My God
Is equal parts innocence
And the tainted
Spark of rebellion
Who ignites each
Charred creation
By fear
I admit must burn

And thrill which
Doesn’t concede
To a torch whose blaze
Is weakened
Where His slowest tongue
May linger
Like dancing flares
On its wick

And heart
Whose cheapened wax
Still melts from words
In smoulders
Through lights that
Carry feelings
As they express
Their warming glow

Upon this page
Left blank
Within bedrooms
Starved for worship
At the edge
Of shadowy cursive
Where these cinders
Speak out loud

Just racing
Towards completion
So such flames
May find expression
Amid darkness
Hiding phrases
Even I can’t
Always grasp

Are divine
If born of heat
Scorching hands
Who brand their message
Writing madly
While they’re hurting
Showing marks
Considered death

To the lives
Not very fair
Missing purpose
Since obsessing
Over nightfall
Lacking lanterns
But what darkness
Comforts them

Tracking beacons
Yielding fast
When forever
Begs attention
From great flashes
My pen follows
Now defiant
More than scared.

– J. Pigno

We’re prone
To suffering falls
So routine
Yet unexpected
Like that step
Which always misses
Just before
Our feet can dance

And land
What gesture yields
Like scenarios
Once envisioned
At those moments
Life seems fragile
Hearing music
Guide that crash

Believing
Every slip
Is the note
God somehow blunders
Proving errors
Being random
Are the fears
Most often chanced

If resisting
Early death
Or its grip
Upon these shoulders
Standing pretty
With its partner
Serenading
While they wait

For their turn
To be less tense
Than long waltzes
Grown religious
Like disaster
Without planning
Joining marches
Called defeat

Thinking movement
Can convince
Expiration
From advancing
Across ballrooms
Hushed and ready
Poised yet pretty
Treading fate

Bringing hazards
On themselves
When avoiding
Human error
Spinning madly
Lacking caution
Though this blood
Holds certain risks

Finding gaffes
Gone unforeseen
Chasing hymns
Which deafen reason
Where perception
Beckons failure
Despite warnings
Too damn late.

– J. Pigno

Call
My frantic scribbles
True wisdom
Of the insane
As I write
Outside these margins
In a book
Which has no words

Or phrase
That shines its gift
Within spaces
Holding darkness
Like some treasure
Once enabled
By true fear
Still taking shape

Upon its page
Condensed
Among lines
I mustn’t publish
If avoiding
Daily judgement
Of this sentence
Deemed unfit

Like each fragment
Spelling death
Chasing freedoms
Beyond coping
Proving art
Is merely desperate
To convey
Such rattled thoughts

Through expression
Missing faith
Ever joyless
From expecting
Certain persons
Worth believing
When they say
That prose is heard

To agree
My message speaks
And those poems
Show importance
Even though
I’m only wasting
What small talent
God could sell

Crazy men
Who grow so tired
Of their subjects
Losing meaning
Finding answers
Behind eyelids
Where new mornings
Seem absurd

Inside volumes
Of old minds
Thick as tomes
Obscuring daylight
Too exhausted
For enduring
Further torture
Life entails.

– J. Pigno

Believe me
When I say
This heart is about
To expire
From beating wrong
When it hungers
And slowing down
In my sleep

As verse
Just doesn’t express
What little breath
Can accomplish
Through uncanny dreams
Now waiting
At the end
Of a failing pulse

Indistinguishable
From death
Or some life which waits
Thereafter
Each time that skip
Surprises
My rhythm
Still in tune

But dancing
During rest
Like escaping days
Uneasy
Through surrender
Proved eternal
If I never wake
At all

Simply passing
On my chair
Feeling lighter
Than these burdens
Floating gently
Above nothing
Some would call
His journey failed

Since existence
Hurt too much
Weighing profit
Over persons
Deeming value
More important
Than the soul
Which suffers blame

Halting rhythms
Spoken fast
Through this stroke
Of throbbing phrases
Spilled from veins
Inside my inkwell
Where depression
Bleeds its terms

Showing patterns
Always synced
Until morning
Steals with envy
These few words
I’m left expressing
Before dying
As they break.

– J. Pigno

Pretending I’m alive
For the sake
Of appearing
Normal
Is my only chance
At fighting
This existence
Deemed unfit

By aches
Which do persist
In daily errands
Battled
Waging wars
Against discomfort
As more practice
Towards that fear

Which rears
Its fading pulse
Throwing beats
Still out of rhythm
When real pain
Soon reaches climax
During dreams
They will disrupt

While such throbbing
In my sleep
Somehow wakes me
From their shelter
Behind eyelids
Begging refuge
Among heavens
Made of thought

Now believing
Every twinge
Is imagined
Without purpose
But what torture
God intended
Orbits death
Each breath I steal

Wasting time
He only gifts
If deserving
Of sheer terror
Where my tears
Hold purest feeling
Finding virtue
Within grief

Spelling words
And quiet prayers
Amid dangers
Briefly stated
Like one knife
Throughout my body
Making punctures
Inside flesh

Spilling verse
Besides this blood
So disabling
Though they’re freeing
Sharing wounds
As reassurance
How I’m here
Because it hurts.

– J. Pigno

These feet
Trail homeless leaves
Down each lane
Left barren

In places I’ve always
Lingered
As a boy whose ghost
Still walks

Across what pathways
Littered
With branches
Rattled by autumn

Hail coming storms
Of winter
Like winds which kill
Too soon

As they tear from
Wooden limbs
Those nests
That break so easy

Rattled
And fallen empty
At the cost
Of colorful lies

Distracting
Who might see
My fated stroll
Among them

Between such
Covered crosswalks
Where kids
Find passage back

Toward doorways
Shining bright
Among thick
And piling needles

When acorns
Drop like pellets
Atop their heads
Unscathed

Near kitchens
Warm as day
Come nighttime
Creeping gently

Hiding faint
But apparent imprints
Behind each step
They take

As the invisible
Wandering man
Forgets his life
Once waiting

Someplace
Beyond those neighbors
He haunts
Since chasing light

Defining
Death through drifts
Along those rows
Of windows

Holding memories
He can’t fathom
Even if that child
Dreams.

– J. Pigno

None
Would dare admire
The man
Whose work
Is words

If his phrases
Turn their profit
By accepting
Praise
As cash

Since intention
To be heard
Is indecent
Though it
Wishes

All attention
Wasn’t fickle
If still focused
On that
Craft

Staying pure
But left obscene
Like depictions
From his
Being

Showing signs
Of certain weakness
When expressing
Fear
In debt

At conveying
Richest truths
Without proof
Some writers
Suffer

Lining pockets
While intending
Every term
Provide them
Joy

Despite starving
Among lines
Seeking meaning
Not so
Meager

Finding short
And lowly verses
Last forever
If they’re
Poor.

– J. Pigno