Timothy Stout: Favorites

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

Emma

I just want to be remembered.

I just want to hear my name be spoken when I can no longer speak myself. Me. Me. Me. Me and you. You and I.

I just want someone to cry, pressing their phone to their ear, listening through the ringing, listening to the beep, listening to the voice mail. Listening to my voice. Again. Another round. Beep. Just one more time. I’m not here right now but you can leave me a message.

I just want someone to get on their knees, beg for me, please come back; you can’t be gone; you couldn't leave so quickly, so quietly, so young.

I just want to watch my funeral; watch the people who say they loved me, watch the people who say they will always remember, watch the people who will forget me in four months; watch them cry their forced tears over my dead body. We’ll all miss you.
You were always a beautiful person.

I just want to find my name written in the margin of someone’s notebook. Over and over. Again. Again. Darker. Again.
Break the pencil. Wipe the tears off the paper.
Start over with a new pencil.

I just want to watch him crumble; say his last goodbye, say another last goodbye, say it until his voice has grown hoarse and he can say it no longer; I love you. I will always love you. Why’d you leave me? Why would you do this to me? I needed you; I still need you.
I need you here so I can say goodbye. I need to say goodbye.
*Goodbye.

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

The Lake

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

Edgar Allan Poe

The Lake

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less—
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon the spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody—
Then—ah, then, I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight—
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define—
Nor Love—although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining—
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

Invictus [I. M. To R. T. Hamilton Bruce (1846-1899)]

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

William Ernest Henley

Invictus [I. M. To R. T. Hamilton Bruce (1846-1899)]

Out of the night that covers me,
  Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
  For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
  I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
  My head is ******, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
  Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
  Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
  I am the captain of my soul.

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

Sonnet 018: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day?

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

William Shakespeare

Sonnet 018: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

Tears

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

Brycical

Tears

I see you over there,
hey!
No, don't run away
there's no reason to hide
just because you're crying.
There's no need to wipe those tears
away and out of your eyes
because whatever fears you've subscribed to
only make this experience blithe too.
You're just lying to yourself
if you try to not cry
or run away and hide
because someone like me will spy when you do.
Be you, be real in this moment of feeling
no matter if you're kneeling or reeling
no matter if your mother has died
or your other slipped into the night without a goodbye
or even if you're clutching that rye-whisky really tight
please know that this scene of you crying
out in the open tells other's it's o-k.
There's no shame in having a good cry
it doesn't mean you're lame if it's after a futbal game
or in the middle of a stadium because your girl, or guy proposed.
It's fine to get misty-eyed in an art gallerye
or the pain felt when I tried to rhyme that last line!
Crying doesn't equal weak, if anything it adds to your mystique
as someone who has comfortability expressing their feelings.

So the next time you feel your eyes start to well,
and your first impulse is try to quell such a sight,
say "What the hell" and let your tears fly as you cry
wisdom distilled.

I don't much like rhyming poetry.
Inspired by a combination of Fah & George Carlin.

#love #sad #death #tears #cry #happy

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

The End

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

Just Melz

The End

Thank God*
         I decided
    To
       Use
            Ink
Instead
       Of
  *Bullets

The last line from my poem "Loaded Gun" on my other account.

#gun #sad #bullets #life #pain #god #hurt #ink #10w #loaded

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

art

Nov 2014 Timothy Stout

sarah bell

art

maybe one of these days,
i'll write a poem simply looking at you.
and it will belong on the walls of art museums
because baby,
you are art
and yes, it makes me feel something.
(s.j.b)

— The End —