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I think you still look at me,
like you did when I was a kid --
Forever seeing me
as my younger, wilder self,

When you look at me, still,
All my childish ways were for nothing,
But, I see them as my "red pill"
transforming me into something --

I think you also still see me
lying in that coma.
Your dreams dashed for the ideal daughter's glee
You wished to live out your long-lost desires...

So you dressed me, did my hair
made me up like a daisy doll
lying there without sound to share,
I couldn't protest, I wore that knoll.

But, now --
Here I am,
With a voice less shallow
Yelling:  "I am not that kid anymore!"

So, how do you like that pill --
to swallow?
There you are little wren,
Drawing my attention in,
To your looping, lonely, little psalm —
Some men
get knocked down far too easily.
They're as solid
as a sandcastle when the air is breezy.

Are we now a world
where our values do not matter?
They beg for coin,*
but deliver poisonous words that shatter --

I am not a "man hater"
I am desperate to find,
Men who can stand the test of time,
And know and whence speak their mind --

But all I see are puppets --
tied to the TikTok
Of public opinion that changes every season,
dancing to the worthless tune run amok --
*likes, swipes, views - we are all hustling for something.
So many colorful shards,
so many scattered books,
my Father left behind.

He connected the dots
with me, in space and time,
listening to the wind
when it was raining.

Absent and so close,
he used to say:
“Listen to what’s on the ground.
See what lifts us at night
when the birds go silent.”

He gave me more unrest,
he was the left hand
forced to write
with the right.

He believed in me
when the system
sent me away,
dismissed me.

He had hope
without medals,
standing steadfast
in the last row.

Now the body crumbles.
There is a memory
full of holes.
A counting echo—
he remembers,
he doesn’t,
it’s fine,
still hard
but his voice lives…

Time is blending
into a rusted chain
of events.
Tenderness,
resistance
to the falling apart
of departure.

He won’t come back.
He won’t recover.
The body is warm,
life doesn’t want to escape
the shrinking shell.

Sharp words cut helplessness.
Many nights still come
until the final return
to the embryonic state,
to point zero.

I am here,
into this deep night
being the witness to breath,
awake in the dark gentleness.
 19h
Damocles
What a useless thing,
It stands there stalwart
With a child like expression.
Crudely constructed,  
Kindergarten craft like.

Hair made of straw,
Skin dry and burlap,
Eyes wide and sunken,
Smile crooked and broken.

What a sad thing it is,
Hay filled and overstuffed
Obese, rotund, and moldy
Old and foul smelling—
A potpourri of fungus and rot.

Allegedly scary to the crows,
Standing well within the rows
Protecting corn and other crops
Superstitious like native myths,
But a whiff, a shame
As crows land and pass their excrement.

Dirtied beaten thing
A sign of harvest and oncoming fall,
But a parody of Mythos past
As this scarecrow scares nothing at all.
Seriously, they are useless things. Just rotting in place serving no practical purpose.
Standing alone in a clothes room,
Looking in the mirror directly.
Crying out on the inside;
I still haven’t found what I’m looking for!

Is it just me?
Or is it the world?
When will the mirror show completeness;
When will it show joy?
Standing alone in a world full of people,
But when will I find the second half?
Is it Your plan,
Or is it just for laughs?

Still haven’t found what I’m looking for!

In a city of rushing,
And everybody pushing
There's no stopping
To smell the roses,
We’re all glammed up,
Putting in the poses.

Still haven’t found what I’m looking for!

But as I quieten
The inner me,
That no one can see
No longer am I frightened,
I will just be.

Standing alone in a clothes room,
Admiringly
Satisfied with the journey
Releasing the bags of gloom.

What I've been looking for
Was here all along
You are what,
I've been looking for!
Poems pepper every waking wonder,
all peccadillos are fodder,
for the poetry potting mix.
Perfectionism once the precipice,
although still my poking stick,
creativity is my ignition, really revs my engine,
and, I hope will burn brighter.
Poems take me away, far, far away,
to a world so wonderful,
I wake up thinking of no other.
FRIENDSHIP:
All in the same ship...
In the same boat.

Friends do their best
To understand things
Shared by friends.

FRIENDSHIP TO SOME:
The interests of a politician
An agenda manipulating
Your position.

FRIENDSHIP TO ME:                 
It is not a dictatorship
It does not grab the wheel
It always makes you feel
You are in control.

Friendship does not focus
On fates remains
It cloaks your fears and
Shares the blame.

Friendship is not a forfeit
It closes ears and eyes
To those that accuse and
Deny though on a certain
Level it always remembers
Because its failsafe can
Never forget.
 
DEEPER FRIENDSHIP:           
And then there is a
Deeper purer friendship
Based upon unconditional
Love and mutual respect
Which catapults it
Into a whole new
Dimension of caring and
Nurturing
Which
Transcends simply caring
For its own and glorifying
Its bones in a well-kept
Grave of the status quo
But grows into an
Uncanny respect and
Caring for others
Beyond cliquish and
Familial bonds.

FRIENDSHIP'S BASIS:
Often made of the
Imperfect
Of things that may seem
To contradict.
It often overlaps
Most relationships.

But though it may seem
To be a monolith
We must sometimes stand
Alone on plains unknown.
Writing on subjects like friendship are not always definitive and
do not always translate to
page; but I do love trying
to climb the mountain!
 1d
Malcolm
Whispers in the wind,
I posted soul to silence
the thread scrolls onward.

A single soft flame,
snuffed beneath the wildfire breath
of hungry poems.

Click. Another post.
They chase hearts like falling stars
mine fades in the blur.

Desperate fingers
fire thoughts like broken arrows,
no aim, just impact.

My poem, quiet,
drowns beneath their loud hunger
a voice in the mud.

Each line I carved slow
lost to the flood of wanting
what were they needing?

Not read, just noticed.
Not felt, just fed by the feed.
Echoes die, unseen.

I don’t need the likes.
Just a pause. A soul. A breath.
One reader who hears.
Malcolm Gladwin
July 2025
I'm wonder if they catch the hint ?
You give me life,
While he tries to ***** it out!

You build me up,
While he tears me down.

You bring clarity,
While he stirs up confusion.

You repair,
He retorts.

You restore.
He doesn’t stand a chance in hell!
From the archives…
A voice of melody broke the numbness,
‘Good morning everybody, have a great day,”
Light in the darkness
Love in aloneness
A witness in the masses.
Small acts are noticed —
I receive your love.
Thank you.
Thousands of eyes,
looking at my sleeping body.
After my false awakening,
I saw them,
still trapped in the dream.
They were recording
my every painful breath.

Eyes without eyelids,
dense, dark air.
I became an unexpected glitch
in the imposed system.
They just didn’t know
what to do with me.

The spiders around my bed
were watching over
the meaning of my existence.

I had only a deep need
to find a place
for all elements
of the broken vessel,
the black pupils,
the witnesses
to my faltering walk.

I am not yet a butterfly.
I am the caterpillar
in a long ego tunnel.

Thomas was right.

To heal,
I must keep going
and going
until all becomes
one seamless whole,
ready to transform
into a flying being,
free from the chain of wounds,
sacrificed
on the altar
of broken Ego.
Thomas Metzinger
Thomas Merton
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