Before the fog aligns itself
To clog the vision behind your mask,
Before the death of life clouded
Your trust in the Heavens,
Before the desolate wave of sadness
Clouded the very star that guided you,
Before the savage tears you shed
When the lie killed your truth,
Before the door closed in the night
And you drowned in the silence,

You left behind a fleeting light
That was created nust for you,
But as darkness falls the words
That were like children,
The days that were like
A thousand lakes under the sun,
The words that scattered like
Light through the crystal memory,
Came forth a boundless vacancy.

And the night is torn apart,
Deep into the hours where
Memory and names do not matter,
When it seems the hope has sailed forever,
The words will echo deep
Into the mind and eternal
Poetry will be born unto thee
The death of the present will
Be owed to the loss of who you once were....

People plan to partake in 
pondering this painful piece
of the Ponderer's ponderings.

These pathetic pain filled people
presume that
pondering the Ponderer's ponderings
is perfectly practical in practically every peaceful way.

But presently,
the Ponderer's particularly pondering ponderings
are perniciously precarious in every perilous way.

Thus, to ponder the Ponderer's pondering ponderings
is not particularly practical,
but instead pertain
to perniciously painful parts of precarious nature

Even though I have everything I could have ever dreamed of, there is still a faint whisper from my past reminding me that I could lose it all once again.

Foolish, are we, to believe
That even the brightest sun
Could possibly intimidate
The ubiquitous darkness
That clings to our hearts

You can just tell
Yah know?

We speak in rhythms,
Passionate, fortified rhythms but
often misaligned.

I won't be blind to our truth, no
but don’t expect me to bask in some
Wonderland.

Defective perfection,
A ghastly unfortunate paradox and
A laden aura unlike any other.

My soul aches to ripen
so very desperately
But this love has taken it’s
Toll.

I've swallowed whole my humble pie
For years now without remorse
I was content to leave it all as such
And let all things take its 'natural' course
But then I learned I could take a pen
And weave words around a rhythmic display
If it wasn't for that fateful chance
I wouldn't be half the man I am today

Because when I get sad, I close the door
And I cry
But when I get sad and think of these words
I get by

These words are my reconciliation
To a life in which I can relate
But I feel so shameful
When I chose mine
Because I chose mine

For years to come, I would covet this
A final poem, a final prose
And in the hours that past me by
I never seem to write any of those
These words I love to put to the test
As if tried and true never failed
And in my path comes consequence
of the catered streams where they wade
I've used them up, I've brought them down
On many, oft without mercy or delay
Without them, I'd never get this far
I'd never tell you in this way

But when I get here and close the door
I can get by
But when I'm alone with these words
I still cry

These words are my appreciation
Something I can dedicate
But it’s often so painful
When I chose mine
Because I chose mine

©2015 Neal Emanuelson

Am I growing or is the world becoming smaller?
Where did I leave my childhood behind and when was it really over?
Is there a way to predict the future or does it completely depend on our choices?
Am I the one to calm my thoughts or is it out of my control?
Why did they do this to me and should I be sorry for their actions?
Do I try too hard or do I just not care enough?
Am I too less or too much?
Why did I never get to say goodbye when I knew it would happen?
What is the reason for the birds to leave south and come back again if it'll just get cold later?
How do I rescue myself before it is too late and will it ever be too late?
Did I hit rock bottom or can I continue to dig further down?
Is there a specific purpose for me in this world or are some of us perhaps not destined to anything?
Are we walking in circles or are we actually moving forward if not backwards?
Does it get better with time or do I just get better at swallowing the pain like it was bitter medicine?
Will this end and how did it even begin?
Why do the covers feel too hot but the world around me too cold?
Am I scared of monsters or people who pretend to be angels?
Do I get deceived to believe or is the feeling about this real?
Do I want to go back or is it worth to keep moving?
Am I scared or am I excited?

ɨ.

Sɛaʀċɦɛtɦ ʍɨռɛ ɨռtɛʀɨօʀ O' ʍɨɢɦtʏ ċʀɛatօʀ
Mɨռɛ ʍaʟaɖʏ ċօʍɛtɦ օռ stʀօռɢ;
Wɦɛռ tɦɛ sʊռsɛt ɦast ċօʍɛtɦ aռɖ ɢօռɛ
Mɨռɛ ʊռċtɨօռ ɨs ռօt ċʟօsɛ, tɨs I ռɛɛɖɛtɦ ɦɛʀ tɦɛ ʍօst.

ɨɨ.

Mɨռɛ ҡɨɖռɛʏ's aʀt racked աɨtɦ քaɨռ
Tɦɛ ʀɛɖ ʄʀօʍ tɦɨs tɦʀօat քօʊʀs օʋɛʀ aɢaɨռ;
I ռɛɛɖɛtɦ ʍɨռɛ ʟօʋɛʀ, ʍɨռɛ զʊɛɛռ,
Mɨռɛ օռʟʏ, ʍɨռɛ ɦօքɛ, ʍɨռɛ աatċɦɛʀ aռɖ ɖʀɛaʍ.

ɨɨɨ.

O' ʟօʀɖ, ʍaռ ɦatɦ ɮɛɛռ tօ ɮʊsʏ աɨtɦ ʍatɛʀɨaʟ ʟɨʋɨռɢ
Pʟɛasɛ ҡɛɛքɛtɦ ʍɛ ɮʀɛatɦɨռɢ aռɖ aʟɨʋɛ, tօ ɦɛʀ ʍɨռɛ sօʊʟ I'ʍ ɢɨʋɨռɢ; sɦɛ I ɢɨʋɛtɦ ʍɨռɛ ɮօռɛs, ʋɛɨռ's, aռɖ tɦaռҡsɢɨʋɨռɢ.
Tօ ɦɛʀ I աaɨtɛtɦ ʊքօռ O' aʀċɦɨtɛċt, ʍɨռɛ աaɨtɨռɢ ɨs քaɨռɨռɢ.

ɨʋ.

Caռst I sɛɛɨtɦ ɦɛʀ sօօռ ʄatɦɛʀ, I ɢɨʋɛtɦ tɦɛɛ aʟʟ I ɦast
Mɨռɛ ɖʀօք's օʄ ɮʟօօɖ, ɨռsɨɖɛ tɦʏ ɦօʟʏ ċʊք, ʝʊst tօ sɛɛɨtɦ ʍɨռɛ ʟass;
I'ʍ aռɢʊɨsɦɛɖ, ʄaʍɨshed, ռօt ɦɛaʀɨռɢ ʍɨռɛ ċɦɛʀʊɮ's ɢօɖɖɛss ʋօɨċɛ
I ɢɨʋɛtɦ ʍɛ, tօ sɛɛɨth ʍɨռɛ զʊɛɛռ, ɛʋɛռ ɮʏ ʍɨռɛ ɖɛatɦ, I'ʟʟ ҡɨss ɦɛʀ ʍօɨst.





©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)

The more i seek
The further you go
Going deep, into the depth of my mind and thoughts

I never knew
that falling would be this painful
I thought falling for you was a pleasant-kind of falling