Category Archives: My poetry

Another Day

Another unproductive day. Another day of no writing. Another day of unfinished work. Another day of waiting on success to come. Another day of pondering the future.

Another day of pondering the political future. Another day of wondering how much longer the freedoms will last.

Another day of very little reading. Another day of disappointment. Another day of comparisons. Another day of longing.

Another day of exhaustion. Another day of lethargy. Another day of uncertainty. Another day wasted.

Another mundane day. Another routine day. Another hopeless day. Another day with a limited mind. Another day with stupid.

Another day with questions. Another day with failure. Another day of solitude. Another day of nowhere.

Another day with doubts. Another day with tyranny. Another day with debates. Another day with slavery. Another day with boredom. Another day with suck. Another day with breathing.

Another day with junk food. Another day with hypochondria. Another day of apathy. Another day of worry.

Another day with uncertainty. Another day with boredom. Another day with uncertainty. Another day with repetition.

Another day…

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“Solitude”

There’s never enough alone time
Even when by the self, there are voices
There are voices needed for stimulation
They talk vain words
A momentary distraction
From the work that lies ahead

They foster the imagination
Rev up the dreams
Inspire
Motivate
Stimulate

The crash comes in waves
The hopes, and the dreams
There’s never enough alone time

When left alone, one can think bad things
Make mistakes
Unchangeable actions

When one is left alone, the faults magnify
The doubts, multiply

But the people do not satisfy
Their voices ring, echo in the head
There’s no escape from the madness

The boredom seeks them out
And they satiate

But there’s a longing for solitude
Being left alone
With the dreams and the demons

The ringing in the ear grows louder
The self-doubt, past mistakes
They haunt and taunt
They eat alive,
Drive mad

It creates a longing
A longing for success
A longing to make up for past mistakes
Is the proper equipment had?
What is the difference between today and yesteryear?

The faults talk
And torment
You are all alone
No one else can hear the faults

The sword and shield come from within
The drive, the dreams
You’re all alone
Amongst the moat, and the echos

Cursed to an existence
Of communication conflict
So little satisfaction derided from the words of others

The mind, it wanders
Through the millennia
Of today

There are no coping mechanisms
There is no help
It is just you, and your sword and shield

There is no perfection
There is injustice

The war is, ultimately, fought alone
Things must be fixed
Changes must be made
Growth must be experienced

The voices aren’t as deafening
Now, they make more sense
God damn them, they make more sense……

The desire to be alone
And the desire to express
Grow

The fears still remain
There are reminders
No matter how much you run
They are here

But so are the dreams

One can be driven mad
When one is alone
Perhaps one desires to be mad……

I think I do

The voices are quieter
When alone

The self-doubts evaporate
Until the time comes

But you are left
Alone
And afraid

You finally have
The peace and quiet
To work

And battle your demons

The sea of your mind is unexplored,
Hardened by myths of old, grizzled sailors

The stories, though untrue, still instill fear

The time is now
To set sail
And forget the past

The time is now
To get lost in your mind
In complete silence and isolation

“I Am” poem.

Sitting in Silence.

“What do I see?” poem.

“Conquering the Demons” poem.

“The Consumption”

The poor boy was afflicted at birth
Bitten by the creative bug
Bugging others
With his hypersensitive sense of humor

The poor boy,
Sick in the head,
Never sought treatment
He went mad instead

Drove others mad as well
Had little friends
That by night, danced in his head,
And by day, went to bed

Soon, this poor boy
Really got loopy
Decided that he
Wasn’t insane

By day, and by night
He drove himself mad
With letters on a screen
And dreams that he had

Day in, and day out
His failures mounted
Time fading fast,
No dollars to be counted

Still, he dreamed on
Of making himself laugh
Writing good stories
And the occasional poem

Mike Judge taunted him
And Pewdiepie, too
Many people did
And so few knew

The poor boy was hardheaded
Ignored all diagnoses
He wasn’t sick!
He was destined for show biz!

In his heart, he knew
That they’d all care one day
That he was born to express,
Longed for the stage

He danced and he sang
To all that would listen
With every watching eye,
His own would glisten

He waged battles in his head
Each side had a general
There was only one war,
But multiple agendas…

The poor boy ran around
In his own head each day
For no recognition,
And certainly no pay

What was his dream?
Was it to dance?
Was it to be a homebody
With no pants?

