“Stomach Flu” (Poem) I & II

Two poems I wrote in January 2016 about having the stomach flu.

These poems were written on January 11 and 12, 2016. I am not currently sick.

Part I

I’m feeling better,
but not great.
I’m still feverish
and have a headache.
But my stomach
isn’t killing me,
and I won’t puke,
Which is an improvement.
Now I’m able
to sit up comfortably
though I’m hoping soon
to take more medicine.

Part II

I thought I was better,
but it seems I was wrong.
My stomach is sharp-edged,
and my headache’s a throb.
I may not have a fever,
which is something, at least,
But I didn’t eat lunch
and I can’t afford sleep.

Life Is What You Make It (3)

I frequently think about my life, what I want to accomplish, what I’ve done so far, and how long I have to do everything I dream of. This is a series featuring things I’ve written about such things, both poetry and prose.

This post contains profanity and mentions suicidal thoughts. If you are not comfortable with such things, feel free to skip this post.

[Don’t Forget] Low Self-Esteem and a Desire to be Remembered

18 September 2016

I don’t have a very

high self-esteem,

I don’t put much stock

in that I’m a human being.

I know that I’m valued,

worth a motherfucking bunch,

But it doesn’t always feel that way —

like when a bully steals your lunch.

I don’t very much love myself

any which way.

I easily find myself

depression-ly swayed.

I try to avoid

such dark, self-hatred filled thoughts,

But they sometimes come up

and shred me apart.

I find myself wondering

“what more can I do?”

I find myself wondering

if life’s worth living through.

I feel as though I’ll waste my life,

fuck everything over,

I don’t get to live twice.

That’s not an excuse

to “have a fun time,”

Or “eat, drink, and be merry,

for tomorrow we die,”

Because I want my life

to be worth remembering.

I don’t want to be forgotten

or remembered because

My life was lived rotten.

I want my time used best it can,

none of it, no moments,

left to fester in the trash can.

It’s a lot of pressure

I put on myself,

when I want my life story

to not rot on a shelf,

With no one caring what all I did,

with no one caring if I even lived.

I could be made up,

for all they may know,

So for evidence, what will I have to show?

I don’t want my story

to just be mistakes,

Or for it all to just have been a waste.

If it’s not worth

recording, reading, remembering, or reliving,

Is there even a point

to my life continuing?

Death is inevitable,

should I even try?

I want so badly to know

if I’ll really use my time,

But I won’t know that

until I’ve lived my life.

Right now, right now

I could not, would not

die satisfied

That my life was worth

all the time I spent

Making it what it is,

Wouldn’t die satisfied

that I’ll be remembered

For too much longer

after I’ve died.

Even if someone

published all that I’ve written,

I’d still be forgotten,

Forget having never been smitten

or ever in love,

That doesn’t matter so much to me

As my life story

being worth  my time,

being worth remembering.

I’ve been told I’m a good poet,

so maybe, just maybe,

There’s something to that

and my life won’t,

at least not in its entirety,

be forgotten and allowed to rot

in the annals of history’s

ever-growing bookshelf.

 

Past Poems (September)

Similar to the July and August installments of this series, I will be sharing poems I wrote in September of previous years.

To Protect

2 September 2013

Why?

These series of events,

Unfortunately mine?

Disheartening though they may seem,

Are only the surface emotion.

The truth

Lies beneath.

Inside my medieval castle.

Go over the moat,

through the outer wall,

Across the outer courtyard.

One is lucky to get this far,

for never is one through the inner wall,

To see the inner courtyard.

No one is ever invited

To my banquets,

In the protected and heavily guarded

Castle.

It contains what is not meant to be seen,

The secrets that lie within,

That I went to such lengths

To protect.

~~~~~

Not Soccer

4 September 2014

Tired, aching muscles

complaining loudly with

Every movement.

A sign that I

Worked hard,

Pushed myself.

This pain is my reward

for not exercising

After the soccer season ended.

But this was a

different kind of workout entirely.

Martial arts, jujitsu, grappling,

not Soccer.

