O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.

he is gone....

night's dark
shadows flit
and shake,
shadow breezes
sing of past
love,

when i kissed him
our love was a bowl
of exquisite rose,

lust ripped at our
bones sunk into
them like a gold
sun's bloom,

my heart remembers
him like a grey ghost
of the past,

worn and unholy,

my love for him
is still a whisper
in the grass,

my love for him,
and only him,
is water and fire,

fire of ghosts that
melt with love,

water of love that
drowns in pools of
steel

for what is forgotten

reaching down to catch
an invisible hand

i am an acrobat
remembering heaven
and love,

a leaf on the winding
wind, incredibly brittle,

for these nettles
i walked in still
sting as i sigh
for his name....

your love is flower petal soft,
and i hold it here between my
index finger and thumb.
there is something in our touch
that electrifies.

i would split my bones
to give you strength,
and when you reach out
to hold my hand,
i know you would do
the same.

i want to touch my lips
to yours,
because they seem so alone,
and i want to rain over you
like a sky so blue,
but i don't want to reach
too far.

i'm bathing in your light,
and i've somehow emitted
my own.
when you give to me
a glow i've never held,
my hands don't know
what to do.

and yet i still learn
how it feels to
feel/know/want/touch
again.

These changes aren't good. Please, Mr. York, change it back. We love your poetry site. But we love the way it WAS.

i felt them sputter in and out of life
between my fingers
little tails twitched-twitc-twitched
then lay still and dormant as a bulb in winter.
fur glistened with blood and i wondered
what it means to have life
and why god has means to take it away.
lives are like candles,
blow on them too hard and they sputter out.
only those narcissistic enough to relight themselves
stay here on this earth and keep
burning away in pain until they're naught but
ashes on the ground. or in it.
so i'll light a light for the lights that died
in my hands last night,
the stench of afterbirth and sour blood
infiltrating every sense i have.
i will not soon forget that dismal dark.

Walking in dim thoughts
with the sound of rain outside.
The dripping pattern takes
me on a pitter-patting journey.
I'm neither here, nor there,
and yet somewhere
I must be.
Craving to be healthy,
in mind, body and soul.
Content perhaps?
Aware of who I am
and who I will
always be.
Is anyone like this?
Really?
Or are we a collected
mass of android
arms reaching
lamely for
robot parts?
Artificial emotions that
fester out like
***** mud shoes left
in the hallway.
We yawn internally
to avoid the truth
that we are bored
with one another.

Raindrops continue, as
does my doubting heart
as it wraps around
the possibility of
funerals and
Requiem Masses.
Long faces and
sighing masking
the indifference
of striving.
Together in mood
but far apart
in disposition.

Carry on, rain,
carry on. Slip
your wetness
against the dry spell
of my perception.
I can see. Or, I can
close my eyes to
imagine that the
tomorrow of thought
becomes the infested
reality I will be living.

I spend too many
careless storms wishing
for other days to arrive.