He talked and he talked
He danced and he sang
No one else around,
Just doing his thing

He was Elvis in the shower,
Michael Jackson while mowing the lawn
Jordan while exercising
While in spirit, Rick Vaughn

He longed for the stars
Compelling dark fiction
Looking for laughs
From all that would listen

The stress in his head,
The fears and the doubts,
Kept him silent,
Kept his words from coming out

He had to battle himself,
And prove to the world,
That his words had meaning
And resonance

The desire to create
Always consumed him,
And he wanted to be talented
To all that knew him

Disturbed – Down With The Sickness Parody (DISCRETION ADVISED).

Insightful.

“But Yet, He Writes”

He’s no King
Or Rowling
But he writes

He isn’t heralded by the New York Times
Read by millions
Or making them

His writing isn’t very good,
They say
When they find him

But yet, he writes

He doesn’t follow proper form
Spits out when others carefully craft
Is juvenile, while others, refined

But yet, he writes

He has no money
No book deal
No idea how he’s going to get his work done

The only thing he has is a desire to write

And so, he does

He writes his insecurities
His perceived shortcomings
All out of compulsion

What does he gain?

A sense of catharsis

And a voluntary sacrifice of privacy

What of the insane man who writes?
What shall we make of him
And his elementary words?

When will he ever get a grip of the language,
And of his life?

Will the grips that bind him
Let go,
Leaving him to complete freedom?

When will his words fulfill their ultimate purpose?

When will it all make sense?

“Conquering the Demons”

The anxieties of the past
Still haunt
Devouring the eternally saved soul

There is no Heaven on Earth
The Devil has you
In his grip of worry

A torture
Created in youth
Remaining for a lifetime

A light shines
But it does not comfort
The fear follows it

The words
They remain

The worries
Still remain

It cripples

When will they go away?
And how?

They comfort no longer
If they ever did

Courage
And bravery
Never come easily

If he can face death,
Can he face anything?

Can he face the advice?
The religion?
The judgment?

Surely, he must
With time

The balls and chains of the past
Must become memories
For the promise to be fulfilled

A faith
That waits
And yearns
For relaxation
And writing

A carefree expression
Of peace
And catharsis
And carefulness
And, hopefully, success

The anxieties of the past
They haunt

The scrupulous self-judgment
Of every word
But not productive
As with writers

Nay, of the
Suffering of the
Conservatives
Where there is no peace

Independence
And isolation
Tease and taunt

The anxieties bark

They howl

They SCREAM

And they scare

They remind

They teach

They destroy

It takes a miracle to leave them
That can only come through self-meditation
Deep thought
And contemplation

The words
Still remain

They will know no rest

But the mind
Still yearns for peace
And relaxation
And isolation

The God
Once praised by anxiety
Now praised by relaxation

A culture shock
Shakes you to the core

Everything you once knew
Was a lie

And so, you sit
Naked, and afraid

But peaceful

But anxious

But peaceful…

But anxious……

No perfect way

To end the poem……….

Christianity.

Conserv.

Free Will Contradictions.

“The Hypodermic Needle”

A walk, to clear the mind
And the stomach

Flooded with emotions

Of the past,
Both dark, and bright

A reminder, of the good,
And the dark

Upon reflecting the good,
A hypodermic needle, on the ground

A somber reminder
Of the times

Of the memories,
And the sympathy

And the guilt

But still, trudging on
Full gullet, full heart

A mind full of memories,
And a much welcomed perspective

Old, and new
Combined into new

The darkness, now light
The light, still there

Trash, once treasures
Imagination, now reality

A thankfulness, and lamentation
Of days gone by…

But an imagination renewed;
A productive imagination

Bigger than ever

The Old Man That Puts New Tires on His Van Every Single Week

Inspired by getting a new set of tires on my car, wondering what would happen if someone were to replace their tires every week, and assuming that if there was anyone that did put new tires on their car every week, it would be a delusional old man.

____________________________________________________________________________________

There is an old man
That lives down the street
That puts new tires on his van
Every single week

His neighbors say he’s crazy
Every single day
But because he’s almost deaf
He can’t hear what they say

(The title of my poem reminds me of the title of this song).