentially slower meter

This purpose is being the maggots on the street rot

This purpose is being unapologetic on how horrible you are

In hopes that someone will see and maybe say I might just try being me too.

            

A Pick-Pocketed Identity

            

Prison is only a trade school 

for black market occupations

School is only a ceremonial entrance 

into the magic trick that is distracting you for your entire life

            

Assembling your life like cheap Swedish furniture

Step-by-step, bullet point by bullet point

and somehow after following every detail perfectly

the puzzle you’ve assembled doesn’t look like the picture on the box

            

Note to Self:

You did what you were told to by those who didn’t care about what you want 

and you are now surprised that your life isn’t what you wanted

There is design and there is following a template of a designer

You have lived a greyscale, milquetoast, Chinatown knock off of a life

            

No wonder, now it’s falling apart.

            

Trash Compacted to a Diamond

            

If you channel invert the night 

sky transforms to acid rain

There are sketches more masterful 

than molasses thick paint 

on canvases larger than walls

            

I’ve heard a man use a ballpoint pen 

and a wooden banister to compose music 

more intricate than any orchestra

Gravity has laws, beauty doesn’t even have a guideline

Not to those who dedicate their lives to studying it

            

Who know how hard it is to see

It doesn’t hit you like a mortared wall

It hits you whenever it’s too late, whenever that may be.

            

John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than fifty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)