People with plastic smiles
wave to me over their
white picket fences

I avoid their gaze
but they just smile as I drive
past

Back and froth
twice a day
every day
at minimum

I fear their cheerful greetings
there invitations to barbecues and
parties where I'll only be singled
out

I do not need the hive mind,
the men who we envision
in dark suits with red
eyes but who are really
just you and us down deep
inside

I drive by the
face of evil every
day

And as it chuckles
and laughs as I drive
by in my old beat-up
Volvo I avoid looking into
the empty-pits where
a soul is supposed to
be

one young man’s
attempt to make this world
he is barely a part of
something that he owns
and is responsible for
but just as quickly
as the spray-paint goes on
the men that really own his world
wash it and him away
reminding the young man
that he can do anything he wants
when he doesn’t care
what happens to the world
that isn’t his

the tired beer talks
the tired black nights
the faces of people
of family or friends
the **** behind the car
the fires where all you
can see is eyes
the empty cans
the shoeless feet
the people talking to
people
the relationships and
the alliances

on concrete patios
in the woods
near lakes
or out in the deserts

we are there
listening to grasshoppers
play their sad songs
who sometimes get
so loud that we yell at each other
and laugh at the top
of our lungs
trying to fill up
the black night
and remind those
bugs we’re not dead
yet

the sounds of my frustration
are practically palpable

I can feel the hate
I have for myself

my breathes short
my hands twitching

I seep anger
and weep shame

there is nowhere to turn
except inside

the same place I’m running from
the same thing that’s hunting me even now

I can’t write any more
I have become an external

I’m worried
I’m… scared

there I said it
I am scared

I am terrified
I am justified

I am fleeing from myself
and I know there’s no use

somebody,
please forgive me

I don’t deserve this
whatever I did,
it’s not equal to self-destruction
of the black hole
I created in
myself

the book is hidden away
its pages unturned
my eyes looking elsewhere,
ah,
this is bittersweet

I should
I should
I should

but,

I probably won’t,
like always

you know that
so why even ask?

I walk in with a smile
but always leave with a frown
because it always comes back to:
what I haven’t done
what I’m not doing
what I should be spending my time on

and it does is make me more
depressed

so Great Expectations
is waiting for
me

waiting to jump
and crush me
under it’s 500 pages
of ****

spring hits the
country
like a ten-ton truck
screeching
down your street
on its twelve to
eighteen
wheels

the trees burst with new leaves
the flowers bloom and stretch
to the sun
in hallow groves and quiet brooks
life is afoot once again

the backyards and the
lawns ache with their
growth

the new birds chirp with
hunger

the poets
reach
to their pens

still mystified
by this sudden
change

writing down thoughts
as colorful as their
worlds
trying to capture
just what
it’s like
to smell
spring
on
the wind

after every battle,
war,
argument,
or
day

after every fire
from the
furnace
(our soul)

there is a quiet time
when the sky turns grey
and the tiny flecks
of ashes
float towards the
earth

you watch the ashes
floating down
like angles from heaven

and they say nothing
but
everything
and
your eyes
close
silently
in
peace

if writing haikus
is needed to start writing
poetry is dead

she was a woman in every way:

petty, conniving, back-stabbing,
the sort of girl who cared when
somebody wore the same dress,
a person who rants endless and
then complains about those who
voice an opinion, she's had dozens
of men caught in her web (but has
only slept with two of them), she
reveals just enough skin to entice
but never enough to satisfy, she
is smart, she is desirable, and she
thrives on being needed

too many times I'd let myself
get involved with her

she'd spend weeks, winking
and nudging, sending every
signal that this time she was
going to bite back, and that's
why she enjoyed it even more
when she flipped the switch
and went cold forever (at least
until she decided to play with
me again)

she cares if she was the first
to hear that song, it matters
that she doesn't ever really
care, everyone else is worse
than her (in all the ways she
can think of), and time and
time again I've let her get
a hold of me, **** me dry,
and leave me for dead

she's a queen amongst spiders,
a rattlesnake in brazier, god of
hate and deception, ignorant
of her own ignorance, the center
of her own convoluted universe

she's wrong in nearly
every way

but, god,
she turns me on.

it is half past midnight
and I am stumbling around in
the dark of enlightenment,
trying to find the lesson
it has for me this time
so I get the hell
out of
here.

it’s a funny thing,
knowledge,
one of the trickiest
of the trickster
gods.

the one with the sickest
sense of humor, that’s for
sure.

but he seems
to know what he’s
doing.

he always helps me out,
eventually.

but come on man.
I know what you’re doing.
stop ******* around
and just hit me
with it.

neither you nor I want it
but I’ve got to have it,
don’t I?

so hit me with it:

not in the shins with the coffee table,
not on the back with the arm of a coat,
but right in my face, with the full brunt
of your force.

