It’s an odd time really,
In the distance you can
Hear the hum of engines
Hear the chatter of girls
Hear the shuffle of lonely feet.
Every now and again you might see
One of the day’s final buses pull in
Or the odd guy stepping out
Or maybe even a lost bird
But you will never hear
You will never see
You will never even notice
The sleepless poet
Bring out your dead, bring out your dead,
I used to cry, back when my blood flowed,
To you who I found with your crosses blocking
Your blood from entering your hearts,
I sought to relieve your pain,
I tried to carry your burden
But now I have seen that upon my back
I have picked up too many crosses,
I can see that now my heart cannot beat
With unimpeded strength and love,
I can see that now my mind has become isolated
Cold and ignored by my body and soul,
So to you whose crosses I have held,
I am sorry but this time is at an end
And to you who wish me aid you,
I beg your forgiveness
I can only hope to carry my own now.
It’s the damnedest thing, it really is
To realize that you live under a rock
And that you have put yourself there,
This rock that you thought might
Keep out those you cannot deny
Keep you in a peaceful place
Keep you contented with your world,
But in letting in the light you find this untrue
And all that you aimed to keep out
Has found its way home
Into your little retreat,
And all of this because
You never learned the concept,
Simple as breathing, of
Touch and go
So odd the clouds that swirl around my head,
The direction that I travel is still clear to me,
Though the hint of the storms make me question,
Should I have seen the coming of this wind,
Should I have allowed time to see if seasons passed.
But the truth of the wise man holds true even here,
That the cruel mistress that is Time does not wait,
All her children must run to maintain pace with her,
Stopping only to lose touch with her and all else.
As such I have moved on my current path,
With the intent that I may stay with Time,
And out run the storms that have brewed,
While finding the place which I long dreamed of.
Yet all I have found is myself frozen in the eye;
Of this storm it sees all that I reach for;
Falling farther and further away
From the reaches of the Time mother,
Becoming lost in the voided ice
Of mind newly cleaned.
Star’s light? Not bright,
These I hold tonight:
One that was different,
That came and went.
One that was dropped,
Only to be crushed.
One to replace them,
Made in latter memory.
Now with the crushed
Renewed with form,
Together they roll
Between my fingers
Inspiring something
New
I don’t know for sure but I seem to be down,
And its times like this that I seem most deprived,
I just can’t get a fix.
I’ve tried getting high on life
And God knows my blood runs pure,
Free from the blackening sins;
Free from the mind warpers,
But still here I am just looking for a spark.
No doubt I can lose myself in a simulated reality,
No doubt I can lose myself in sweet chords,
No doubt I can lose myself in the maze of life
And feel like the man I was born to be,
But what would it be without sharing?
This is why I look for my fix,
Can I get a light?
No that won’t do,
It’s not that puny fire I want,
It’s a warming flame that I need.
I cannot say that my life has been to the script I imagined,
But by a script it seems bound when company’s around.
I sort my way through shifting cliches and cluttered plots
All the time wondering about my character’s flaws.
Quiet at times when words would be best
And indecisive in the face of options and stress,
The role I have prepared to play is not all I know,
But it is the chain the holds me in place.
I see the ways that some improvisation could change it all,
I can hear the words that could alter fate,
I can see the actions which would right my world,
I can taste the joy and freedom that could be,
But it seems not to be meant for me.
At each bout of inspiration, each chance for change
The director calls CUT and ends the frame.
You will not deviate, he barks from his throne,
Fire-faced and shadow shroud but made of bone,
Utter the line as you learned it in school,
Mutter the defeat that was predetermined by fate.
Even now the words begin to shift,
Be them by my hands or on my lips.
From habits long ago set and appearances to maintain,
It seems that my style will forever remain.
I had no idea!
That by chronicling my thoughts, my life
That by giving voice to my pain, my story
That by telling the simplest truth, the facts
That I was a sick man!
How diseased my soul is that I cannot see as you do?
Ah, but I know the cure!
I must do as you do,
I must place convenient words, on convenient tongues
I must abuse twisted hearts, in weakened people
I must create vile conflict, where there is peace
For I the poet am a twisted person,
And you the psychologist must always be right
Then let us speak in the same words,
You are sick.
It seems that fate has decided that I should have a total cleansing,
A shower that would clean off the battle scars and taint of sin,
Refresh my long dormant heart and awaken my sleeping soul,
Repair me in every way by way of fire.
Cast into a sea of molten iron, my flesh was made clean
By way of pain my wounds and faults were burned away,
Leaving my skin raw and weak.
As I struggled out of this burning sea,
Leeches managed to affix themselves to my soul and suck out poison and fear.
Now I sit on the charred, crackling shore of this strangely-holy sea,
By fire made pure,
By pain made alive,
By surviving made ready,
To move onto truly new
Life
I have allowed myself to keep just one,
One final redeeming chance to make up for it all.
Through my years so far as a student of this life
I have written and noted things in what is my
First poetry notebook.
In it I have recorded pain, strife, ache, war
In it I have watched hope, love, bliss, victory
But it has never been my victory.
So now I bid my time and count the hours,
Because I shall have my victory and it will be with
The purest honor.
This last chance, this last indulgence will wait
Only to be used as my victory’s tribute,
And in doing so become lost forever.
This is the purpose of my first book’s
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