From here the trees look black
Mourning the loss of time
Chasms in a sky of slurry grey
Relatable and untouchable

There's no pulse
Forsaken and lost to the cares of others
Sentries of a land doused in fog
Immune to the forces of nature

It's not a deafening silence
It's that sound left here
Fearing it too may suffer this fate
Hopelessness

Complacency prevails the spirit
No sense to be found in searching
Only more of the same beyond
A world void of light

This forest in my head
I walked too far

At first sight it was as if she was dancing.
Spreading a fire about the room with every gesture.
So many eyes transfixed on the wonder who held the room
Aoide made flesh?

Had I found the muse of song?
Should I ask her of Pegasus?
Had I ever seen more grace in her essence.
It could have only been in a sunset.

Inquired, inspired, insipid in my lust
To know of her thoughts, dreams, and fears
So that I may slay the dragons
And stand alone before her emerald eyes

Who am i kidding?
What have I done?
I can't win this heart.
With satirical puns.

Dragons and Aoide.
What was I thinking?
This girl is too wise.
She'll know I've been drinking.

But still though there's something.
It must be implored.
What this girl offers.
It can't be scored.

You only get moments.
To stand in her sun.
Cherish these seconds.
For others there's none.

A Viking you see.
Stands at her door.
He'll laugh in your face.
And you'll be no more.

She says her heart.
Is rotten and black.
Though its words to me
Are like that of crack.

I beg of you friend
To know of me this.
To be but a thought on your mind
Is as good as a kiss.

I want so desperately to believe the illusion.
To think I can be one of those people.

I like to listen to other people. The things they say.
What they did. Where they went. Who they were with.

I kid myself sometimes.
I let myself believe I'm one of them.

Till I'm staring at a bottle of scotch at a table alone.
The bottle reminds me. It's just a dream.

I drink but I do not curse them. I don't blame them.
I wouldn't want me there either.

Still though.
What it must be like.

I won't find out in this lifetime.
In this life it's just me and the Jameson.

Family gatherings. Holidays. Parties.
I watch them on tv and wonder.

What is that like?
To be surrounded by people who want you there.

Every acquaintance I have is paid for.
I rent out the illusion of inclusion.

I pretend that where I am is where I'm wanted.
Until I've fixed the railing or solved the problem.

Or handed over the cash.
Once this is done the illusion vanishes.

I'm asked to leave.
"You should go."

I hear that a lot.
Until the next time.

When they'll need money, ****, or me to fix something.
Then I can relish in the ideology.

For a moment.
I have a purpose.

Again they strike
like sharks smelling blood
shredding the skin of night
with bullets and Van lights
burning the insides
of the innocents
who are unable
to find a safe place to hide;

But I still get to live my life
parse out a few sincere tears
for those who will never
get to go home again
for those who
I will never meet here.

These tears fade fast
and disappear
as I watch my shows
and eat my late night lunch.
I know they suffered.
I should feel more,
but time continues.
This pain is but a minor
selection on life’s menu
supplied by the internet venue;

And I am so Self-absorbed
that over half of this poem
is about me.

I've been happy.
That was nice.
I've been angry.
I didn't much care for that.
I've been in love.
That one is exhilarating.
I've been betrayed.
That felt familiar.
I've been hurt.
This one never left.
I've been excited.
It's like a first kiss.
I've been disappointed.
So I avoid people.
Nowadays I'm apathetic.
It has no highs or lows.
I wonder though.
About the other ones.
What they feel like?

There is no pause.
No stopping to rest.
It should be insatiable.
This hunger.

There are too many questions and not enough answers.
Where is the exit for the Devils Kettle? What is the hum? Gravity? Death? How can light act as matter? Is the ****** cat dead or alive?

All my life, I've asked of you to tell me something true.
Dearest brain I beg and plead, whatever shall I do?

Do I dare to trust of you, this construct you created?
Leaving out the answers so my questions are abated.

Life is indeed a symphony of terrors in the night.
A dream within a dream where there is no wrong or right.

We live an illusion and illustration if you will.
There is no magic looking glass no red no blue pill.

Senses perpetuated by a mind left unhinged.
Realities so obtuse by nature, make us want to cringe.

I ask of you, my brain, of sloppy grayish matter.
Will I ever know the truth? Before my ashes scatter?

I like conversations in the rain.
Empathic words soaked in urgency.

I like fields of tall grass layered in fog.
Tired clouds on beds of green.

Tattered flags hopeless in salvation.
Beaten down by years of neglect.

Unwarranted smiles from strangers.
Moments of blissful silence unheralded.

Few are the things I can relate to.

You could sit down and write a thousand words or none at all.
And it would still befit her.
You could detail for the reader everything you know.
And then call it fiction.
Why?
She is love incarnate.

I sat at the Lighthouse and looked at the sky
feeling the breeze caressing my spine
little did I know this would be the last time
that I would sit on these rocks in the early july

I felt like an oyster on the half shell
hearing the wind in the trees casting their spell
The bouy rocking and ringing its bell
the sunrise is effortless painted pastel

life was so easy then

When you come to the realization.
What an awful destination.
Most of us wish we'd never arrived.
An awakening.
A moment where you realize that you never really mattered.
That that person never thought of you as anything other than just "somebody".
When all you ever wanted was to be someone.
The angst sets in. Consuming you.
All the words meant nothing to them. Those things that took all the courage you had to say out loud. Were of little to no value to them.
Juxtaposed to a feeling of hopelessness.