david-nolan - Hello Poetry

This is a poem for no one in particular: I hope you're doing much better now. I know how hurt you were. I could be anywhere, and I would not expect you to care because people change; like the passing of the season. Feelings fade. and this is not without reason. I cannot put into words what you meant to me. Why are the things we miss the most, the things that weren't meant to be? I am lost. Without direction. Although I got my ticket I missed my connection, and although I go on, I cannot look forward: only at my own reflection. Looking back at me, I do not recognise myself. I don't want to, I wish I were someone else. The person you wished I were. The person you thought you saw. Somebody with something more. Did I deserve this? It's not for me to say. Did I intend for this? Did I want this? Not in any way. And so I continue to continue to trick myself into forgetting, stop regretting, and not letting the thought to exist. Except in tiny slices of memory, that still linger and persist. You were the best thing that ever happened to me And yet you were the worst. You were the last person I ever knew, not only the first. Yet if I could erase my recollection of you, I surely would. I would do it in a heartbeat, If I only could. But I can't. I can't stop thinking what I've lost. And how I am only to blame. Like the naked bitten by frost.

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Oct 1, 2016

Oct 1, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC

Frost bite

This is a poem for no one in particular: I hope you're doing much better now. I know how hurt you were. I could be anywhere, and I would not expect you to care because people change; like the passing of the season. Feelings fade. and this is not without reason. I cannot put into words what you meant to me. Why are the things we miss the most, the things that weren't meant to be? I am lost. Without direction. Although I got my ticket I missed my connection, and although I go on, I cannot look forward: only at my own reflection. Looking back at me, I do not recognise myself. I don't want to, I wish I were someone else. The person you wished I were. The person you thought you saw. Somebody with something more. Did I deserve this? It's not for me to say. Did I intend for this? Did I want this? Not in any way. And so I continue to continue to trick myself into forgetting, stop regretting, and not letting the thought to exist. Except in tiny slices of memory, that still linger and persist. You were the best thing that ever happened to me And yet you were the worst. You were the last person I ever knew, not only the first. Yet if I could erase my recollection of you, I surely would. I would do it in a heartbeat, If I only could. But I can't. I can't stop thinking what I've lost. And how I am only to blame. Like the naked bitten by frost.

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Dry eyes, cloudy skies. A kiss on the cheek and we say our goodbyes. But I don't want to. Lonely walk back, along the cobbles and cracks; Better not step in them. Now I'm lost. Wet shoes. Train goes choo-choo. Cows go moo-moo. I don't have much left. Think. I think. And I can't stop, but I mustn't drink. I know what happened last time. Shut the blinds. The sun is out. I am in. With you, I'm without. The covers are not your skin. In a daze, every day. Autopilot, I guess you can say. Time flies without your voice. Pathetic boy. Focus on other things, help someone. Make someone smile. Have their joy. It doesn't work

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Jan 11, 2016

Jan 11, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC

it's becoming a little bit too much

Dry eyes, cloudy skies. A kiss on the cheek and we say our goodbyes. But I don't want to. Lonely walk back, along the cobbles and cracks; Better not step in them. Now I'm lost. Wet shoes. Train goes choo-choo. Cows go moo-moo. I don't have much left. Think. I think. And I can't stop, but I mustn't drink. I know what happened last time. Shut the blinds. The sun is out. I am in. With you, I'm without. The covers are not your skin. In a daze, every day. Autopilot, I guess you can say. Time flies without your voice. Pathetic boy. Focus on other things, help someone. Make someone smile. Have their joy. It doesn't work

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me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me She never loved me

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Jan 2, 2016

Jan 2, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC

Untitled

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This year there is no snow, just the typical rain. But how are you doing, anyhow? Things here are generally the same. You know: Falling in love with your face in strangers, though I don't know their names? Getting annoyed at sappy Christmas songs, and playing pointless games. As you can tell, Not much has changed. I thought about getting you chocolates, but it's far too cliche. Besides, maybe you're on a diet, maybe you'd give them away but it's the thought that counts, I suppose; and I couldn't count my thoughts of you, God only knows. And if God exists, and he is a he, and he is just, and he judges me: I won't make it past those pearly gates, and you, again, I know i'd never see. So it's times like these I'm glad to be an atheist, or at least a serious agnostic. Or my mind, It would be gone; assuming I've not already lost it. Come to think of it: Now that you're gone, maybe it doesn't want to snow. Or maybe it's just global warming; maybe, I don't know.

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Dec 21, 2015

Dec 21, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC

It's Christmas but there's no snow.