I want it.
I need it.

it’s half past midnight
and I’ve got **** to
do.

I get it.

you’re not looking now
or you’re not interested
or maybe you just think
I’m a *****
or maybe I’m too white
or maybe I’m not white enough
or maybe it’s because I don’t have a god
or that I only want in your pants
or that I don’t do drugs
but I do stupid things
or maybe you’re just a *****

I get it,
I get it just fine

I’ll wait and
you’ll wait
and one day you’ll
come around
or maybe you
won’t
maybe I won’t be interested
then anyways
maybe then we won’t care
or we will still care
but in between I’ll get up to bat
and swing and miss and
feel bad and write poems
about it and go to sleep angry
and wake up alright
and walk up to some new lady
and ask if she’s up for a little
fun

it was a good night tonight

I had…

fun.

despite the stress,
despite the lack of time,
despite the lack of rest,
despite the things always going through my head,
despite the doubts,
despite the problems,
despite the complications,
despite the billions of things to do,

despite all that,
it came
through
and
it felt
good

so happy birthday,

to me.

from all those people
who care enough to say
so

and those are the people I spent the night with
and this night, I get the rare opportunity to go to sleep
with a smile

don’t touch
he’s got skin like sand-paper
blood like acid
his heart pumps
cold blood
and his eyes are full
of devil’s fire

he’ll cut you
or batter you
he’ll leave you feeling sick
or feeling disgusted

so don’t touch
he’s too harsh,
too rugged,
leave him to thrive
amongst the
rocks

she might as well be a ghost now.
did she even exist? I don’t know
was it a dream? a terrible vision?
can someone mean so much and
then betray so fully? these questions,
I suppose, are pointless. flittering
doubts that will never finally land.
could I have known it would happen?
did I do something wrong? or could
I have done something to stop it?

what do these wonderings accomplish?
making me fear the sounds in the night.
making me worry over every step taken.
the ghost is no longer here, and maybe
she never was. phantoms, I’ve noticed,
only ever haunt believers. so thinking
back on her and all we were and weren’t
I can’t really say that I have any unanswered
questions, just a deep feeling of shame
and regret at the way things all turned out.
what more really is there to say?

Upon this night so cold and calm
I walk as a prophet lost in thought
Reciting lines to a father not mine
Of an accepting of night,
And the rejection thereof
And with these words, within this green,
I see an audience fit for kings,
And as I close they clap my words
As I slowly realize the fountain,
Drowning my noise.

there was a death in the paper today

an old man was hit by a drunk
going twenty-five over the speed limit
at approximately three fifty-eight
last Saturday night

there was a picture of the old man’s
kids and grandkids and everyone looked
very sad and very touched by this

there was no word
from the drunk’s
family

this story goes good with coffee
and a bit of apple ****

I read the last bit of the story
and head out the door

last I heard,
the drunk is in custody
and cannot make bail

washing on the shores,
the rustling winds in
the palms, the caws
of birds and scuttling
of *****, the silence
in the mornings, and
the quiet in the night

echoing, soothing,
playing, evolving

the sounds of the ocean
sound like some ancient
composers song

there is life in this music

human life, animal life,
plant life, sea life, life
of the air, life of the
earth, life of the tiny
and life of the big

we feel it more than we
hear it
and we smile

the bass hum of the trees
the melody of the seagulls
the harmony of the wind
the crescendos of the waves

it is the song of the sea
the music of the ocean
the soundtrack of life

I feel my muscles unclench
and relax

and it was gone just like that

like a weight off my shoulders,
like escape from certain death,
like running away without a
worry

it was gone just like that

with a handshake,
a smile,
and five steps
out the
door

I was a new man

fresh,
reborn,
free

unknowing of what
had happened in the
mean time

it is impossible to come
back from death without
collateral

what hallow husk
am I trying to bring back
now?

my greatest
allies are always
my recently
defeated
foes

all she
could muster
was

my name

between

the moans,
gasps,
and

screams.

hello,
hello there.

it’s been a while for me
maybe not for you
but for me it’s been what?
my entire life?

I know you don’t care though
you don’t care about anything
and that’s good, I’d be *******
if you played favorites

how’s the universe?
I know my planets pretty messed up
but I’m sure you’ve seen worse,
probably seeing worse right now
but that’s ok.

