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| Poetry I write mainly for myself, which I guess is why a lot of people write. I do consider myself a poet, published or not. I also know that I will probably never make a career of my writing, sadly the world seems to have little use for poets these days. Well on to the poems. |
| deadened A strangled breath released, Last breath, Last ditch effort at life, It was a failure. Why try? Squint your eyes. Bright lights, No lights. How are you now You're asked. What do they know? Glaring walls, white To bright for you. Flowers, lilies, Your favorite. They burn you now. |
| Charity Case. Burn Burn I feel nothing I am insubstansial, nothing Gone, left behind While other's are handed Their lives, like candy, Or Charity but who am I To judge? I need no Charity, no, nothing comes Freely, comes without a price Except to those few, who Seem to wallow in charity Never earning, therfore never Understanding worth. |
| Stare Stare Help me be quiet Flurries of uncertainty Slow my every breath Do not stare Undone I show you Undone I have become Wild flurries released Inflicted on the world They no longer stare Unmoved or unmoving They run, they cower I do not want horror Reach out, grasping As they shrink away -- Cowards. You who do not know Do not learn Are only afraid Of knowledge. You are not worth The air you consume. |
| Your Mother's Shoes One, two, Three I count out my heartbeats. I count out my breaths. Wisps of warmth drift away In the chill spring air. It's odd, the sun is shining But I can still see my breath. I pretend to smoke, It was a child's game We all used to play When playing was still allowed; Now where are we? (I'd say dead, soulless, But that's cliche,and I know it. I don't want to write in circles, No I don't just want to find New ways to string together Old words and phrases.) We are grown ups, but we understand So little. We feel childlike In our new adulthood Trying to fit into it, Like trying on our mother's shoes. We aren't worried about getting old, No, right now we're just worried About growing up. |
| They Tell Me I'm Not Driven. I've always wanted to be...something. It's all you hear growing up; "Make something of yourself" but what is something. As I stand, am I nothing? When will I be worthy enough To become, something. Only after years of hard work? In a month? A year? Never? Who says I am not exactly what I am meant to be, but no That can't be right, I'm not something. What the hell is something, a career, money, kids? What do all those mean? Something, they mean something. What I am doing now, means nothing, by that logic. Who is it that determines these things, how do they know What I should to be? I'm something, and I will continue to be Through careers, and kids, and money, and life, and death, I will grow, I will change. Yes, I am something, and I will take whatever comes And become...something more. |