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Mica Kluge Apr 4
I have found,
You can endure anything,
If you have to.

At first,
You think that you can’t make it until the next minute,
But,
Suddenly,
The next minute is upon you,
            then the next,
                     and the next.

At an agonizingly slow rate,
Those minutes will turn into years.

This is how you survive.
Mica Kluge Sep 2018
We are so quick to blame the familiar.
Once fault is laid,
then the matter may as well be settled,
and it becomes someone else’s responsibility
to atone for our faults.
After all, there is nothing so unfamiliar to a man
as his own self.
This didn't actually begin its life as a poem; it was an excerpt from a novel I'm working on.
Mica Kluge Sep 2018
Growing old is gracefully (or not)
accepting the passage of time.
Generally speaking,
you have no choice.

Growing up is being slapped
in the face with the understanding
that you must be the hero
you have been waiting on
your entire life.

Growing up and growing old -
there's a difference,
but both will break your heart.
For those of you who don't know me well, three of my favorite movies are Treasure Planet, Atlantis: The Lost Empire, and How to Train Your Dragon. The movies are very different in plot, so it took me a long time to figure out why I loved them so much (especially when I consider myself a bit old for most animated movies). I realized that the common thread is that, in each of these movies, the protagonists were looking for approval and a hero in those around one, and not finding one. So they decided to become their own hero. It was never really a conscious decision, but more of being pushed to the point in life where they realized that no one was going to save them and what they loved; they were going to have to fight for it. Having recently been pushed to that point in life, I understand and love these movies all the more. Rant over.
  Aug 2018 Mica Kluge
Anthony Mayfield
In the dark of the night
I go to bed
And feel purgatory drawing me in
Say no more

      In the dark of the night
      I don’t trust myself
      Alone with my hand
      When I should stand up to Him
      Say no more

            In the dark of the night
            The storm drain overflows
            I should really get going
            So I don’t drown
            Say no more

                  In the dark of the night
                  I call all angels
                  Take me closer to Heaven
                  And farther from Him
                  Say no more

            In the dark of the night
                  In the alleyway running
                        Please forgive me
                              For not being brazen
                                    Please forgive me
                                       For not being brazen
                                             I will say no more
The ever-revolving door of the emotional spiral
  Aug 2018 Mica Kluge
September Roses
Once we were on fire
Young    rebeliouse   free
We stormed the castles and took to the skies we flew we dreamed
We were ablaze our light setting raging screaming fire to the world around us
When our thoughts could not sit in silence any longer
When the kids were engulfed by a wave of fury of the injustice done by this world before we were even here
We screamed and demanded
OUR VOICES WOULD BE HEARD
But now it rains
Now the cold heavy water blankets the restless
The fire has been drenched in worry and stress
The brutal downpour has distracted all with false life or death
The blaze once 100 feet high now nothing but a charred soul

And all the ones put out by the rain
to tired to fight again,
pray on the generation next
That their fire is enough to best the storm
Mica Kluge Aug 2018
Let me tell you a story.

When I was young, I was convinced one of two things would happen:
I would either die young or I would live ignorant.
And I was allowed to believe it.
I was careful, avoiding snakes, spiders, dirt, human beings, love.
I horded books, enough to give myself a doctorate in any field.
And I was called paranoid. Idiotic. A fool. Freak. Doomed.
But, I kept living anyway. Destroyed, most of the strings in me cut.
But living. And I was allowed to believe it was a gift.

Of course, this is a fiction, lie, metaphor, but the truth stands.
Children are not born to be afraid. They are taught.
Fear is conditioned. Rewarded. Considered a virtue.
The wildness of youth is tromped upon by cleat-clad "caution."
Gone are bright eyes, reckless smiles, heads thrown back. Life.
Dull glances, insurance, cul-de-sacs, and bitten tongues reign. Fear.
And fear is one of the deepest scars we can inflict upon another.

This story is not mine, though I have been the one to tell it.
But I am human. An ocean. A fault line. A candle facing a storm.
This tale, in some chisled fascet, mirrors my own.
And it will continue as long as I draw breath.
Mica Kluge Jun 2018
If I ever to do anything to excess,
I hope that it will be kindness
And not its antithesis.
I may only be human, but while I'm stuck doing that, I intend to do a decent job of it.
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