I constantly find myself
running away from how
I feel because maybe I don't
want to admit you're the
reason why I'm hurting.

I'd rather sit in silence with
a broken heart not knowing why
I am then think about what could've been.

I'd rather break down over and over
because the bottle is over flowing then
sit and think about your smile.

I'd rather cut myself and stand at
the edge of a building contemplating
suicide than remember the way
you used to look at me.

Etɛʀռaʟ ʟɨʄɛ
I'ʋɛ ʄօʊռɖ;
Wɨtɦɨռ ɦɛʀ sօʊʟ.





©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedication

BrIgHt TeNdRiLs Of A dEvIlS hAnD
rEaChInG tHrOuGh My FlOoR
lAtChInG oNtO tHe RoOf.
TuRn AwAy, RuN aWaY,
wAkE uP.

The first day
a man in the airport
searches my belongings.
He finds my thanks.
Written on paper
in colors of blue, green,and black.
A jagged smile form on his lips.
"Are these compliments?" He says. "Who wrote them?"
My answer , underlines with a chuckle is:
"That's just it. I have no idea."

"Well how peculiar. How do you treasure something that is the job of Sherlock Holmes?"
(solving mysteries, that is)
I say nothing,
just smile.
"And these names; you have taken the term read between the lines so literally here. These names are words I know, but I don't understand."
My response--as always--is:
"We use them to preserve
our magic.
our secrets.
our ties.
98% of what I hold dear is on that piece of paper. I swear."

Cliche: The world is yours for the taking--
       The last poem in a purple notebook--
Creative (possibly): The world is yours for the making--
       150 degrees--
where Africa is the continent placed
       UpSiDeDoWn
and North America,
       against all logical sense,
is in the south.

       Little boy in sixth
grade.
       Go to the man who painted the walls white,
dropped textbooks in every teacher's lap,
       and taught them how to
babysit.

       Tell him that we
need more than one flavor
       to splash our palette.
A subtle flavor so small
       that it's dust-like.

Make him give us something
to change,
to express our love,
to make our blood dance with passion,
and permanently graffiti the walls
with our heart's emotion.

I guess I won that stupid fight of "I love you more."

you can try

with all your might

to get back

into my life.

you can try

to wedge in

through the holes.

but in the end

the results won't

be what you want.

because i've moved on

and there's no room

for you.

I've become accustomed to it
"Oh the pain, THE AGONY"
I repeat to myself trying to make things seem,

well, better. But I'm only making it worse
Wasting time saying phrases in hope that stress will magically leave my body forever
Belittling my feelings, thoughts, and emotions
Why do I continue?
Continue to continue
Repeatedly putting myself in worrisome situations, knowing the outcome, but constantly trying to avoid the reality of it all

You would think that if I were driving on a road, noticing a hazard, I would swerve. But not me

What do I do?
Constantly continue to put myself in situations I know will be hard

And yet, I have become accustomed to this feeling of stress, tension , and an overwhelming conscience

But somehow, whenever it strikes, it feels as though it's the first time I've been affected.