"saranac" poems
I don't know what to write here,
But I know I need to write.
So here is my streaming thought; I am sorry if the writing is horrific.
My brother is in Afghanistan and I want to cry. Not because I miss him terribly but because he's finally become someone I look up to rather than detest. And most of all I don't want to lose him.
My sister will be off to Japan in a few weeks and it will be the longest we've ever been apart. We're going to miss each others Birthdays…
My best friend is so wildly out of control I fear that she's going to get herself pregnant and not give a **** about anything. I just don't know what to say to her anymore.
I am going to college in six months.
My grandfather is dead, and so are both of my cats. My guinea pig died a year ago.
I am torn between science and religion.
I have feelings for someone who wants me too. But I can't be with him because I'm scared of everything that comes with a relationship. The drama, the complications, the pain.
I am much to internal. I miss my horses, I miss swimming in the cold Saranac River. I miss Forget-Me-Not flowers that come with the spring. I miss dancing in the rain and listening to music while I stargaze under the Adirondack sky.
I am sick of crying and grinding my teeth at night. I'm sick of feeling like I'm not human. I am sick of caring about myself, but if I don't, no one else will. I want to be the person I appear to be. The person that everyone thinks I am, but right now I just feel broken. How can the person thats supposed to hold others up be broken?
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
Hi, every one, I am the captain of all disease
A micro Guerilla war lord you strive to finish
Within the next fifty years and with catch word campaign
“IT’S TIME" as part of World TB Day (Twenty Nineteen).
Armored with mycolic acid, we are aerobic
Aerial experts invading human pulmonic
System in colonies of MBT spectrum.
Throughout the ages my target is Human beings
Of all regions from Horn of Africa, my origin.
My task and designs are to impoverish men
Kings and his men were my targets in ancient aeons.
People used many names to call me and my legions
'White plague', 'Phthisis', 'romantic disease' were common
Crazy men wanted to die embracing consumption,
A mere ‘the poor melancholy angel' assumption
To gift on the sufferer with sensitivity height
And to slowly die with the disease of the artist
Until Rene Laennec inventing the Stethoscope.
Men realized the lesions scope and my design and art
Doctor Koch discovered the cause and effect of my start
Men like the owner of Mammoth Cave, Dr. Croghan,
Put the sufferers into the cave like a pagan
In the hope of curing the disease and began
To treat with the constant temperature of cave air.
I caught the German physician, Hermann Brehmer,
Who came to the Himalayas to cure and endure
So he proved and labeled me a curable disease.
He opened a sanatorium, a place for healing
On the mountains of Silesia to treat the ailing.
Peter Dettweiler, an inspired patient of Hermann
Started one at Hesse for the afflicted He and Her man.
Edward Trudeau too was influenced by the German
And opened one at Saranac Lake's confluence.
But still we are powerful and **** millions of people
Our success rate of terror is far higher than the steeple
Chase unleashed in the Holocaust and in Hiroshima
We catch millions in latency and adapt to change
In time and try to outsmart any adept campaign!
Yet you can approach the Creator who may have a design
To defunct and re-engineer us to change and combine
Our deadly power to release us from this cruel confine.
For me too is fed up with this turbo holocaust!
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 6:06 AM UTC