A K Krueger

A K Krueger Apr 2015

goodbye

Goodbye, *******, goodbye.
I'm leaving you, never returning.
Thank the god I don't believe in,
I'm getting far, getting gone.
Don't know why, but
in every awkward eye-contact
connection eluded me further.
My soul felt ******, back-tracked
into black trash bins where
the forgotten things go to live.
Don't know why, but
every teetering moment of fear
when time would pass too slow
for words to escape my mouth
in the proper manner,
anxiety, a red-faced banner,
they'd come tumbling over
teeth and tongue,
clunky 3D cubes instead
of smooth, laughing vibrations,
wide open like a false smile
on my face.
Forever an outsider here;
now I leave to go outside of here.
Now that I see it
with gazing eyes tired of trying
to see good in a situation,
it couldn't be more clear
to me that misery here is drawn
like karmic dust;
an ego shield is a must,
but I have none.
I'm sorry;
I cannot speak
for lack of happy things to say.
But I'll be here for a little longer
and then I'll be away.

#anger #anxiety #goodbye #relief

A K Krueger Apr 2015

Writhing In My Skin

I lay here awake
Speaking past the plaster,
To wind, blown north,
Past where Jesus was born,
And some mother is being abused somewhere.
As I spoke and cried inside,
I cringed at the thought of water.

The red lining of a white cloud
Glares me down
Past the cut grass,
And the ***** houses
With the nice front doors.

I wanted pain for you
I wanted pain for me,
But no one would learn,
Because no one would feel pain.
We are a world of the immune.
Numbed by the convenient fog
Because the clouds are too lazy
to feed the Earth
and
Rain.

A K Krueger Apr 2015

As to Why

I don't write of beauty.
I've tried to reconnect with the world,
In the simple way, perforated innocent youth,
But they know. They sense I am not pure.
The woman across the counter:
The spunky pixie cut and cherry red lips.
I hand over my cash and a smile,
asking, begging with my eyes to be smiled at, too.
She drops three dollars and 73 cents into my palm,
and a suspicious glance into the air between us,
I leave with a sorrow, seen unwarranted.
Sitting outside in a chill and an iron chair
where others may dare to enjoy themselves
I attempt to compose, finding that my heart is closed,
and my hand is scribbling nonsense into empty space.

A K Krueger Apr 2015

Cosmic Love (Sonnet)

The life a man does boast is but a tryst
Between the egos of his Cosmic gods,
Who jest at gnarly oaks and monoliths;
At twigs we humans foolishly are awed.
Yet such does not render us simplified;
Too great is Cosmo's pride in their amour,
But secrets we'll uncover, stratified;
Acceptance, such a silent petrichor.
So let the veil be lifted, let us see,
Existence as gossamer as the veil,
Fragile as the primrose, less the beauty,
On us, we hope, these Lover's dreams won't fail.
At night we dream of worlds beyond the stars;
Sits on their smallest finger, all of ours.

#love #life #universe #human #cosmic

A K Krueger Apr 2015

Sacrifice

Poems never written,
Pain, never placed in aesthetic positions,
for other's enjoyment, or my own ego,
but left to float away
like butterflies in the ether
of nothingness that is forgotten.
Yes, rest in peace,
and no we don't bury you with gold,
we don't wish you a thousand slaves,
we don't even have flowers.
But these are my gifts,
my art, gone unwritten,
they go out to you, dear.
Out, and on to you.

Apr 2015

SG Holter

The ******* Poets

The cold, hard numbers
That our most established scientists
Now conceive

Whether astronomers or physicists,
Leave us with no other choice than to
Make peace with the fact that somebody;

Something out there has
Complete control over our every detail.
And as Sir David F. Attenborough

Would say when witnessing
Some incomprehensible horror of Nature:
One must let it take its course.

We ****, ****, laugh and cherish.
But do we?
There is more to Earth than her worst.

Perhaps we are left with the words of
New Agers, hippies and
Mushroom eaters in the end

To describe reality at last.
Or the poets. Lest we forget
The ******* poets.

A K Krueger Mar 2015

Unchecked Misconceptions

They always told me to let go of the past.
As if it were at the end of a taut rope,
as if my memories were burns on my hands,
as if my tears were simply sweat of exertion.

"It'd all go away if you'd just let go,"
They assure me in their uninterested gaze,
Scoffing at me in their self-assurance
"She's probably just thinking too much."

Surprisingly, though, on a long drive to nowhere
A monstrous plume of smoke caught my eye
glowing hellish and orange in a grey night
billowing from a crevice somewhere downtown.

It occurred to me then that I was afraid.
If I let the rope slip, even just a little,
whipping through my hands, setting them aflame,
I'd crumble to ashes then and there.

Without the distant past, the rosy memories,
the hot-aired idea of who I was
The self-inflicted punishment for past wrongs,
Who the hell am I?

#depression #life #fire #pain #sadness #past