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Alexis Jul 2018
Always out of place,
And looking for more.
I have many hopes and dreams,
Yet they never soar.
In need of a push,
Some motivation.
But all it ever does
Is turn into frustration.

Wake up with adrenaline,
But it never lasts.
All I ever think about
Is how I failed in the past.
I’m stuck in a rut
And can’t get out.
I feel like I can do it
But then my head fills with doubt.

I try and try again,
But I always fail.
Do I try again?
Or keep walking down this trail.
Everywhere I look,
I see success.
I keep going nowhere
Even though I try my best.

Tired of being comfortable
In the same place.
All of this talent and ideas
Going to waste.
It’s time to get to work,
These words I must embrace.
No more sitting on the sidelines,
It’s time to join the race.
Sequoia Jul 2018
The dagger is deep in her chest,
In great precision with the heart.
Empty eyes fill up quick with tsunamis.
Her sadness weighs a ton on her shoulders.
When her kindness is taken for weakness, she becomes broken, little by little.
Her bright smile surpasses a lifetime of pain.
Her way with words shows experience & tribulation.
Her eyes possess conundrum & distress.
Body imbibed by caliginosity,
She is trapped in an eerie forest.
She is a fly in a spiders web,
Struggling to detach herself from the dreadful bleakness.
She's been incapable of doing this all her life,
But now,
She seeks revenge on the killer of happiness
With high hopes of restoring her contentment.
December 31st @ 5:55 A.M.
brandon nagley Dec 2016
Even in mine worries,
        Angst, despair,
                    Don't worry mine Jane;

Mine love is right here.


Even in mine trial's;
          Tribulations I face.

With thee,
       Right next to me;
                There's a smile on
                              Mine face.

Though the sand may
    Be crumbling, and
          The castle's slide to the sea;
                
  There's the beauty of me
                  Having, thou that
                  Set's me free.

Though mine flesh
   And heart mayest fail,
      And the cloud's shalt roll around;

Mine soul is at ease
          With thee mine queen;
           With thy voice I float
           Off the ground.
                  
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedicated( agapi mou)
Angst- a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition or the state of the world in general.
Mine- means my.
Mayest- may.
DEW Nov 2016
Golden coin gleaming in hand.
All his hopes took refuge in that vestige of conjured worth.
The man with no name would buy his name this day...

The empire's burgeoning halls pressed in around him as he strode.
They would devour him in this moment if they had not done so already.
Yet, why the empire? There are more docile things to tame.
Everything is the same for the man with no name.

"People would apologize for stepping on me, but they knew not what to call me, so they went somnolently on their way."
I try to imagine these are the things he'd say,
instead these are the words of those I know,
those that I can hear, see, smell, touch... taste.
The man with no name's words are a waste.
He leaves no footprints wherever he may go.

The steps to the Hand of the Empire are steep.
Some will climb it, some will weep.
Yet, the man with no name will not turn back this day;
he takes a moment to fill and a moment to pray.

His memories are so vibrant, so full of clarity,
like crystals in the light, banishing insanity;
his tales will evoke the highest majesty,
entrance the gluttonous, deprave with vanity,
they'll bite the snake and poison its legacy,
they'll quietly rake the fields of the mind,
yet each soul is weary, cold and blind,
when he is gone, they pay no mind.

His steps are strong, hard, fast
throughout the night, will he last?
This is no simple, boring task,
the steps to the Hand do more than ask.
They take from you and more than due,
they make you fight,
they run through you.
When the night is cold and breezy,
you'll find the steps are dark and creepy...

Of course, the man with no name bears on.
What has he to fear, you can't hunt what you don't want,
for the hunt is a thrill, and trash is pleasureless.
The steps are perilous,
they hunger for blood,
his steps are thunderous,
nailing thud after thud.

Dawn peeks over the distant horizon,
and what a sight to see: the man is still rising.
In tandem the sky and he play their parts,
so does the Empire, putting bodies in carts,
for the night brings the dead, so many have tried,
to climb up the steps and in doing so, died.

The man with no name treads a feat all his own,
but see? A trembling hand. The ache of bone.
For the man with no name is tiring, tiring,
even in the face of his glory aspiring.

He would tend to the sick and defend the weak,
danger and challenge and evil he'd seek,
to vanquish the rotten
and save the damsel,
but he's always forgotten,
that he couldn't handle.

So this lead him to this fateful day,
to this fateful place.

Just look at the sweat cascading his face.
Look at his knees, how they groan and slow pace,
his legs seem to jostle and wobble out of place.
Where is his strong stride? It almost seems funny.
Many would do this sort of thing for money.
Yet, he does this for his own pride,
and that grim determination, from his face,
seems to slide.

He collapses and the jut of a step knocks his face,
for the steps are at his throat,
trying to crush his ebbing life.

I've known better men
to have fared far worse,
but this man looks on his life,
not as gift,
as curse.

