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Zach Broniszewski Poem
Oh you broken infinity; gray in nature.
Allow me to repair you.
I am a handyman of words,
breaking down this soft-spoken language in rhythmic remedy,
yet only for you, my good neighbor.
You are the everlasting universe,
but let's not stumble over words.
The universe is infinite; yet not quite infinity,
and the great field of stars must be jealous,
for infinity, you are here on Earth.
And now I am a handyman of kisses;
easing what is broken in your essence,
yet the complexion of infinity
is all the bad or good that completes itself,
and maybe that's exactly why the universe
isn't quite adequate enough for that word.
So perhaps I should spare my lips and release you into space
where you may become one with the stars.
I am now but a broken handy man of muted words,
signing written verse with paper kisses.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
Laying out the sacred miniscules,
claiming knowledge to be your
land.
Infinity with an open eye,
truth in the palm of your hand.
Amidst rolling whispers,
distorted answers through
translucent glass.
Ambition seized too soon,
questions uncovering far too
fast.
Held bound by expectations,
burying tangible thoughts of a
soul.
Contradictory in the midst of
discovery,
creating vacancies within a
desolate hole.
Irrelevant ideas in creative
thought,
divinity held within the power of
a mind.
Innovation derived from
imagination,
yet chasing dreams already
signed.
Fragile persistence in
consistence,
kneeling to a blank drawn.
Endlessly approaching
opportunity,
practicality sacrificed more than
a player's pawn.
Embodiment of perfection,
skin forged with revelation.
Correlating wonder with
disclosure,
upon ignorance in separation.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
Tell me if it's okay for me to
love,
for I forgot far too long ago.
Forgive me for the three words
I've forgotten how to say,
but love is all apart of my
almost forgotten soul.
My love always falls in the beat
of those who share my very
blood,
and in the final hour,
my soul was surely capturing
her beautiful silhouette.
But what I do remember,
more than what may be,
are simply the memories that re-
kindled the flames of a
forgotten feeling.
It was love,
more certain than ever.
I felt love again,
with the last time I'd ever hold
her hand.
But I felt the sinister soul I was
amidst,
And after I remembered how to
say "I love you,"
It spoke up to make sure I
would never forget again,
"The last thing you'll ever
remember is the taste of her
tears before you had to walk
away."
Tell me if it's okay for me to
love,
for I forgot far too long ago.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
My last wish to the night sky;
To join your portrayal amongst the stars.
My mind meanders into your luminescent epitome,
For which I shall grow weary
before accompanying soon after the sun sets,
and summer fire flies will make their way to my delight,
capturing deliberate flashes of green
when I am not able to see it in your eyes.
But the night holds your glitter and glamour;
A rare sense of alluring companionship from so far away
which writes my final regards to the stars;
None other than a congenial "thank you,"
for the pale moon light may dim the beauty beneath your makeup,
but distance gives way to satisfaction as the fire flies return
and you are portrayed soon amongst the stars.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
A pen held within my grasp
could create portrayals
of your beautiful display.
It is as if I am an artist
of which my deliberate strokes
sway with the rendering literature.
If this was the generous truth,
then I would have all of the necessary materials
that any Leonardo Da Vinci would use.
So let this paper be my canvas,
let this pen be my brush,
let this ink be my paint
and these words; my masterpiece.
How lovely and strange it is at the same time
to think that poetry could paint
my Mona Lisa in one hundred words.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
Through the forgotten meadows
of nature;
For the wind whom grazes on
grass more often,
And the tears fallen from the
sky;
A purpose out of our knowledge.
A sunset leaving at pleasant
ease,
Before guiding our last dove to
its nest.
A sense of harmony; nature
plays it best.
Our minds choose to provide us
with a guise;
Only the morning light could
satisfy our hymns.
A synchronized melody;
At which the inferior dove will
sing for its children.
However this sacred idea;
Another selfish cling to our souls.
The pattern made obvious; even
to the blind,
But we'd rather scatter the
ashes of reality;
For it is our superior nature,
that plays a lesser role in what
nature really is;
However I'd rather burn this
page,
and leave its ashes somewhere
in our forgotten meadows.
Maybe then would nature be at
peace with the next blank page
in our arrogant minds.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
I feel wild desire
within a fingertip's touch;
Swaying gently out of grasp
like majesty in the distance consuming your desperate mind.
I see the hope
lurking amongst my own shadows;
Watching as a bright light
journeys through the unforgettable cloth
to shine on your precious skin.
I hear the twisted melodies;
Truth covered in veil
as lies conquer in the same likeness.
And so my tired ears throw trust
down the throats of those whom speak.
I smell the ink that rises from these pages,
in my wounded effort to heal.
But I taste the knots of forgotten love
dancing at the tip of my tongue,
so I picked up a pen
and wrote the words I could not say.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
But it's only that drunken-immortality fairytale
embedded into your unfortunate soul and
pressed seemingly against your lips,
struck across with that fancy red gloss of her favorite coat
of which gathered every ounce of deceit
she could have possibly mustered up
out of the back of her sickening throat.
"Forever"
was merely another one of her words
that made its way into the void
sometime before reaching your such gullible ears.
Or perhaps every syllable that slipped
from the tip of that tongue
is simply another piece of the actual void,
relishing its way
into a deliberate consumption of your senses
to ease every misfortune with bitter condolences.
This was your first mistake;
She craved adequacy of every "I'm sorry"
she spoke that slithered away
and wrapped itself around your mind and soul so tightly that
you utterly forgot what the word "pain" meant
simply because she forgot that "truth"
was even a damn word.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
We wander through this cold world
forever in search of answers;
Finding ourselves tipsy in thought,
drunk on the words of a fairytale,
and wasted on the idea of Truth.
Only our bare feet will know
what it's like to travel so far
along a path parted with Despair
merely because a lie
could never be painful enough
to stop us from seeking the truth.
And as we learn more about what a question is,
we seem to learn more about what an answer isn't.
So we clench our fists in distraught
as we're forced to watch
what we thought we knew
slowly drown in rivers
and meander into oblivion.
But as much as we connect our nighttime stars
to form the words in our fairytales,
we'll always remember
how desperate we've become
to simply begin changing the truth
we thought we wanted to hear,
because perhaps this white lie
sounded a little less bitter.
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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Zach Broniszewski Poem
I've trusted my senses through
dark nights,
sleeping my deliberate way into
realistic dreams,
soon slipping fast enough into
oblivion.
When the wolves howl to the
moon,
I would've already forgotten
what reality was,
and their growls would've lured
me into a whole new realm.
Maybe there's a demon lurking
somewhere in between,
forcing me to question
my "dreams,"
though do I even dream,
or am I merely a puppet
dancing around two realities?
For whatever answer satisfies
my poor knowledge of
consciousness,
I just hope that these words
forever remain where they may
be.
'Cause this page could soon be
the ashes beneath the flames of
tomorrow's reality,
but nothing will take away from
these words for which I question,
for what I am doing now as I
write,
am I being tempted to dream
about reality,
or am I realistically the demon
somewhere in between?
I believe either way that these
words are the part of my soul
that is awake,
and I believe there is confusion
when my mind slips away as the
moon rises,
but is the moon just a symbol of
laughter,
laughing at the barking wolves,
or were the wolves apart of my
dreams all along?
Copyright © Zach Broniszewski | Year Posted 2014
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