The December Editor's Pick Poet is Jon Benham

Please feel free to email Jon at:

jbizzlejonbenham1996@gmail.com

FADE

I patiently catastrophize
the boisterous morning that will follow.
A day, like today, mourning, in a tentative morning.
I knew they were there, but,
how much can they deny me sensation before they
clamor and destroy what is left inside?
An ego idealized by the being of passion.
Driven, to a harrowing morning.
Mourning.
Polish the idea that this is safe,
that this is meant to be.
Crumble into insanity at night.
Mourn the morning afterwards.
This is existence?
A mind incapable of compartmentalization.

INSUFFERABLE

Tarnished by energy getting mauled by time,
I conceptualize the sound of my breath.
Invincible, as it seems to the naked eye,
it subsides to the agony of what I hear.
Speeds quivering.
Silence.
Speeds quivering.
Silence.
Injustice, is when breath struggles
to find its innocuous provider.
Who are you running from?
My breath cuts short.
What is it that you fear?
We are all afraid, we are all afraid.
I find, justice is solidarity.
The punishment of trial and error.
The illusion,
being, which one are you?
Hide alone, feel disconnected.
Hide from yourself, be disconnected.
Return to the breath, as it begs,
for your admiration.
Your attention.
You tell yourself time after time,
run.
The people will just laugh,
but,
run.
They want to see ya dance, boy.
They want to see ya play, boy.
Your breath lies dormant.
You hope that it will remain that way
until eyes close and you can finally,
grasp,
an escape.
But, you always run.
Hide from them.
Hide from them.
What will they think when they
find you, though?
They will find you odd.
Odd.
You run.
They find you weak.
Weak.
You beg for mercy.
And they give it to you.
But, we must never forget,
who was the one who asked for it?
My breathing echoes in me.
I want to rip my skin off
and find
Its source.
All I find is endless.
So,
I run.
I am stuck in between the ceiling,
and the ground.

DRAMATIC

Not all thoughts are articulated
by endless deception.
But through these ideations
of sincerity, comes a depression.
A wizened mind gives way to
a lack of rapport with the one who hears,
the listener.
A perfect mirror, the speaker is always near,
asking,

“What side are you on?
What side are you on?”

Vexed by confusion,
the poor culprit of deception
is nothing but a bellicose invention.
What can it do but release dreary,
thoughts and ideas? The fear of seeing clearly.
The one who listens, must witness obsession
if they want to conquer their impaired
personality that lacks confession,
as it tries to ask,

“Whose side are you on?
Whose side are you on?”

Jon Benham is twenty-two and a writer, poet, musician and occasionally a painter. His work in all of these mediums are his attempt to provide a therapy for himself and hopefully a way to make people feel less alone.