It’s funny
I don’t think anyone’s ever gotten you
no one’s ever really believed in you
you know how I know?
they all do things
if they believed in all they say
you know,
about how’re you’re:
infinitely powerful (which you might be)
infinitely seeing (which you might be)
infinitely loving (which I know you’re not)
because if they really believed that
then they’d just lay down
and let you do the rest

so god,
it’s been a while,
there’s a lot I could say
but you’re not who
it needs to be said to

I guess I might ask one favor,
could you pass along my message,
somehow?

thanks,
good bye,
good bye god,
good luck being the
universe

not the night,
nor the day,
offer a hand
to me in the
pit

not the dark,
nor the light,
give me hope
that I can one
day escape

not the smile
nor the frown
entertains the
thought of
survival

not the future,
nor the past,
wantons a
clue to my
past, or my
future

all the strong men,
now hiding in

cowardice,
religion,
and
ignorance

are no use to a
generation where
wisdom is as
scarce
as

humanity

what new Atlas
rises to keep the
world afloat?

not I,
you say.

not I,
they say.

not I,
says I.

the millions watch
as the statues crumble
the cities fall and
Atlas lays down
for some much deserved
rest

there is a beautiful
poem hiding behind
the little spaces in
my mind

the words are in there,
not out there, and some
how, I need to coax
them out

but I don’t know what
they’re like; they hide
so well I can’t even
describe their shadow

so it might be a dog,
who wants thoughts
on anger, and hate,
and frustration

or it might be a horse,
beckoning me to be
free and run wild

or it might be a man,
or it might be a woman,
or it might be a whale,
or a cat,
or a bird,
or a car,
or it might be a
dog

so I throw out everything,
dog-treats like remembering
how I’ve been ******* over,
and cat-nip like the last time
I snuggled up with an old
love,
and human sweets, like poems
that display the worst possible
existence any person could
have (and how I have it)

these words,
hiding somewhere
in this big ol’
mind:

come out,
come out to play,
I need you boy,
I need you back,
you know it.

oh is that’s what you are?
oh ok,
maybe I’ll go chase
another animal,
your inspiration
isn’t any
good

here I am

the man
Caleb Pendleton

the hated leviathan
the consumer without anything
to consume
the homeless wander who goes
home to a bed every night
here I am
in the flesh
ready to take on whatever
you choose I’ve done this
time

here I am
here I am
here
I
am

there may be blades in my smile
but you aren’t reaching up for a kiss
now are you?

here I am
in all I am

the liar
the loser
the criminal

the smart ***
the genius
the angry-
eyed
mad
scientist

here I am
and there you are

take your best
shot

here in the valley of despair
there is a forest black with
the blight of your failed
aspirations

here in the valley of despair
there are endless pits filled
with outcropping rocks acting
as the teeth for the crazy smile
of the men who lost themselves
in these endless pits called
depression

here in the valley of despair
the brightness and elation of
life is known only as a memory
of the forgotten sun

here in the valley of despair
we walk about knowing we
cannot go anywhere for here
in the valley of despair the
mountains that block our
escape only grow as we climb
them and the pits in which
live refuse to have a bottom

the first
lesson they teach
you
in improv
is to never say “we
will” or “we
should”
because yeah,
you will,
you should,
but it’s all talk and
the people are here
for action

so give them action
give them force
do things
be things
but don’t,
don’t you ever say
you will
or
you
could
or
you
would
or
you

should.

don’t,
just
don’t.

if I were a sand castle
I would welcome the sea
let it pull me away
wave by wave
until I was no more
than a damp patch of sand
because, truly, I cannot stand
being such a beautiful creation
left so carelessly to be eaten
by an uncaring ocean.

but I still maintain my walls,
put up as much resistance
as I can muster,
because
I am still unsure
if what I really want
is an empty beach
or a broken
sand castle.

if it’s really about
the inevitability of existence,

or really about
the inevitability of my mind.