Who is more deserving?
More than he?
Cowards! Be gone!
Pretenders, flee!

What's this?
He props himself up with ease,
the fire in his eyes would startle a lion.
The steps tremble with fury,
they quiver with disgust,
they lust for his end,
he must die, he must!

"No."
He speaks!
"Not today."
The gall!
Don't tempt these steps,
the Empire's nigh trekable wall!
"What I want more than anything,
is to be myself,
whoever I am,
so let me pass, you glorified shelf!"

How strange it would be, to be there that day,
for the steps let him pass, without delay.

He stood in the face of the Hand of the Empire.
Glistening in his palm, the token to buy his face:
his full life's earnings, polished, just in case.

He sighed, "All I've ever wanted is to be respected."
At the cusp of his one goal, the man defected.

One day, he told me this tale.
This he said, into my conscience: burned.
"If you fight death for a name,
you'll lose all you've earned."
It's a rare thing these days for me to feel puckered out after writing a poem, but this one had me panting... metaphorically... maybe a "little" bit literally, LOL.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this!
Let me know if/how much, you liked it :)

DEW
H3L3 Jul 2016
I sit patiently and wait for the waves to consume the sand house I built
A sand house built with the hate that's grown over a period of time.
A sand house built like a sad house, growing weaker and weaker everyday.
The waves roll over my sand house filling the crevices with water.
After the water drains I look at my house and am shocked.
My sand house is packed with more sand, strengthening the walls.

My sand house built like a sad house, built stronger and stronger everyday.
I sit and wait again for the waves to consume the sand house I built
The sand house, filled with all the hate and distress created.
This sand house filled with me, filled with everything that I am.
So I must be strong if I can withstand these waves of trials and tribulations
If I can push out the water and come back a stronger me.
Wrote this on Vacation (:
CDs Jun 2016
on the horizon of our tribulation
 variables hover as unwritten expressions
       the plane of abstract thought
         a stream of consciousness
           holds memories from long ago

                       what comes forward
                     as sudden flashes
                   blurs the distinction
           between past and present
   uncertainty holds us close as a ghost
       our worlds float further away but
       the fatigue remains intimately alive

      when i sit alone
     he shows me that i'm small
      too imbued with a tendency
          to exude, to emote
              i am barely vocal

         the plan is predictable
       you pluck sentiment from thin air
          and with a flap of your wings
               take off into trepidation
NalaniRose Mar 2016
all i wanted was a simple apology
if you loved me it wouldn't be that hard
but i guess you didn't
they told me not to fall to hard but i never listen for i thought was different.
but you were exactly what they said and to my existence your malignant
but yet somehow you still are a stimulant
you set gasoline to my fire and it heats up resembling our heated arguments that end up with one of us in pain
for you were never the solution you were never my rain to exhaust my flames
your a poison and it's addictive yet my soul still survives
it hurts so much but my heart yearns for you it chimes
chimes in a irregular beat; wishing for you to care but its like i'm never there
i always end up suffering the ramifications
your my main cause of my dreary tribulations
yet, i stay
yet, i still care
yet, i'm still blamed
yet, i cant stop loving you
Where did i ever go so wrong?
IsReaL E Summers Jan 2016
He knows to stay away.
His nature holds him sway.
But hunger holds to thirst.
And Blood has quenched the first.
A white lie'n the pride of the Savannah
A gentle lamb, who's name is Hannah.
O'God reign heavenly manna!

We eat in Peace.
Though wars never cease.
Body vs soul heart vs mind
Liam C Calhoun Dec 2015
The Crickets cackle “crisp,”
With an only interruption, being I,
Atop dust, whisper and
Desert highway.
I’d tell you if I were running,
But I’m not quite sure, not yet,
Leaving the Coyote to eat,
Respite, and devoured,
The singing Crickets,
A’howl later,
To deliver answers unimpeded.

I have a faint memory –
A snake’s grip promised, via hand and
Crystal contingency,
“Wiser,” once bestowed, the mystic;
An epic complete, atop 17 years of thunder,
Steel stained crimson,
Street stained whimper
And forever remaining,
“Under-construction.”

Symbolic a more relevant scaffold,
½ bamboo and the other steel, the tower,
Note ‘fore me, it’s only purpose –
Elsewhere, and anonymous,
While I tap my belly to some
Melody we’d once enjoyed;
Maybe something by, “Coltrane,”
Or maybe not; but music we’d both
Recognize and reminisce too.

It’s an awkward alchemy of sorts,
As the Crickets, post-mortem,
Persist if only to chirp, and the Coyote mulls.
When the dust continues to cake.
When the whisper finds newer ears.
When interrupt’s abrupt, erupts,
Pacifies and interrupts again;
My precious distraction –
An amnesia loyal in away from, “then.”
Somewhere beyond, “there,”
And onward, “anew.”
You can only run for so long, and all it takes is one song to bring you right back.
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