SAD PEOPLE.

SAD PEOPLE

Sad people make me angry

            I don’t understand their terrible sadness.

Trapped in a drug-induced stupor;

Shadowed by their own selfish longings.

            I don’t understand the wicked ways

Of the world or their terrible longings.

                        I suppose a reflection would be necessary,

But not warranted.

            Take into heart the reasonings of all self-doubt.

I want to take a stand on the problems of the world,

            Like homelessness, or the feelings of being trapped in a loveless world.

I have become a sacrifice to the gods,

            The gods of men wearing thongs, the gods of greed-

Greed stands in the way of common sense.

I hope goodness is not trapped.

            I try not to stand in the way of anyone else’s burden,

But more often than not my confidence is destroyed, and I have to see the way

The world is the way it is.  Like, why war?  Why anything?

                        That is the entrapment.  That is the world in which we live.

The World.

All this time I was wondering,
what promises will fade
on the forgotten shores of time.
In the early dawn, light twinkles close to shore.
My heartache is steady.  I am moving towards the west.
Where do I begin to explain the simplicity of this promise?
I am bequiled, like a forgotten land.  However few,
these words are broken.  Why is there a knot in the back of my
head?  Some people don't seem to understand the time it takes
to reflect on my burdens.  I have to survive in the wild,
alone, desolate, broken, in the mood of being nothing more
than a being surviving without anyone, anything.  Words are
nothing more than a broken promise, etched in time.  The pigeon
flies on sole wings, in the midst of despair, I am here, reaching
far out into oblivion, reaching far out in the midst of things.
Don't tell me you are jealous.  I am beyond reason.  Your reason
should be your god, not your menace.  I feel like a ghost is following
me, from room to room, down the road, etched in dew.
The dew falls on the grass, and the rain pitter-patters on the roof,
and I am long-forgotten, wondering about the world.

A Forgotten Land, A Forgotten Place.

This is a forgotten land, a forgotten place.
That has befallen us to temptation.
Everything we see is bitter-the car in the driveway,
the hungry maid.  She sees what she sees.
Sometimes, we do not know where our loyalty lies,
in everything or nothing, and sometimes things are never
okay.  The loneliness is in a shred of doubt.
The master is in the deceit.  Everything is farther than it was.
Sometimes, we see things that are at death's door.
I wish I could be a butterfly.  I wish I could be a tugboat.
Everything I wish, and nothing seems fewer.  The lies are
in our deceit.  Everything is beguiled.  Take us not to temptation,
or fate us with what is fewer than the forgotten eye.
There are prophets.  There is death.  There is the life in after death,
and the next afternoon.  The car gets stuck in the driveway.
I see my life going before my eyes.  I feel a twinge of guilt.
Everything is less than certain.  Everything is death,
or the certainty of death.  These emotions lack certainty.
They are a part of the path of destruction.  How you help,
and why it helps, I cannot say.  What is there to say, anyway?
I feel like a dumb horse looking into a dumb horse's mouth.
Nothing is the same as it was yesterday.  Everything is new.
The grief is new.  I am a new man who sees the future,
and in it, the grass is brown.

Nothing Further.

All alone, this path is mine, I became interested
in the monarch butterfly.  Fluttering in its wake,
it cries, and mourns the fallen star.  Everything we see-

what's left is right, what's right is left.  The light is
dimmer than the ear.  I fear, we fear, the heart is near-
and the shark swims, and swims together.

The star shines brightly.  Everything is bright.
The man in the room, the heart that is full of doom.
Tomorrow is blessed by the man.

I am tired.  I want to sleep, but the fireflies keep
me going.  Awake, and up, and awake, am I,
and I am despairing.  My last kin has died.

You think you know the temptation is dim,
and our eyes are vast as we can swim,
but nothing has gotten farther from the truth.

We are gone, and I am gone.  Gone.  Just gone.

Alone.

I am a poet who lives alone.
My mother comes to visit me, sometimes.
I go out during the week, to do the grocery shopping,
and come home, alone, again.  I am perpetually alone.
Alone, I feel, with the bitterness, and the tides that spew
forth tornadoes of hate-hatred that is the flesh, hatred

that is the mother.  Sometimes, a mother hen will lay eggs;
sometimes, a flock of ducks will fly across a highway.
The train comes by, chugging slowly.  Everything is slow
this day.  I am alone.  You say you are with me, but where
are you?

Your spirit does not dwell in my house.  I have been as
forgotten as these yesterdays.  The cellar door swings open,
revealing dust and bats.  I know you do not think I notice,
but I know you are gone.  You are not dead.  Just, gone.

It is my birthday, and I am alone-alone with my thoughts,
alone in everything, alone by myself on this day.
Perhaps someone will understand.