I feel the poem
hiding
behind the shadow of my pen
or perhaps in the tiny crevices
of the skin on my fingers
but
I know he’s
here

somewhere

lately he’s been gone;
out drinking or perhaps
on a trip to vegas

his return is less like a
bursting through the
door
and more like
a sneaking
through the back-door as
he thinks I sleep soundly
in my bed

my eyes are open wide
as he empties his pockets
and quietly takes a ****

it must be three a.m. at least
and I haven’t slept a wink

I didn’t notice at first
but when I realized I shot
up in bed and looked
around for him to no
avail

he was gone
so I went back to bed

but,
as you know,
I could not
sleep

as he throws his shirt off and
climbs into his own bed across
the room my eyes surely glint
in the moonlight
but I doubt he
sees

he falls asleep within five
minutes

I wait there
my eyes glowing in the moonlight
then get up
hovering over his sleeping form

the knife appears from my right hand
and it too glints with my intention

I close my eyes as the strike is made
and the innocent blood splashes onto
my hands

I take it and smear my face

I open up my eyes

there is no blood
there is no body
there is no knife

there is just me
and this poem

exposed now from its hiding
place where I couldn’t see

I close my eyes again

his eyes are open now
my pen is sitting in my hand
I open my eyes as they
glint in the moonlight
just as mine did in my
double-think creation

this is the nature of my
art

fall is coming
and the winds have turned cold
the leaves aren’t changing but
a few brave ones have fallen
and although it’s hard to prove
I can see the new season arrive
in the sky, in the way the clouds
hang still, as if waiting, and the
blue shines brighter than ever

I’m lucky to be here, I think,
experiencing the sun-shine
and breathing in the world
at large

what a thing
to realize

a hush fell over the universe
those Christmas eve nights
when we would toddle through
the snow, up to the tiny house
where the rest of my family
had already gathered and begun
celebrating

it was in these quiet nights
that I understood everything
I needed to about our existence;
that it was fragile, that is was
insignificant, and that it was
unavoidable

though I could hear nothing
and see nothing, I could feel
the entirety of the world roll
away through that darkness

there was so much to do come
the morning, but for now, we
had to reunite with the others
and celebrate the two-thousand
something birthday of some
desert-dwelling hobo

a Merry Christmas to you,
dear reader, I hope you too
have received gifts as good
as this

have you ever even
considered
the
perfection
of the human
skull?

he said to me,
pacing the room
and punctuating each
sentence with his
arms

how many millions
of lives it must of taken
to form the perfect
curve that slopes back
so that rain water
falls easily off
and yet
the well-trained
can balance ten books
for over ten minutes?

have you ever even
thought about
how much
that simple *****
changes from the time
you are born?

he stared at me,
frenzied anger burning
in his eyes

(I was as unsure why
and as he was, I’m sure)

how can you sit there
and call yourself smart
when you have never ever
considered such simple
matters?

intelligence is wasted
on the ambitious

he spat out

they never stop to consider
just how much we’ve already
accomplished

the greatest power the light of god ever had
was casting shadows on that which we did
not want to see.

what
has happened to
the world
we
live in
now?

no man knows the meaning of trust,
of love,
of friendship,
of innocence.

the children are perverted
by other children

the adults made paranoid
by other adults

the idiots turned manic
by other idiots

the wise men turned wiser
by no one

this world we live in now
is tearing at the seams and
threatens to fall apart

but we have been here before.

we,
man,
were here at the dawn
of our existence

fighting against the wild creatures
and the twistings of mother nature

we were at this breaking point
and we survived.

we, man,
were here at the dawn
of the current era

destroying all that we knew
about the past and rebuilding
it in the hands of new men

we, man,
were here in the great war,
in the second great war, in
the war of the capitalists and
the communists, in the war
against the terror that still
goes on today

we were at the breaking point,
the chaos of it all spilling over
into things we didn’t think
could be tainted,

and yet we came back,
greater than
before.

we,
man,
humanity,
people,

have gone to the edge of existence,
even jumped from it,
without thinking of the doom
that awaited us
at the bottom of this
rocky cliff,

and yet we came back.

back from freefall.
back from oblivion.
back from hell.
back from the dark ages.

we came back.

again
and
again
and
again.

and who is to say we won’t come back?

we came back

we, together, fought against the plagues,
at the sickly parasites that drained our
powers and success, at the people that
refused to accept the future and held back
all those that they could,

and we won.

We won and we
won and we won.

won.
won.
won.

together.

and we can do it
again

together,
I know,
we
can.

here’s the thing

nothing’s going to change
because the stars
are aligned some certain
way
or
that he’s or she’s
different
or
that a new year has
started

times are still the same
people are still the same old
fiddly ******* that they were
five minutes ago
and you,
above all
else,
are still the incompetent,
useless ******
you were

when the big apple hits the ground
it just means another day has started

if you wake up each day and do jack-****
your not going to start being an astronaut
just cause the last number on the calendar
changed

and going back to what I started with

that horoscope isn’t going to bring you any luck,
that “perfect” person you just met is probably a
*** offender or just a plain loser,
and as we’ve already discussed,
nothing happens when the calendar
runs out

so you want to know what I think?

