Come Back. Please. I Can Bandage You.

So close
So close.
So close..
So close...

Closer than any before.
I listen to those you did.
You still say to me through them,
"Something for the pain, just to kill this feeling
Although we looked awake, inside we're all still sleeping
And I spent my time here alive, but barely there
Do you believe we'll ever make it?"
Yet now not a word to me will you speak.
I here you ever calling,
"wake me when it's through,
I don't want to feel the things that you do"
And my attempts are all met with the sounding of your silent yell,
"Don't show me anything!"

I miss you.
You were so close.
I was so fucking close... so close...
Yet if I recall I was only through gate 3 of 9.

I love you.
I hated you, but I couldn't stay that way.
You are familly.
I'd bet your the tails to my heads.
I can't see a way back to you,
Its like I'm looking out in the opposite direction.

I have no friends.
No-one ever holds me,
I keep everyone at a distance.
I forget everyone, I can't see their faces.
I still see your smile, even over the glare you cast over me.
I wish I could meet your eyes now.
You wont let me.
I can't forget you.

I love you Adam McKay.
Your the only friend I've ever kept,
Yet the only friend I've ever lost,
Come back. Please. I can bandage you.

I hope someone leads you here.
To these words or to this feeling.
Your my one regret.
If today is the Rapture,
I know I'm not going to Heaven,
Because I will leave this world on the day of my death with you as my only regret.
Let my unrepentant sins and their cost pay penance for my failure to help you.

You saved my life,
Why wont you let me save yours?

Manifesto

Poetry is written humanity.
Good poetry must relate to the human condition.
Instructions on how to build a chair from Ikea are not poetry.
They do not make one experience humanity.
Good poetry must do

I can't find the word. I've tried to type that sentance so many times.
I can't get it all done. None of it is any good. I've been trying to write interesting or beautiful things on no energy during the time I should be asleep. I can't get it all done. I'm writing this at 11:22pm when I need 8 hours of sleep to properly fuction and I work at 7am tomorrow, then afterwork is the mother's day barbeque, I would feel like an asshole if I missed it. I can't even cry. My determination wont let me. All I am is a roiling mass of rage, misery, and determination. I don't have time for it all. I only have four things in my life: work, school, Kerrie, and dungeons and dragons. I can't drop any of them, I need the money, I need the future, I need the love, I need the escape. I can't maintain elloquency in exhuastion.

Good poetry must do one of these two or both of these two following things.
1. Make one think in an existential way. Search for meaning and value in a sea of seeming chaos.
This is one of the most essential parts of the human experience, it is directly related to our search in life for meaning.
2. Make one feel. Emotion is essential to the human experience, we have many various shades of emotion and it is our emotions which connect us all and our emotions which make us most human.

Phenomenal poetry or writing in general leaves a lasting impact on these two human functions within a human being. Phenomenal poetry either changes the way we imbue things with meaning in our lives, the way we see the world, or it changes the way we feel about the world around us, its varoius facets and situations. 

I'm so tired, time to write the prompts I haven't had the chance to write yet. Atrium-something about brining together, i cant remember the other prompts to say what I plan to say about them.

Oh, poetry is also about self expression, relating yourself to the rest of the world, sharing whgat you think and feel with outhers so they can understand what can happen to people, what can be believed. So poetry shopuld also include a lagre bit of your persomnalo self, mistakes and all. Or maybeo I'm just too tired and lazy toi correct my mistackres now. Enjoy my work, and more importantly youre own. Maybe than one of us will.

Alien Eyes

Human eyes
humanize me.
Humans will make me.
Humiliate me.
How laughter, it will
Howl after the kill

Alien eyes
alienize me.
An alien nation
alienates me.
An' I'll hate them all.
Annihilate them all...

In your eyes he
imunized me.
The shot that imitates
the shot that hit my face.
Emotions gone.
He motions "gun!"

If I hurt today,
I fired away.
He died, Will Stanford.
Heed I will stand for.
I put the barrel in my mouth.

And pulled the trigger.

Physical Warfare

Wrong Again!
Under-slept
Under-prepared

War

Numbers, letters

and lines.

I look over the field.

What does it mean?

How can I work it to

my advantage.

Confusion,

complexity.

long steps and

longer formulas.

Solar powered tools.

The crack of lead.

Hidden detail.

Silent realization

many lines are erased

beings of meaning...

drenched to illegibility

in their own lifeblood.

New approach.

Previous experience.

Irregular units.

Two days till judgement.

Ideas of old.

Words of those

long dead.

Old enemy.

New edges.

Forgotten tactics.

New formulas.

Free body diagrams

reshape the field.

Variables,

acceleration, points

notation.

Pythagorean arrow heads.

Distractions.

Closed doors.

Crooked beings.

Sin law.

Greek.

Conversions.

Decoder and traitor.

Broad topics.

So many fronts.

Determination.

Tools in Love

My dear I must now inform you that you

Are far too much akin to a nail-gun

If I place you under a pressure new

You jab at me in little ways. Like sun

burnt skin on a hot day you sting and pinch

and yet to this one spot you hold me fast;

So that I could not even move an inch.

Your fire and passion has, since days long past,

always kept me from leaving this hard life

but I know that nail-guns do jam, run-out

and so I can’t make you into my wife.

And until then we’ll fight another bout.

So now I’m in emerg. from you, you bitch.

But still you know I’ll savour ev’ry stitch. 

I'll Never Know my Loss

It seems to me in tired mid-age
it matters not what I have seen.
Through years and years, and days and days
nights dark, days long, right down to hours.
Even though I know I know,
I cannot fill this page with ink.

I miss the years we breathed in-sync,
Making sweet love in our young age.
But still I truly need to know.
The day that I made such a scene,
when I asked if it was ours
you said "into the coming days."

That answer left me in a daze;
it really put me on the brink.
"Well is it his or is it ours!
To who should you be engaged
when it is so obviously seen
that the father you do not know?"

I couldn't feel. "Say yes or no!"
I cried, and then I cried, for days
I always return to that scene
I wish to blacken it with ink
cover, blot-out, to hide the rage,
return to the love that was ours

I called, it must have rang for hours.
You said, "hello?" "I need to know."
"I'm sure, you've guessed, by this late stage.
Will you still come to her birthdays?"
I just had to simply say no,
but still my mind, that horrid scene!

A therapist needs to be seen.
"I want the lives that were once ours.
It hurts, even more when I think
of being without you. You know
that right?" I asked. "I cried for days,
be taken from me by old age."

"Old age. O.K. I'll... we'll see'y'n
a minute." Hours... then days... You crashed
I know. I ink your epitaphs.