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Done
The clock has come full circle.
tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
and I am nearly out of time.
I'm frantic.
Frenetic.
Consumed with fear and terror
that my time has passed me by.
I've made nothing.
I've done nothing.
I've no legacy to leave behind.
Nothing but garbage
and pipe dreams.
What a mess
my life has become.
I'm not sure when it happened -
perhaps while reading this
or reading that.
Or maybe I spent that time
wishing?
Hoping that the phone would ring;
or that the winds would change
that fortune begotten
from the wreckage!
Where and when did my dreams
exceed my ambitions
while falling so short
of their destination?
Marginalized capabilities
beset and besieged -
torn down,
chewed up,
spat back in my face
while grinning.
I know nothing.
I can tell you nothing.
I can do nothing
except lament the wreckage
that I leave to you.
Open sores
that will not heal;
that will not fade with time.
No. There is nothing more.
When did this mess occur?
When did the garbage man
tote my dreams away
to pile them atop others?
This is it.
There is no future for some.
Contrary to myth and faith
there is no future for some.
Thank god for this and that
when god has sat idly by,
ridiculing me with ability
and grace
but giving me no capability
no stamina.
I am a failure.
I have made nothing
but loose promises to my self.
I have done nothing.
Can I be pleased with second place
or last? No.
The race is over now
and I have lost.
And my family has lost.
But we have lost in essence
nothing but a lie.
A carnival;
a cruel joke
at the expense of self.
Dreams are lies.
Hope is a lie!
Ambition a farce -
a poor spectacle
of rationalization
that feeds itself,
folding itself
into brief moments of hope and glory
and the winning of races.
But the tape is broken now
and I have lost.
Here I am winded and aching
because I tried to run faster
beyond my capabilities -
starting far behind the others
and finishing behind even farther.
Dead last?
Dead, at last.
Now tis time for recognition
of my failings
and failures.
It is time to end this misery.
and I feel nothing.
Tick
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| I must say this made me cry, how does it feel to know you can provoke tears with such writing? I am astounded by the preplexity of your writing!! |
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Huh and hmmm ... I thought this but one poem. I will respond as though it were one. And my critique will not be so much of the writing, but of the lament of the protagonist.
And O!, such existential agony! Are you, my dear poet, the protagonist? For the sake of the diatribe I feel I am about to fountain, I'll pretend that it is an aspect of yourself you are describing and address all my chatter to "you". OK? It's just a conceit.
Despite everything I say here, I can relate to every line and nuance.
I don't mean to make fun of the poet's suffering, but let me say this: the poet speaking has all the tools, skills, and ear, what is missing can come only after long 1) practice (you are doing that!) and 2) long self-processing ... and one other element I am not sure how to describe, or to capture. And that is Grace.
Grace is the gift. But can it be won? You must have some. But can you get more?
I don't know, and I am not so sure HOW.
I think that IT can only come through LOVE. That's all I can offer.
Have you ever been so in love that the relationship with the beloved actually CHANGED YOUR PERCEPTION? Like in a Disney movie, the flowers begin to glow brighter, the mountain actually looks 3D (and not just the normal visual clues, either, you can SEE the space), the trees became somewhat transparent, and every soul with whom you have discourse looks, ACTUALLY LOOKS to your eye, like a god or goddess? "Everybody loves a lover" because the lover is actually OPENING UP and loving.
So how do you find love? O Lordy, I wish I could tell you. Are you old and married? Then you might have the difficult job of falling in love with the one you are with. How do you do that? Get drunk with her (or him, if that is your taste). Smoke dope with your spouse.
Go out in the world and talk to everyone. Don't worry about getting laid, you've already done that, just talk to everyone until you find someone who holds your interest and who holds you. Male. Female. Makes no difference. Walk of life is of no account. Someone you find tears open your mind and your heart and your eyes. It makes no difference how it ends; it is the process that counts.
If you would be a GREAT poet, painter, writer, singer, architect, plumber, bus driver, income tax form filler-outer, sculptor, lover, you have to love and love selflessly.
Harry Crews, that tough old sonofabitch and wonderful writer said, "It's all about love. Or the absence of it." |
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I actually goofed when I posted it as three poems. Those are page breaks in my Word document. I'm very glad to hear that they resonated with you and really appreciate your comments.
Regards,
Matthew |
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Wow, Matthew, this is an intense trio of poems. I especially like the final stanza of the first poem. I think you speak universally with your thoughts there.
I know that I was able to connect with everything you speak about here. The sense of time escaping without you carries eloquently throughout.
Very sad, and nicely written. I like it. |
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