This year there is no snow, just the typical rain. But how are you doing, anyhow? Things here are generally the same. You know: Falling in love with your face in strangers, though I don't know their names? Getting annoyed at sappy Christmas songs, and playing pointless games. As you can tell, Not much has changed. I thought about getting you chocolates, but it's far too cliche. Besides, maybe you're on a diet, maybe you'd give them away but it's the thought that counts, I suppose; and I couldn't count my thoughts of you, God only knows. And if God exists, and he is a he, and he is just, and he judges me: I won't make it past those pearly gates, and you, again, I know i'd never see. So it's times like these I'm glad to be an atheist, or at least a serious agnostic. Or my mind, It would be gone; assuming I've not already lost it. Come to think of it: Now that you're gone, maybe it doesn't want to snow. Or maybe it's just global warming; maybe, I don't know.

31

Hello? Who am I? Guess again. Don't you recognise my voice? No? Why? Well, you can hang up, It's your choice. But I just wanted to call for old times sake. You know: Those times where we'd talk at times we shouldn't have been awake. Are you still there? Can you hear me? Oh, right. You don't remember me. Maybe I have the wrong number. Well, I guess I'm sorry. But before you let me go, There's just one thing I want you to know. At the end of December, when the mountains meet the snow. I'll think of you, as always, and I'll remember. How it was me, who once heard your hellos.

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Nov 11, 2015

Nov 11, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC

Hello?

Hello? Who am I? Guess again. Don't you recognise my voice? No? Why? Well, you can hang up, It's your choice. But I just wanted to call for old times sake. You know: Those times where we'd talk at times we shouldn't have been awake. Are you still there? Can you hear me? Oh, right. You don't remember me. Maybe I have the wrong number. Well, I guess I'm sorry. But before you let me go, There's just one thing I want you to know. At the end of December, when the mountains meet the snow. I'll think of you, as always, and I'll remember. How it was me, who once heard your hellos.

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Persistence, my friend; and determination: can mend all the wounds of misfortune; and the the scars of your past. Your scars and wounds stand nothing to time. For in time, no pain lasts. So press on Press on, like they said in times where there was no choice but to press on. And you have no choice. for If you don't, you will very soon be gone. That's not to be morbid, and not to be grim, but you know that as well as I do, so it's with persistence you must glow and with patience you must brim. And not to say that you are weak, but the pain you feel is nothing unique. So persist, my friend. Do not fall with hard times: Press on and find the solace you so sincerely seek. Stand up when you feel like you must fall. Stand up when you cannot stand. Stand up, anyway; and stand up tall. That, my friend, is greatness. To rise above your own self-doubt. To rise beyond limits. To rise above it all. Persistence, my friend: Persistence is key; for until that fog clears up, you will not see your limitless potential and all the infinite beauty that lies not beyond the horizon, but just around the bend. I promise you will find it: But only with Persistence, my friend.

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Sep 23, 2015

Sep 23, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC

Persistence, my friend.

Persistence, my friend; and determination: can mend all the wounds of misfortune; and the the scars of your past. Your scars and wounds stand nothing to time. For in time, no pain lasts. So press on Press on, like they said in times where there was no choice but to press on. And you have no choice. for If you don't, you will very soon be gone. That's not to be morbid, and not to be grim, but you know that as well as I do, so it's with persistence you must glow and with patience you must brim. And not to say that you are weak, but the pain you feel is nothing unique. So persist, my friend. Do not fall with hard times: Press on and find the solace you so sincerely seek. Stand up when you feel like you must fall. Stand up when you cannot stand. Stand up, anyway; and stand up tall. That, my friend, is greatness. To rise above your own self-doubt. To rise beyond limits. To rise above it all. Persistence, my friend: Persistence is key; for until that fog clears up, you will not see your limitless potential and all the infinite beauty that lies not beyond the horizon, but just around the bend. I promise you will find it: But only with Persistence, my friend.

52

Non-existence is calling. Sounds good to me. To be erased. To no longer be. And if I try to burn away the remnants of the past. The sweet catharsis I would feel simply would not last. A ticking time bomb: destined to self-destruct. And the promise of an end, a sweet release, has me hooked. And if you saw me, you would not be able to tell: That every conscious thought causes pain, and every unconscious breath causes hell. And though I'm on the brink, I think I hide it well. But it can't last forever. Nothing lasts forever and my facade of deception is certainly no exception. But by the time it's clear, it will be far too late. My mind is filled with fear of my mindless self-loathing, and my inevitable fate. Non-existence keeps calling. Sounds awfully good to me. To finally have some peace. To finally be free.

