Don 2d

Oh look that's me
Small kid
About two
I fall down
The ground's hard
My hands are red
I cried too

Oh look that's me
Small hurt
Is big hurt
To a small kid
In a big world

Oh look that's me
my dad pulled me up
my mom gave me a bandaid
and kissed the wounds away
I regained my step
and faith in my foot

Don 2d

I've got a head like lead weights,
     A bullet drop  into my
     hollow heart-place
Heavy-hefty mind
     inside thorn covered skin
Banging, bam, I'm dead
     fed up, gone
     I'm a dog, damn, dog,
     biting another hand
     dammit all!
     why do I?
     why do I?

I'm gone,
     give me my parting crown!
     i'm the king of hard-times
     i'm losing my head

i've paced myself to pieces
     a deathly-slow path
     by the pace-maker stop
     my pace-maker stopped
     and I can't make peace, God

Good God, I'm no
     i'm no,
     i'm no Man,
     I'm not strong.
I fall dead down dead,
     my head into your arms
     my heart into your hands
     I hide into your heart
     I fall into your hands
     and sojourn to a rest
     my weary heart drift

One of those poems that I question whether I should post at all.
Don Nov 26

I've read your poems
and I am amazed.
these poetry-men, these poetry-women,
they carry narratives to their doorsteps and knock the dust off their day.
they slip dazed into their beds at night and wait and think and pray.
they don't stop the fight
but they fight the good kind.
and some doze to win the night and some don't.
hard times, hard days,
they still move and do
and if they don't they still fight to.

Please poet, have some rest tonight,
God knows I know you need it.

Don Nov 22

How do you cope with life?

"When I'm by myself,
I carry myself unkempt.
Like a dog
A living stray,
A sloven mess.

Crying, gritty, grieving, heavy living.
I shake my fist and growl at death
And resolve myself to another dogged damn day."

Don Nov 19

I swallowed white chemical capsules as soldiers/ to fight the broken-dawn mornings of a hazy minded muddle/ till the dust-blurred dusk of a day long battle, settled.

But my pawns were weak warriors/ and my confidence was swallowed in deep burrows/ like a grand king surrounded/ and destined to the gallows/ "hallowed be my fallen chemical soldiers!"

They ran headlong to d-day in my head and fell to fear at the frightful sight of a sky falling:
sandstorms and dust-devils growling at the prospect of mental illness in defeat

So my white chemical soldiers fought long for two weeks and retreated when the enemy became too much to see and too much to bear/ But it's ok, because my brow is furrowed for another stubborn morning/ And I am resolved to be damned to defeat for the rest of life! And Dawn and Dusk! Do your worst ya bastards! I'm the last man standing! I'm the last man standing!

"But he who is joined with all the living has hope, for a living dog is better than a dead lion."

I started taking medicine for my anxiety.  It worked for two weeks.  Then it stopped.  As far as I'm concerned, I was a living lion for two weeks.  Now I'm a living dog again.
Don Oct 31

To put You first,
Myself to die.
To know You now
My wish abolished
Held down,
My living-dead curse
And slovenly life,
The rock upon my tomb,
I live and die.

You stole my grave
No warden knows my place
In that six-foot-deep prison
Dark, cold, dank.
You traded place,
No record to behold
I'm dead.  I'm living.

To love You more
Most perfect, love
My God, adored
I need You Lord.
And so I die.
And so I live.

I don't have a grave.

Don Sep 23

I will continually
abandon my craft
to the cloud and the ground
Casting off my crass talk
in tall grass; or top mountains.
I can never
know where it goes
But I will fashion every word
from the contents of
my soul bearing soul
to an audience
hopefully listening
to something
marginally relatable.
I care not enough to stop
even when screaming
from a position
of destitution.
I'll make Art how I want to
I'll make Art how I don't want to
I'll make Art and abandon it to it's a resting place;
Then cough, then walk.
I will never create something beautiful enough
I will never create something loud enough
I will never create something enough
But I won't stop.
And somehow I find that comforting.

stream of consciousness
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