**** it.

don’t wait for some special opportunity
to change who you are

don’t make promises or resolutions,
you know you can’t keep

wake up each morning and say
“****,
I’m going to do better
than the **** job
I did yesterday”

do it
and see what
happens

or don’t

go ******* in bed
thinking that “the one”
will come to you
tomorrow

***** around at work
or at school and be oh-so-
confident that you’re going
to make 200k annually in
ten years

read those star logs
and get your palm read
and continue on knowing
that you’re going to be
the hottest **** since
Al Pacino

go on.
do it.

do it  and see what happens.

you worthless *******.

how
does one put
into words
the infinite beauty
of love?

as I walked up to the stage
reciting the poem again in my head
I realized how unprepared I was
and was afraid

how great was I?

as the words flowed from mouth
and the meaning flowed through
my body I did not feel confidence
nor did I dream of success

how great was I?

as the steps besides the stage
flowed behind me like a steam
I could hear the judge’s pencil flair
and the tapings did not sound good

how great was I?

as I left that place in a hurry
said good bye and good luck to all
I did not think of winning or losing
only that I must move on

how great was I?

as I hurried to the next thing
practice for a play
I sang and danced without thinking
of the poem I had just read

how great was I?

as the phone rang in my pocket
and I checked to see what it said
I saw my friends had sent me
news that I had not won

how great was I?

as I carried on with my practice
I did not clench my jaw
I knew what was is what it was
and knew I could only move on

how great was I?

but,

as the doors outside opened
and there stood two friends
who’d sent me that word
they screamed to me
“you won! you won!”
and I could say was
“what?”

how great was I?

as they insisted to me my victory
and told me of how I had been tricked
I could only repeat, mouth gaping,
“what do you mean I won?”

how great was I?

as they “yes, yes, yes,
it’s you! it’s you!
you won, you fool!
you’re act was great!”
I stared at them
lost of my voice

how great was I?

as I slowly sat down
taking the story all in
I wondered in my mind
not what I what next
but instead I was paused
and could only ponder

how great am I?

I cannot offer closure to
those who lose their loved ones
or whose children die
or parents die
or whose companies fail
or banks empty
or women run out
or bottles empty
or whose demons eat at them
or doubts destroy them
or whose lives are as hallow
as a Carron beetle cooked for
centuries under an unforgiving
sun

I can only offer a chance
to those who thought there
was none
to those who didn’t realize
there was a way out
or that they weren’t done for,
just yet

I give them a minute,
two perhaps,
where they can choose
to do
or
not

and this alone is all
the universe allows

how many times had I driven down pleasant hill after dark?
how many times had I sailed through the left turn lane into your neighborhood?
how many times had I squinted past my lights on the road in front of your house?
how many times had I seen the name of your neighborhood on the sign but I still can't remember it now? (did I ever know it?)
how many times had I leaned into that narrow uphill turn?
how many times had I gone fifty in a twenty-five when no-one was around?
how many times had I sped past your house only to turn around in the cul-de-sac just a little ways down the road?
how many times had I parked outside of your house and then knocked on your door?
how many times had I parked outside of your house and just waited?
how many times had I said "hi, how are you?" and listened ever so intently to you?
how many times had I had something to say and ignored you?
how many times had I stopped at QT and gotten a 59 cent soda and some gas?
how many times had I leaned over and kissed you at a stop light?
how many times had I pulled up into my drive way and gotten out with you?
how many times had I brought you to basement and made love to you?
how many times had I brought you down there just to *******?
how many times had I enjoyed that and so did you?
how many times had I laid there with you wondering if things were ok?
how many times had I said I loved you before I knew for sure?
how many times had I walked awkwardly with you upstairs trying to fake like we weren't up to anything? (not anything bad at least. hehe.)
how many times had I sadly driven you home?
how many times had I smiled at you because I really had been happy for once?
how many times had I smiled at you because that's all I could do?
how many times had I driven off without and felt less whole?
how many times had I stopped at QT and gotten a 59 cent soda on my own?
how many times had I thought about how great things finally were?
how many times had I almost believed in god because of you?
how many times had I felt like a fool?
how many times had I regretted all this wasted time?
how many times had I thought the best way was the way out?
how many times had I been right about everything?
how many times had I been wrong?
how many times had I loved you?
and
how many times had I been a fool?

well?
how many?

