Poetry of Utah based musician Thomas Heath
Oh how I’d like to be the sunrise
To a world that darkness conceived
Raise me up, allow me to shine
Is radiance a luxury, fit for a king?
Oh how I’d like to be the flower
In these barren desert scenes
An exhibition, surprising colors
Perfectly fragile, a lavender day dream.
I guess, however, this stirring in my soul
Could be the gleam in a proud mans eye
Or the scraps in a beggars mouth
Paint my portrait with a lovers brush,
Get lost in the forest, and display it proud.
I picked up fragments of
Broken glass in the morning sun,
Tried to convince myself that
The vultures circling our heads
Were a blessing, not an omen, and
You weren’t dead, you were just saving strength
I was filled up on only memories,
Warm lemonade and
Wilted rose petals from the back seat
Tomorrow’s hope replaced by yesterday’s wreck
A fire started in the desert heat
And blown out in a frozen hurricane
I was so thirsty
I almost swallowed my regret
I looked for respite in the foliage
But trees don’t forgive
Rocks don’t forget
And the snakes stopped smiling days ago
I apologized for everything
As I left your body in the car
I walked until I couldn’t anymore
I wanted to scream your legacy from the mountains
But who was I to keep your memory
Who was I to sing your eulogy
So I sat down
And I let the desert take us both
It’s 3:56 am, the rain hits the walls like a drum line battery and
Feelings of loss and abandonment
Pour into my mind like
Gasoline into my broken down sedan
This Friday night found me
Reading Bukowski under red and green warehouse lights
Christmas music in my right ear
The drone of machinery in my left
Bukowski would’ve hated me and my friends
But this month he’s spoken to me more than my friends have
And it makes me wonder if he ever had friends like mine
And if he had ever left his friends like me
At first I thought I was sad because I lost a girl
Then I thought it was the depression
Then I blamed it on my bad attitude
Now I think I just need some sleep
But I’m not gonna sleep until next year
Not really
An afternoon hike
The tail end of November
Cold, but beautiful
“We find our respite in the forests of the ones who got away”
We live in houses made of trees
Who didn’t have a say
We find our respite in the forests
Of the ones who got away
We climb upon the boulders
That the woeful mountains lost
They’ve been here for forever
And they’ll remain here, til they’re not
We drift along the rivers
Who escaped from mighty seas
From nothing, they have conquered
But they’ll never quite be free
We gaze into the stars
Who are always on display
In the blackness they cannot disguise
Their brilliant, shining rays
The companions nature gives us
Are all mightier than we
We share the same sad stories
And connected, we’ll always be
“This painting is going up on my own mantle piece.”
It’s now my life’s goal to paint a self portrait of a humble man who achieved all of his dreams
And to write an autobiography of a man who chased his demons and overtook them
Not many could find beauty in the torn up canvas I have to work with
This painting is going up on my own mantle piece
I hope my visitors are polite
And I can’t tell the future but I hope my book
will be 500 pages packed with action
Some days it feels like 100 is the best I can do
Writers block can cut a good story short
God I hope I can wrap it up naturally
Don’t let me cut it short
“It’s a hedonist fever dream.”
Its success is in failure and its pleasure is in pain
It’s pulling at the heart strings, giving birth to dissonance
It’s raising you higher than the clouds, people still look down on you
It’s completion. It is creation.
It’s simplicity
It’s a hedonist fever dream
It’s a fleeting flash of hope that pulls you out of the dark and plunges you into numbness
It’s the reason that you and I are on two different planes of reality and yet, we agree on everything
It’s falling for the sake of falling
We don’t think about getting up yet
