the ghosts of past poets peruse my prose.
"alliteration?, that was a cheap opening"
these shadows seep into my soul, showing
me the ways to silence the sirens inside;
through letters in words in lines in stanzas
through poems through syntax through imagery.

they led me down the road to a radio tower.
they let me go up it, to shout these words into
every ear of every man everywhere everywhen.

the ghosts, vanished
the people, terrified
the tower, toppled
the I? i am still
finding out.
where it is
that I
fell
to.

i am the forgotten son.
cast down from the kingdom,
kicked out of the family name,
removed from patriarchal figures

all my fathers now revoke
the names they'd given me.

i am the forgotten son.
my loud words resonate in
none of the senses of my fathers.

i am truly the son, forsaken.
thank god.

what a pointless life i lead.
pretend poems online.
pretend people in life.
pretentious people who
believe they've personified
my soul.

It's hard sometimes.
pretending i mean.
pretending not to want
you. pretending not to
care. pretending my pride
is priceless and my person
is pure and my possessions
aren't petty and my posture
is perfect. It's hard to pretend
sometimes. when perfection is in
your face. and she's not pointed at you.

pathetic.

its like a race.
i refuse to stop running.
my side is burnt.
my feet are blistering.
my lungs have given up.
miles ago.

its like a race.
i refuse to stop running.
there is no finish line imaginable.
no trophy i can see.
no crowd to cheer me on.

its like a race.
i refuse to stop running.
until my muscles give out.
and i fall to the ground asleep.
i become the poster child for
masochism everywhere.

it's 1:57 am on a friday
night. needless to say im
the only soul awake in
the middle of the university.

twenty-six thousand people
walk right past where i am
sitting. every. day. the nurses
musicians, writers, and lawyers,
the drunks, art students, hippies
and boring people.

but right now, it is only myself
and the dead leaves. the cool wind
blowing around us. peaceful. silence.

the oddest thing?
                                                                          i'm only not lonely here.