#lonesomeness
7:40 PM
I walk the boulevard.
Accompanied by
Every footstep.
Looking
For every friendship's
Chalk outline. I have the Christ's right hand,
And water.
7:46 PM
The body doesn't move.
8:11 PM
Outside, I saw red-n-blues, still,
The night was beautiful, nostalgic,
Sonderous.
I cast another magic spell.
It's not about whether or not
You could revive dead things;
It's about whether or not
They were dead
All along.
Your heart wells for a reason:
Is it water or the penny
That makes a wish come true?
8:17 PM
I've begun to quit.
When you fall to your death,
You embrace acceptance,
Your last choice. But, for some reason,
I'm waiting for feathery wings,
And that has made my descent
Hang around my neck
A thousand feet above mountains.
8:24 PM 8:25 PM Have you ever felt before? 8:26 PM I guess, supposed to. 8:27 PM Then why do you wait here, when there can be so much for you? 8:30 PM Because I don't like you. 8:30 PM And that makes sense how? 8:30 PM Because it just doesn't, like you.
It's 8:40 PM. Now it's not
And I'm still alone. Time
Fakes progress: it's a waste.
A digit changes itself,
But nothing happens.
It was 8:43 PM an uncounted amount of times before,
And it is everywhere, because now exists everywhere,
But this present moment - this shard of time
Passing through me - this thing is killing me
Slow.
9:00 PM
My blood is brown,
Still, my nails grow,
Still, I flex,
Still, I am.
9:31 PM never ends.
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 10:33 PM UTC
Whispering hardships into the night
Only echo as an answer
No one but me to spark the light
In search of a pyromancer
Aug 14, 2022
Aug 14, 2022 at 6:04 PM UTC
the hunchback moves with the pews
alongside children and their man
who, stiffening under his corduroy,
sits behind his services.
so lost in a translation and a tot.
hunched, i could wail
the miracle of touching in the blind.
beneath the steeple, i am told,
dirt in the eye makes it whole.
beneath the scabbed ground,
are families who wore denim
even in portraits
even when mangled with steel on the interstate.
above, i am so very lonely.
i am told they were buried in pairs.
the children’s man tells me the caskets
were closed for the service.
i want to tell him i never asked.
nevertheless,
he involves himself with the bodies
like a shard in the night.
he and the tender middle,
pinned among ashes and ashes.
(oh god can you see
the soil
and your shepherd’s hand heading down to meet it?)
the hunchback under paper bedsheets
is a behemoth of all exterior.
touch him, tangle with it.
peeled open to the innards,
and in resignation,
there are sadder truths under the skin.
small as nail clippings on the linoleum
and me tossing myself onto the spike.
in whatever misshapen ****** i barter,
i know i still breathe like you do.
placing it all here, then,
at the holy foot of
every physicality i am mangled with,
it is a simple confession-
that you can’t know how this could be tears me apart.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:46 AM UTC
Welkins so melancholy, welkin so gray,
How mine isolation dost mock me; for
Only the lonesome make sharu fotay.
Bedchamber so hushed, bedchamber of many tears; how I feel thy ivory paint,
How I feel thy pain here.
Hallway so narrow, hallway that breathes, O' hallway, O' hallway, listen when I sing.
Grab mine hand, O' hallway of mine abode,
Mine feet do walk quietly, on thy carpet; thy soul.
Spirit O' spirit, how heavied thou art, soon shalt thou depart; for the world is to much.
Mine skin yearns for kisses, mine fingers for touch, O' many hath wishes, guess I ask for to much.
Mine hair screams loudly, to be caressed, ruffled. How gray art the welkins; when a poet's love is muffled.
Mine hand tis weak, from not having ones grip, mine lips chapped; no wetness
Nor mist.
Mine dance is off, with none holding of hips, mine glance is off; eyes pained
By watching worldliness.
Mine old worn out ninety-sixties Beatles boots art worn, tired they mourn; they've
Walked many miles; on trails I've turned.
They've walked through streets, where dope addicts fiend, I've been that pusher, that user in scenes.
I've dreamt, I've dreamed, hath had many emotions; with mother and dad, I've smoked and mind opened.
Mine hope in God strong, unearthly, outspoken; I'm here on thy globe,
To bring hope to the hopeless.
Mine garb is bygone, outstandish, I'm Irish, Scottish, two types of native American Indian blood; Chickasaw-Choctaw,
From mother's generational flood.
A Greek man's inside me, one of biblical times, with french royalty, even Charlemagne, is connected to
Family of mine.
As well french power, and kings and queens, emperor's, empresses in mine relations; who ruled Rome with
Maximus, and around
Constantine.
With pilgrim cruor from England, that came here on ships; on the Mayflower they traveled, to this place of new bliss.
Even tis I am Swiss, these art mine bloodlines, O' how mine souls old,
A gold refined.
This is me O' Lord, thy lonesome son,
O' this is me God, thy writer
Of love.
Welkins so melancholy, welkin so gray,
How much longer O' loneliness; til
Thou shalt go away.
Tonight, O' tonight, shalt be silence once again;
Thus the dream of being held, is just
A thought with none end.
© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poets poetry
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
Lonesomeness hits after the midnight hour; as the more
Lonesome it gets sitting still
As a flower, wanting mine
Petals to be felt.
Wanting mine spirit uplifted,
Aye, mine smile to return.
Still a boy I am inside this man,
A creature who hast seen
Prison cells, where devils
Cringe and yearn.
An afterhour bard,
With a cloudy wind
Creeping betwixt his
Window pane.
me synchoreíte,
The child inside me
Is peeking once
Again.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
tears and joy, and laughter broke.
and the fear of commitment ringed.
lonely souls searching for a bright light,
walking under the the rain. freezing.
at night before time slows down,
they scream, they cry, they stop.
shouting out prayers to something.
while all the flowers they planted died.
while their beliefs are withering. cold.
is it right to escape? one begs an answer.
getting plastered, singing songs, crying out.
celebrating life without enduring the pain.
in life we learn, in alcohol they drown. fear.
nietzschean rhetoric and boredom.
reading under the moonlight is hard.
i am sorry. be well and happy like always.
without me you’d be fine. i know that now.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
*
Walls upon walls of soundless treatment
I talk to the voiceless whisperer.
*
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC