Source (his blog): The “Rejection Response” Poem
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 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.
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
The crash comes in waves
The hopes, and the dreams
There’s never enough alone time
When left alone, one can think bad things
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,
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
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
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
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
The self-doubts evaporate
Until the time comes
But you are left
You finally have
The peace and quiet
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
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
This is a pretty fucked up poem.
violence from the hands of sensual fingertips.
from a dark force originating from some mysterious source.
only for a moment, while the victim screams in vain.
another misread signal where infatuation creates despise.
to be so damn delusional can only be described as “Hell”.
what kind of fate awaits her, only the serial killer knows.
the serial killer sees them as his ultimate prize.
they look upon him; their repulsion makes him want to kill.
he has to murder quickly; he doesn’t want to be too late.
set of baby blues shifts his heart to kill and plunder.
living a lonesome life, where the carcasses are a-plenty.
it makes the reader fear if the violence is within you.
only when the life of the serial killer is done.
You worry too much about Washingtons, son!
You should only use your pen for fun!
What I smell is debt, a dangling death,
and greed that feeds on the needs
of all these fellow Americans.
I implore you, wielder of words,
don’t shrink from the heaven of contentment.
Don’t write for the paper.
Write for a seemingly smaller prize:
Once.upon.a time. there was a poet.
who.though.he didn’t.know it.
was. skilled. in the.art of “showing it.”
now.i.don’t. mean a pant’s package.
but.rather how to hit. words with a tennis racket
and not be held. in a bracket,
a straight jacket,
For when he writes
he writes with a bold passion,
to let others know
of what’s real
and how it feels
when all you see
is a swarm of coins.
In other words,
What I’m trying to say is:
I care about YOU