my glasses resting on top of Gravity's Rainbow,
flying through the air chasing me,
through suburban station. I
am scrambling to get a ticket,
but first must get change, break a
ten dollar bill. I am with semi popular Philly
musicians and bound from train to train.

If it all seems strange to you, a bit insane,
it is.

I am fabricating truthfully the next great post
postmodern american marvel,
one
       line
              at
                  a
                    time.

If it all seems strange to you, a bit insane,
it is.

I will call to you in the thorny wilderness,
If only you would comprehend each syllable of my name.
I will scream out in roses laid before me,
If only I didn’t know of the precision it takes to use a knife,
I will recite all the different train of thoughts that consume my being,
Often leaving me stranded in the abyss,
If only I was not a product of emotional turmoil,
If only you could turn my pages the way I longingly brush through those in my books,
But I’m just a lifelong series of disturbing motives,
So I will not call out to you,
Even in my darkest dreams,
Somehow I will find the strength to forgive you when I lay my entire being down,
But until then,
I pray that God forgives me.

My life was not always fun
When I was a young kid
So, I often felt better if
I took a book and hid.
As long as Mom didn’t catch me
Find her work for me to do:
I had chores and nobody else
Not even Mom, it seemed.
She lay on the couch
She watched TV and dreamed
Of winning Queen For A Day
And waking up skinny.
Yes, I had some good days
But, really, not all that many.

So, when I could, I read
Every book I could easily find.
I even read romance books
Because Mom only liked that kind.
I read religious books too
Like King James’s Bible translation.
And, I read those Awake pamphlets
That got strewn around the nation.
We weren’t allowed to read
At the table during our meals, so
We read boxes the cereal came in.
Today that seems kind of nuts-o.
But I read what I could find around
And enjoyed Dad’s western books
Because reading their novels
Never got me a nasty look.

But I kept on, far into my adulthood
Reading and learning even more.
After all, increasing knowledge
Is what books are really for.
So, I learned about people and
About some exotic foreign lands
And became amazed at what some
Could accomplish with pen in hand.
And reading help me miss out
On some ugly stuff in my history
Because forewarned is forearmed
And reading removes some mystery
If it’s right there in the paperwork
And if we take the time to look.
We can keep ourselves from error
If we read the proper kind of book.

I read a lot about religious quacks
And I compared them to reality.
And then when I met people in life
I wasn’t easily tricked by duplicity.
When people made wild promises
About products and spiritual claims
I pointed to their documentation
And often questioned their aims.
It sometimes made enemies for me
Because our society is fond of lies
If they are only pretty enough
To fool the greediest gals and guys.
But I tired of schoolyard games
Early on in my literary youth.
I reserved my applause and approval
For moral decency and truth.
I had all the ammunition, I would ever need
Because early on in my life
I learned to love to read.

I read so much of some peoples work
I go to their profile and just scroll down
Reading up from wherever I land
I'm interested, intrigued, indefinitely
I can always find something to consume my mind
For minutes
For hours
For days at a time
Filling my thoughts with questions and worries, of "what ifs"
With contemplation, I read every word, with some, I memorize every line
If asked I'm sure I could recite ones poem or two
I'm never sure what to do when ones work leaves me reeling, wondering
wondering about them
wondering about who they are and what inspires them
About what they know, of what they might have been through
maybe that's a little intrusive?
But knowing Ill most likely never know the answers
I've become okay with just wondering, pondering, the possible "what ifs" and "how's"
It's become a hobby, more of a habit, really, when happening upon something amazing
I read it again and again
until its stuck in my head
like a song with a catchy tune stuck on repeat
I don't mind
but it does make me think

Succumbing to
Undulation provoked by
Cunning words of a poet, I
***
Under the surface,
Loving
Every
Nourished word like
Treasure

A word on a line
joined with many and more,
a story to tell
from behind a closed door.

A line on a page
and a paragraph to make,
from a thoughtful sage
to the ones who forsake.

A page in a book
telling tales short and tall,
just have a quick look,
hear the whispering call.

A book on a shelf,
many dusty old tomes,
a wealth of words
from across quiet rooms.

A history in words,
telling sad tales of pain;
of battles and bloodshed
and tears shed in vain.

Tyrants and demons
live within the short lines,
telling tales of tomorrow
and the end of our times.

Words of science;
of nature and light;
of suns, stars
and comets so bright.

Pages of magic;
of mystery and prose;
of light and laughter
and faces aglow.

A library of life
in unending rhymes,
of joyous love
and wonderful times.

A letter, a word,
a line or a page,
thoughts laid down
across eons of age.


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, April 2014.
Revised 24th September 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com

Some say you can't read someone's thoughts.
Some claim to read them like a book.
It's phantom pages may engage
but I move on from thought to thought.

Those readings choke like a bindweed cloak,
coiling, twining, transmuting brutes.
Stereotypes shape many folk,
stifling, stunting valuable fruit.

Yeah, we have a great relationship. But imagine how much better this would be if I actually loved you back?
But oops, that's right. I forgot to tell you that I'm kind of incapable of loving another human being.

But it's okay, it's not like love is real anyways.

And even though a good percentage of the general population have the same opinion as me, I'm labeled by those around me as a cynical, lonely, pessimistic girl, simply because others can't seem to comprehend that everything I say is derived from my own personal perspective and observations that I've made.
What was it that the naively optimistic, overly positive young man from the book store called me?
Oh yes, an "unjustifiably, unnecessarily negative teen who is disappointed with her life because she has yet to 'experience love.'"
Despite his ignorance and obscenely immature mindset, which evidently accounted for his matching personality, I don't think he realized that my lack of belief in the existence of "true love" was the exactly the reason that I was in the book store.
Because, as I came to realize, it appears that the only form of "love" that I seem to recognize as being adequate enough to somewhat believe in are those spoken of and created in novels.
It's formulated by the birth of a ridiculously intense, love fueled storyline, supported by a mindful choice of cohesive, dramatic, and emotional words.
Hence, fictional love is born, except to most it doesn't seem fictional because it's so breathtaking to read about.
They believe in it, they worship it.
As if it actually exists in an alternate universe.
The unrealistic perfection of it gives them a disgusting, false hope which just drives them to cling to it more.
It's a drug to them, they can't live without the hope that such a "love" exists somewhere in the world; they need it.
And the sad part is, they're completely oblivious to the fact that they have just become addicts, that they just sold their soul and relinquished part of their freedom to a fictitious concept.

It's so fake, it's almost real.