~~~~~

Chocolate Blues

10 September 2015

Chocolate is awesome

at every time of day,

Chocolate is awesome

no matter the way —

Dark, milk, or white,

Chocolate is awesome

to replace the mundane

Chocolate is always the answer,

or I wish it was.

How sorry I feel for those

who can never know this love.

~~~~~

Procrastinating with Relationships

2 September 2016

Too long I’ll be gone

I’m wasting my time.

What am I doing with my life?

I have things to do,

Assignments to complete,

But instead I’m here with you

Making my feet ache.

~~~~~

The Notes to Fell Nosferatu

1 September 2017

The music played and wove along,

The witch controlled it with her wand.

She hummed along enjoying her song

on this fateful Tuesday morn.

“Knock, knock!” came a voice from near her door,

and darkness fell over the room.

“It’s us again, darling,” two voices together

as the sound enveloped the room.

The witch’s melody dropped to a whisper,

Lost in the silence of her shock.

And then into the room came the two headed queen,

A nosferatu, though she denied it was the same

as the long-hated vampire.

The witch bowed low to the ground,

careful to not lose control of her sound.

“Your Highness, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She fought the sarcasm and kept her voice light,

steadying her wand to keep the music out of sight.

“You’ve been charged with treason,

so you’ll be coming with us.

Oh, and don’t put up a fuss,”

she spoke cheerily and smiled sweetly.

“I think not,” the witch said,

bringing the music to a crescendo again.

She brought out the sounds that hurt the queen most,

the nosferatu crumbled and covered her ears.

The music as a weapon would bring an escape!

Why hadn’t the queen thought that the tune might change?

But then in came the guards,

Three surly armed men with plugs in the ears

and swords in their hands.

Past Poems (August)

All the poems I have here were written in August in previous years. Each is the first poem I wrote that August.

Welcome to the Movie Theater

31 August 2013

The midnight atmosphere,

Hardly any light.

The expected brightness

being processed instantaneously.

Music booming,

Sound-absorbers throbbing,

shocked by the sudden onslaught.

Images appearing magically,

Color-processors reeling,

trying to comprehend the attack.

Then, in surprise, it darkens again,

Leaving behind

a sense of mystery

and excitement

Coupled with

an overpowering feeling

of being full.

A story having been told

before the attendence,

Come to be amazed by

Today’s wonderous, fantastic, dreamlike

Movies.

 

Pretending Mirrors

27 August 2014

It is often easy

for me to

Pretend

that I am

Someone, Something, else…

Then I look

in the Mirror…

And it all comes back to me…

 

Confusing Frustration

9 August 2015

I wonder, why can’t I be stronger,

why can’t it take longer for

tears to overtake me,

to drown me,

to pull me away from control over myself?

 

Another Trip to Holiday World

6 August 2016

Up, down, all around

these mem’ries swirl

around me.

Soon I’ll relive

a few of them

with new friends that

surround me.

Past Poems (July)

All the poems I have here were written in July in previous years. Each is the first poem I wrote that July. I had wanted to share poems written on July 3 specifically but there were none.

[The last poem contains mentions of suicide.]

The Time Was Ripe

12 July 2015

The lack of inspiration that has brought me here today,

is reeling and pealing away my skin.

The time it has taken to come so far,

for half a month to pass,

seems far longer than what it was,

And yet too short for it to have been another year.

Nothing is making sense as it swirls through my brain

in a jumbled, hectic mess.

As my readers, you may have noticed, but if not

do not be alarmed,

I’m still writing, still plotting, still mentally involved.

Most of my best poetry

never reaches the paper,

A shame, really,

but true.

 

Shapeshifter

15 July 2016

I know not who I am

But who I make myself to be.

I know not where I hail,

‘Cept I lived among the sea.

I stay the same, but not in how they treat me,

My form shifts, and that is how they greet me.

Even thought I have not changed at all,

They do not realize ,and that will be their fall.

 

Long Awaited Meeting

18 July 2017

I wondered what she thought

as my life was on display.

Would it be for naught,

My suicide that day?

I longed for her to hear me,

so I joined her on that side.

Now that she is near me,

WIll my time, she bide?

The colors of this world we’re in

Were painted on for show,

But can you hear me o’er the din,

as the mem’ries around us flow?