so long with sickness
can make a man sick

permanently sick,
sick more with sickness
than the disease itself,
a poison that lives in your blood,
in your veins, which engrains deeper
with each beat of your heart,
each thought in your mind
becomes toxic, sick,
but you become used to it;
so much in pain
you hardly notice it any more
constantly on the edge of a breakdown
fearful of everything, fearful of yourself,
and that, that is the illness
I’ve been living with
for so long now,
I hardly knew what it was like
to live without it

my limbs are light
my mind jittery with the lifted
weight

what now? I wonder

everything,
I suppose.

never again
will there be
a chance like
this

so it’d be such
a shame to die
in this moment

but the prospect looms and
the future moves and about
tomorrow I can promise only
that there may be an answer
or, just as likely, there might
not

never again
will there be
a chance like
this

so it’d be such
a shame to die
in this moment

but the prospect looms and
the future moves and about
tomorrow I can promise only
that there may be an answer
or, just as likely, there might
not

I think it’d be real easy to **** someone
take the gun,
take the knife;
pull the trigger,
push it in tight

I think that’s all there is too it
but I notice one thing that makes no sense
if it’s really that easy to **** somebody,
why isn’t everyone dead?

a hollowed skeleton
stares at the world
himself created and
wonders what went
wrong in his life

I look at this world
I created and think
that my future has
died and that I am
sooner dead if not
for the torture found
in life

any time,
I feel depressed,
or meaningless,
or alone

I take a look
at any map
or picture
of our green earth
hanging in the
night

and there’s something
about it

how it’s
so peaceful,
so grand

that all my worries vanish
and I’m reminded just how
lucky I am

I can admit to knowing what alone feels like

I can admit to knowing why I felt alone

I can admit to pushing others away
I can admit to saying no to their love

I can admit to crying in a crowd of people
I can admit to burning a tissue offered for my tears
I can admit to crying more as that tissue burned

I can admit to being petty
I can admit to being brave

I can admit to creating my suffering

I can admit to knowing what alone feels like

I can admit to ending it
I can admit to that once I had the strength of others to fight it off

because my poetry is nothing
because my words are nothing
because my computer is nothing
because my friends are nothing
because my life is nothing
because my acts are nothing
because my mind is nothing
because my works are nothing
because my hand is nothing
because my creations are nothing
because my criticism is nothing
because my fantasies are nothing
because my applause is nothing
because my books are nothing
because my wisdom is nothing
because my thoughts are nothing
because my punishment is nothing
because my rewards are nothing
because my brain is nothing
because my limbs are nothing
because my body is nothing

because nothing is nothing
because everything is nothing
because everything is everything

because nothing is everything
because nothing is everyone
because nothing is every-
thing it was meant to be

because my existence is nothing
because my struggles are nothing
because my help is nothing
because my actions are nothing

because he said so,
I am nothing.

I am the silent boy
the one who sits with his book
the one who’s face is still when others laugh
the one who does not expect a response when
asking “how’re you today?”
I am the silent boy

I am the tired boy
the one who sits while others run
the one who hangs his head at the end of the day
the one who does not engage and neither does he
go after
I am the tired boy

I am the saddened boy
the one who refuses love
the one who had his heart stolen
the one who’s eyes gaze downward
as the sun sets on another day
I am the saddened boy

I am the boy
the one who is silent
the one who is tired
the one who is sad
I am the boy

I am the hopeful boy,
the one who speaks despite
the silence others expect.
the one who runs despite
the protest of his own legs.
the one who smiles despite
the urge to frown as he looks
out at the world
I am the hopeful boy

I am the boy
the hopeful,
hopeful boy

I look out upon the empire that never knew night
there upon the top, of Cathedral St. Paul; I ran so
high, so fast, my legs now wobble in the cold air.

Uncomfortable I felt, within the sacred place, but
out here, atop the harrowing and haughty dome,
I know the meaning and purpose of all existence.

The British, though snooty and over-confident as
they may be, knew the power of over-doing and
over-creating and showed so for so many years.

Now, I looked at the shell of what was, a great
city that begs to differ on the current state of
world affairs, judged by the people of the streets.

They dare the world to laugh at them,
at their once great kingdom that came
all around the globe and back again,
but who now barely reaches an hour’s
travel across, at any point or intersection.

And we cannot do it. For they are the great and
the once great all in one and we, the Americans,
owe our lives to their ambition, and our freedom
to their failures.

what comforts can you offer
to a person who smiled
when he was told

“you’re dying”

and he lived?