Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

The old man with no luggage
wears a pilling houndstooth jacket
and suede fedora with a
leather strap and horse-bit buckle.
Stark seams line his trousers.

He has:

Wirey gray hair, calloused wrists,
a popped blood vessel neath his thumbnail,
and deep crevices in his palms.
He folds his boarding pass into a kite,
as he looks into the sun
through the tiny cube of a window.

He sees:

The geometric shadows
cast in early afternoon.
And skyscrapers.
They cut through the sprawling
grid like an artery.

I bade thee apace, to bring thy comely countenance close to
Mine face. A carcanet around
Thy neck I shalt wrap, every
Jewel made of mine inner-
Being; hush, mine lips art
Dry mine queen, I need
The most of thy skin to
Cure this winter's chap.
Coëval we were; now
Distanced by glass an
Shores, I crieth til mine
Lungs burst, just to
Be in thy presence.
To face the same view,
To smell thy ocean essence.
Fingers I use to write and jot down
Words that art stuck in mine throat;
Mixed in with quiet fears, worries, hopes. I dive beneath this red blanket, in loneliness I do cope, thy warmth do I hope; to slip into this space. Imagine I, imagine I do, of a panoramic place to explore open and closed doors, wherein the soil clings to ourn feet, where the normal word's art "mi amour". How I do wait, even eternity; to be one in thy freshet of bubbling lovingkindness.
O' how I am pent; awaiting mine chains to break to fly to thy abode.


©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©earl Jane nagley dedication (agapi mou).

I am lost to the midnight moon.
I sleep beneath her,
during the warm months of June.
I lay beneath her,
and hear her sweet tune.
It tugs at my heart,
just like a balloon.
I gave her my heart
to wrap in a cocoon.
I pray when it hatches
the sky turns maroon,
because I need her to hear me,
as I sing my sweet tune.
I need her to know,
I'm coming for her soon.

This is writing about forgiveness.
It is about failure.
Do me a favor and think about a time that you have failed.
I can't think of one instance -
there's too many.
But this one will do.

I see the look on his face when I tell him I know.
Not acting.
A sadness created by a downward spiral three years ago.
And **** who am I to judge when I have not left mine?

And if it was an act he got me.
Things are complicated;
he can feel regret and still be self pitying.
At the end there was a moment when it rubbed me wrong, still.
He still blamed other people.
God I wish I knew what really happened
but only he does.

When an object is attached to a string and traveling in a circle it exits the path in a straight line ahead.
There are infinite points on a circle for the object to exit.

I see that same face on the girl who believed I stole her boyfriend from her.
I see that same face on the guy I told I didn't want to have *** with him anymore, on his birthday.
I see that same face on me, when the guy I had *** with counted me as a number. On a video.

Is the circle the person stuck in a spiral or is it the person looking down at the ball and string with a pair of scissors?

I am looking for confirmation that I am not crazy for wanting to forgive him for something he didn't do to me. He did it in the world I happen to inhabit but is it my civic duty, human duty, human right, friendship right to place him in a spot of an outcast? Everyone else has.

Spring is just about on its way.
That means I can walk back to Sherwood forest!
I suppose I could go in the winter, or summer, especially in the fall,
but I don't want to go to far.
It's very special in the spring.
I like to stop short, and climb my mountain,
look across my town, (which is just trees) and try to find my house.
And Sometimes I go too far.
I go to the abandoned center of the town.
I go there to reminisce about things I wasn't alive for,
and I can claim the noble title of prophet, by simply claiming to be there for the passed.
But my heart still lies in Sherwood.
I can't wait for spring.

I've had bad days for as long as I can remember,
Anxiety, loneliness and depression swirling in my head.

(You might think loneliness and depression are the same but that's not true, loneliness is just a SYMPTOM of depression)

I used to have good days,
Light,
Days,
Where it didn't hurt as much,
Any more,
But these bad days come back,
And the came,
And they stayed,
For weeks at a time,
Anxiety had me mumbling,
"I'm fine"'s

(The actual act of being 'fine' is something I've never had the privilege of experiencing)

I got so many bad days,
My therapist,
(Along with my mother)
Tried to convince me they weren't,
ALL bad.

So,
I'm depressed, turned into:
The weather,
And, I'm alone,
Turned into:
Call your friends!
And,
I'm suicidal,
Turned into:
Philosophical.

I don't think you understand...

That this plan,
Of telling me my feelings aren't real,
Or that I shouldn't feel what I feel when I'm feeling it.
Isn't helping me,
Or saving me.
Because I remember being 12,
In an emergency room,
With death on my mind,
And burns on my wrist,
Being told,
I couldn't be admitted to a mental ward,
Because they only accept 13 year olds,
That, the qualifications,
Where there,
That I wanted to die,
But You were,
Just to young,
To be feeling,
What you were feeling,
When you were feeling it.

Between day and night, choose fight or flight, hide out of sight, shield from the light.

Cocooned in our beds, words trapped in our heads, a poets mind is forming, ideas begin their swarming.

Not conforming
              Lines deforming
                        Minds contorting
                                       Rhymes consorting.