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 Jun 2014 Michael Amery
Hayleigh
You scream urgency
Like an accident and emergency
waiting room,
like a person relapsing into addiction,
Because they pushed themselves
too soon.
And there are claw marks in the soil,
Where you've tried to get to grips,
with solid ground,
There's a danger in your voice,
Like a lost child waiting to be found,
And you string sentences at a time
but no sound emits.
Danger, like,
Racing cars and frightened cries,
And there are holes in your back,
Formed by the lies,
You've been subjected too
And i wonder if i could use them
To breath life back into you.
I wonder if i get close enough,
If i could see,
The dreams and memories,
Before they turned stale
And congealed in your veins,
And left you entangled in the remains.
The valleys of your eyes,
Run wide and down deep,
And when you weep,
Your tears fall heavier,
Than a ten tonne van,
You're a shadow of the man,
You used to be,
And even your shadow,
Has deserted you,
Sought someone anew.
And your foundations
Are built on heartache and pain,
And those little tear ducts in your eyes,
Constantly rain,
But you you're in a draught,
All the love you've showered others in
Means you've ran out,
for yourself,
And your health is a picture
Of cigarettes and late night drinks,
Old whiskey, poured down sinks,
And you're reaching the brink,
The breaking point,
But you quite like the sound,
Of broken plates,
And you quite like the taste,
Of self destruction.
And there's a ghost,
Where you used to be,
Haunting the curves
Of your smile,
That you paint on,
Why you defile
Your skin,
This terror your living in,
Could start a thousand wars,
And this battle your fighting,
Inside of your mind,
Leaves a carcus, a morsel,
Of yourself behind.
Your insides stick to the past,
Like double sided cello tape,
And there are windchimes in your spine,
Where your bones should be,
And your heart on your sleeve,
Is clouded,
By red marks where you've sliced open your skin,
In at attempt to be free,
Of those demons, the sin,
For a new beginning.
There's toxic in your lungs,
And a noose around your neck,
Where you've hung your expectations
Too high,
And you're hanging by a thread,
And tying knots the further down you slip,
As you sip,
Another shot of courage.
But there's only so long,
One can hold on for,
And believe me I've been down
To the depths of hell and danced with the devil
On many occasions,
And the sheer frustration,
Of the attempts to be patient,
Are wearing thin,
Like the warm skin, that stretches,
Over your protruding bones.
Just a first draft..
 Jun 2014 Michael Amery
Wanderer
I am sorry*

We shared those words today
I no longer worry about the shade of our hands
Come Dawn
Love still connects us
Bridge building is slow
Worth while to the persistent
To the patient
Compromise
We are not compatable through
Religion. Philosophy. The Soul.
However, for us, music still stands
Classic rock and 70's disco fever
High pitched BeeGee's
Crooning Zepplin while deer watching
That connection alone binds us
Much less the love of mountains
Cold lungs on frosty mornings
Hunting for dinner with bow, with arrow
I have missed you
Wasted time stretched between us
No longer
Happy Father's Day
Took my own advice.
I think the thing is we inspire danger
Within one another
We’ve realized the falsity of fear
And found instead it was always a choice
And now we’ve chosen to forgo it
To embrace danger as easily
As we embrace one another
This is a beautiful thing to find in another person
So that when the skies fall
And the armies invade our city
When the streets run so rampant with violence
That the government outlaws touching
We won’t be afraid to stand in the streets
To hold each other in chaos
To kiss each other where we need it.
 Jun 2014 Michael Amery
SG Holter
Yet another tribute to all of you who write. You are the true Rock Stars of the Universe.
~
Fiddling on the Roof, as if
Throwing our common soul out
To downpour over the
Houses and streets of Anatevka, now

Abandoned. Seized by
The Tsar.
History.
Such is the soul that writes.

Tells. Thinks. Whispers of.
Records and absorbs.
Carves from Creation.
Dispenses.

Such is the soul that writes; waits
Another hour in bed in the
Morning, knowing
The Early Worm

Gets the beak first.
The Soul that writes is
The quill of the gods; angel
Feathered, timeless and part of

Everything. Say to yourselves
I will write until the only ink
I have is the black in my eye.
I'll learn to write blind from there.*

You would.

You wrote all that has
Ever been
Written.
 Jun 2014 Michael Amery
Caitie
you smile at a blank wall
and write some more meaningless
words on the poem you started last week.
take another sip of your tea
and remind yourself that
not only are you alone
but you are not wanted.
your phone doesn't ring
and your "friends" never speak
but you're used to the scarcity
of attention you receive.
digging yourself a hole
in your heart
because any attention is pushed away
due to "they'll all leave in the end"
becoming a hermit
and finding yourself hiding
behind your journal and pen
because not one person
has paid any mind to you in weeks.
*you're unloved. unwanted. so my dear, stop trying
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