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Jul 9, 2015

Jul 9, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC

Non-existence

Non-existence is calling. Sounds good to me. To be erased. To no longer be. And if I try to burn away the remnants of the past. The sweet catharsis I would feel simply would not last. A ticking time bomb: destined to self-destruct. And the promise of an end, a sweet release, has me hooked. And if you saw me, you would not be able to tell: That every conscious thought causes pain, and every unconscious breath causes hell. And though I'm on the brink, I think I hide it well. But it can't last forever. Nothing lasts forever and my facade of deception is certainly no exception. But by the time it's clear, it will be far too late. My mind is filled with fear of my mindless self-loathing, and my inevitable fate. Non-existence keeps calling. Sounds awfully good to me. To finally have some peace. To finally be free.

37

She has no interest in talking to me anymore. Like a broken toy, used, and tossed onto the floor. Forgotten and thrown under the bed; played with then put away because to her, I am dead. And to the world I am dead. I breathe, but with no purpose. I do exist, but without meaning. I am awake, yet there's no focus. And I sleep, but there is no dreaming. I am dead. And she has no interest in talking to me anymore. And it's all my fault. I wish this life would just grind to a halt. I destroy everything good that ever happens to me; And it's only the sweet promise of death that can set me free. I am dead. Or rather, I wish I could be.

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Jul 8, 2015

Jul 8, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC

I am dead

She has no interest in talking to me anymore. Like a broken toy, used, and tossed onto the floor. Forgotten and thrown under the bed; played with then put away because to her, I am dead. And to the world I am dead. I breathe, but with no purpose. I do exist, but without meaning. I am awake, yet there's no focus. And I sleep, but there is no dreaming. I am dead. And she has no interest in talking to me anymore. And it's all my fault. I wish this life would just grind to a halt. I destroy everything good that ever happens to me; And it's only the sweet promise of death that can set me free. I am dead. Or rather, I wish I could be.

33

Saints and pychos are not born, but created by a world without meaning where nothing at all is sacred. I have no plans. I've lost my sense of self. I'm on the edge something dark. I don't think I can be helped. I always wanted to make the world a better place. But I'm not used to getting what I want. The world has kicked me in the face. And a growing hatred starts to haunt. I don't know what's coming but it doesn't look good. Something terrible grows inside me. Keep your distance, I think you should.

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Jul 8, 2015

Jul 8, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC

Something dark

Saints and pychos are not born, but created by a world without meaning where nothing at all is sacred. I have no plans. I've lost my sense of self. I'm on the edge something dark. I don't think I can be helped. I always wanted to make the world a better place. But I'm not used to getting what I want. The world has kicked me in the face. And a growing hatred starts to haunt. I don't know what's coming but it doesn't look good. Something terrible grows inside me. Keep your distance, I think you should.

18

It's not in loneliness. There are many like him It's not in not having for whatever he has means nothing. It's not in despair for it is pain that means he's living. It's not in facing his utter purposelessness and cherishing it, because that's all he has. It's not in recognising his own meaninglessness and finding meaning, because that's all he knows. It's in moments of brief escape, in tiny deaths in dreams and waking dreams, where he is awake. It's in seeing the others and knowing they weren't made the same. They were made perfect, unable to question their existence: to not know such pain. It's in his utter contempt for his fellow man; His blind hatred for all living beings. It's in a world in flames and falling apart where he finds peace. Prowling the earth sparing nothing. Only a cruel God could've made such a sorry beast. And the beast stares into himself and coldly confronts his own emptiness He does not know why. Agony to be awake. To live is to die. That's the pain of being human. Cast down into the chaos of history. To be born and to die, for nothing it seems. And to go on, without question; without knowing what it means.

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Jul 7, 2015

Jul 7, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC

The pain in being human.

It's not in loneliness. There are many like him It's not in not having for whatever he has means nothing. It's not in despair for it is pain that means he's living. It's not in facing his utter purposelessness and cherishing it, because that's all he has. It's not in recognising his own meaninglessness and finding meaning, because that's all he knows. It's in moments of brief escape, in tiny deaths in dreams and waking dreams, where he is awake. It's in seeing the others and knowing they weren't made the same. They were made perfect, unable to question their existence: to not know such pain. It's in his utter contempt for his fellow man; His blind hatred for all living beings. It's in a world in flames and falling apart where he finds peace. Prowling the earth sparing nothing. Only a cruel God could've made such a sorry beast. And the beast stares into himself and coldly confronts his own emptiness He does not know why. Agony to be awake. To live is to die. That's the pain of being human. Cast down into the chaos of history. To be born and to die, for nothing it seems. And to go on, without question; without knowing what it means.

52