B Young

B Young Jun 2016

A fingernail. Sliding aside the stitches,
And
Plunging into the flesh of a freshly healed
Wound.
Seeing you brings soaring to the surface
Blood.
Not yet fully congealed,
The pain pried open once again,
A wound thought buried for good,
Now rushes to the forefront
Of a broken memory.
Questions?
With no answers
Are the hardest to ask.
Why?
And
How?
Fists with a cry and a howl.
Fingertip stinking under,
Picking open the scab to let
The wound fester anew,
As if no healing had ever
Happened in the first place.

Fresh blood licked away.
The quivering at the thought,
that time does not, indeed,
heal all.

Seeing you,
A smile and a nod
is all that is mustered.
This wound,
You inflicted,
Will never heal.

#poem #poetry

B Young Jun 2016

Rock and Hard Place

Being Inclined to be a writer and fascinated with literature is so dreadfully awful bc one is ever stuck between the desire to read every word ever written and to express on paper every thought one has had. There is no end, no goal, no chance of ever being satisfied.

Thoughts

B Young Jun 2016

The Perks of Ray Charles

****** and the life of death in capitalist entertainment
The unfortunate case of me

Lanes are merging
People are crashing
Stars explode
And kids in pittsburgh say they feel infinite
Poets pantomime pleasantries
Pleasant trees planted on peasant land
When you ask they laugh unexpectedly
"You think we will ever be free?"
We have but one shot one chance
We must flee across the sea

Set sail with no end destination in mind,
just board this ship with me my friends,
and we shall shipwreck onto the beaches of consciousness.

#poem #poetry #poet

B Young Jun 2016

Moving Mountains

Get free/
Be brave/
Surround yourself in light/
Pour love on everything/
The day will come when you're no longer fake
And the day comes when you no longer feel
Then the day comes when you'll no longer fear.

#poem #poetry #poet

B Young May 2016

Still Life with Woodpecker

Pondering,
Who knows the secret,
Of how to make love remain?
Painting, still life with pyramids.
Those ancient symbols of death and rebirth,
Of love and the infinite.
Pondering,
What is the secret of the moon,
What does she hide from the mortals below?
Floating forever circling above.
I know she hides a hidden purpose.
Wandering,
Inside a pack of Camel cigarettes,
Searching for oasis in the dry and solar charred landscape.
Smoking is our own little private communion with fire.
Who knows how to make love stay?
What is the purpose of the moon?
These are the secrets I inquire of the fire gods,
As I wander and wonder,
Inside a pack of Camel cigarettes.

#poem #poetry #inspired #tomrobbins

B Young May 2016

Prozac Nation (deceased truth living lies)

Pocket full of clacking around benzodiazepines
Xanax, Klonopin, and ******.
Am I late for class? Am I late for work?
Am I late for my own life? (truth)
Is this really any normal kind of respite or relaxation?
Chemistry really has come a long way to introduce
us to induced relaxation(?) pills.
My Mr. Dr. says it should help with my anxiety,
but it only seems to cloud me in my depravity:
I steal, I lie, and I wake up naked in unknown
bedrooms in unknown cities with unknown
women. Who…did they steal my wallet?
And where the **** are my car keys?
Better yet, where in Allah’s name is my car?
OH! Lord Jesus Christ OH! God of the Jews I cry out,
Forgive me (lie) for I hath sinned.

I suddenly want to do every drug (truth)
ever made, you name it, I’ll try it,
just this once, of course. I don’t have an
addictive personality (lie)
The Dr. says it is OK if I take 4mg of Xanax a day (truth),
hence it must be safe (lie), right? A Dr. can’t lie, can he?
Wait! Where am I again? And, what are we doing here?

Oh…that’s right, we are kids going nowhere (truth), how
silly of me to forget. If this is Prozac Nation,
then I am the ****** State. My governor is the late
William Burroughs (lie) and my deputy is the late Kurt Cobain (lie).
We are not in this for the fame (lie), a state run by the deceased.
So, how dare you point a finger at me in blame.
This is Drug Nation, America-home of the sedated and land of the overdose.

#poem #poetry #depression #drugs #drug #america #xanax #****** #prozac #prozacnation

B Young May 2016

A dream but also a Reality

Driving through Kentucky.
Fields fragrant with summer flowers,
spring fast approaching.
En-route to meet the boys of previous
summers lounging in London streets, fields, and serpentine parks,
And, stairs leading down to unwelcoming basements; as is the British way.
Malls of America now act as labyrinths.
Where the hell can I park my car?
Again, I ask, where the **** can I park my car?

I don’t care.
I just won’t park my ******* car,
in this god-forsaken middle of the western U.S.
Louisville, better yet, Hicksville.
I pop another Vicodin to get rid of this ill,
Surviving bit by bit but drained incessantly until,
I am no longer near fill, in spirit or in gasoline, tangible but also metaphysical.
Someone plunge into my depressed psyche and drill, drill,
DRILL!
Hey waitress of my mind, may I please request the bill?
With a pocket full of Xanax and a duffel bag of boomers,
my pockets jingle, (click-clack) as the pills bounce around with
every step, treating addiction with more drugs appears
to be the current stance of the know nothing doctors across this greatest nation on God’s green earth.
Hey babe, “want to walk with me to the methadone clinic,”
It’s rainy out, cold rain, can you carry my umbrella?
I can’t miss my dose or I’ll get sick.
So again I ask
Babe?
Walk with me to the methadone clinic?

#dream #poem #london #kentucky #methadone