my head hums with the sound of life passing by hearts beating out of tune with mine faces full of smiles for someone else not for me not for me my soul stirs and quivers with anticipation now looking for all the love that isn't there hoping that it is really there after all it is not it is not life is nothing more than an brief fleeting illusion pain sorrow hate joy love anger friendship all of the bright shining flavors of emotion it's not real it's not real as I lay me down to die praying to never awake all dreams are futile distant and hopeless all lies just beyond my hand out of reach why me why me
Well as I rack my poor old broken brain to create some new poetry, I invite you to peruse the below. As you may have noticed, I prefer the "free verse" style of poetry composition. I feel it is the best method to express and convey one's inner feelings. Most, no, all of my stuff is semi-autobiographical. A writter can best write about their own experiences, (unless they are fiction writers) and feelings. I am still seeking your true story of either being a mental health consumer, or a mental health provider. Funny isn't it, that there have been no psychiatrists or psychologists, or even a psych attendent that has sent us their point of view, just one brave soul so far, an RN? I have posted to their newsgroups, and have even writen individuals that I have been able to locate on the web. "Interesting site." is all I get back from them. I feel like Sisyphus!
Who is there to love the unloved? Why does my call go unanswered? How many ships pass in the night? Where are all of the lonely hearts? What does it take to fill all the gaps? So many confused questions with no easy answers to be found. Emptiness is loneliness by a different name of course. Where are the answers to be found? Is it in the wholeness that comes from true love, companionship, laughter, sharing everything? I have no answers being a fool, just sit here and let life pass by lost in my muse, "How alone are we in this world people passing other strangers lovers and friends touching but never really loving but with reservations God never listens he has grown tired weary uncaring." So it seems at times anyway. When will all of it ever change, if change even can come, and become something more? I'm tired of being the noble man alone.
I dreamed of reaching out, holding you, touching you, and loving you Our nights spent together making all of two lover's special small talk about our love, our lives, the plans and dreams we both wanted and later in the deep of the night the sharing of our passions, joined. soaring together joined as one You seemed to have come to me on the wings of an unspoken prayer So much we share, so much alike it was almost frightening, almost a gift a gift neither of us expected to recieve, yet one we both so much needed. We had a wonderful future to share together, happiness, love, and our laughter our joy, our sorrows, our smiles, our tears, our health, and our illnesses. We can understand each other better than others because we are joined joined in a way that others find filled with pain and agony, we with understanding. Yet that common thread has threatened to split us, throw us to the mercies of??? I wait for you Lonely still Are you ever going to be free?
Cirrus clouds paint a pale blue sky in shades of spring. Young people and some not so young skate by, older people learn to walk, legs weakened by winter Ducks celebrate by coupling on the lakes edge, an expectant swan lends her warmth to a nest. Trees remain unabashed of past winter's nudity, preparing to adorn themselves of leaves of green. Children loudly play, swing, slide, climb and run, mother's worry them in caution of broken bones. It seems like a day filled with warm blue magic, providing an oasis of days to come this early spring day. People trot by, smiling and nodding at one another, wearing jogging suits that have been stored away, waiting to be happily shown off on such a blue day. Early spring is kind of like an exotic strip tease dancer, revealing just a peek of warm sultry days that lie ahead. Lovers share an old blanket spread on the damp ground, they lay there lost and dreaming intimate dreams aloud, after all, spring is a time for love and the renewal of life. THIS POEM HAS BEEN PUBLISHED IN THE ANTHOLOGY "TREASURED POEMS OF AMERICA"
THIS POEM HAS BEEN PUBLISHED IN THE ANTHOLOGY "TREASURED POEMS OF AMERICA"
Some poets lie and say "I'm alone but not lonesome." I scream the truth of my loneliness in my words and verse, I have found out that love is just an invention for the heart, something made up to fill a void, an vacant space inside. Too many volunteers have given me a Master's education, letting me know of all the empty words and tears. Love is a lie, ask all of those willing teachers why, is it a myth, a conceit fabricated by all the false Gods? Why do people confuse habit and companionship, for some needed yet noble name for simple togetherness? Perhaps my cynical eyes and pen have made me an apostate, cast into a world full of wedded bliss and eternal love. My truth and reality, you see, is I am alone, and I am lonely. Drop me a line....robbie@siscom.net Especially if you're a "mental health provider."
It is a miracle when love collides, two formerly separate hearts meet and begin to throb in unison. There can never be enough love when you find it, grab it firmly hold it tightly deep in your soul. I met a love that I longed for, the two of us, each with wounds that only we can bind together. You came from a far different world, I was here, alone, waiting and dreaming. When we met through impossible odds, we both recognized one another's heart, and started to love as if by magic. I'm a poet and dreamer of things, you are a swan waiting to be freed. Together our gaps meet and fill, all of that which we have sought. When love collides, anything is possible, dreamed dreams can come true, after all it's up to us to make it real. Mountains are easily climbed hand in hand, through a partnership known as love, and your face is the first thing, I want to see each morning. Our footprints merge together as we pilgrimage towards life, together, in love, forever.
My bed has become cold and barren as the days grow shorter I reach out for you, but you're there only in dreams, no longer pressed tightly against my back, your nipples firm against my naked skin. Sometimes in the still and quiet of the early hours I weep and hold myself like a child, scared of the unknown I lie to myself, saying you haven't really left, you'll soon return, but alas, I know better. As I walk the streets, I scan all of the faces that pass me, looking for that look. The one that says "Don't be afraid, come and we'll talk, I'll make it better." All I ever see are blanks, made up to look through me, I'm not there, I have ceased to be. How long has it been since someone reached out and touched me in a loving, caring way?
How much longer will my bed stay cold and empty of the passion that burns deep inside of my hollow heart? How long will my soul remain cold, empty, and unfulfilled, waiting...? I think that if someone ever comes to share love, life, and joy, bearing the present of life to me, the days will start to grow longer, and the nights will become very very much hotter.
PUBLISHED IN "ISLE OF VEIW", BY THE NATIONAL LIBRARY OF POETRY,1997 pg.448 IN GRATITUDE You have applied a band aide to my bloody soul, earlier I was in a state of hemorrhage, moods gushing forth too profound to stop, as sense of danger from an old former friend. I would have never expected to cut so deep, using two knives of my own creation, to cut the inner self, and heart in a cruel and heartless way. My skin caught fire as I felt more and more naked in the noon day sun of darkness. I sometimes lose my vision and my sight. Now I wonder at the friends that I've yet to meet. How they can come into my life binding some of the wounds afflicted on this day? Holding up a looking glass where I can more plainly see things that are things, and I can't only but control things that are me. I reach out in my words seeking love from dear lovely friends, who help me to understand all the cobwebs of my psyche. Could they all be an invention or a creation of an inner thing that is purely special to myself? Teach me all of things, that I alone can control.
IN GRATITUDE You have applied a band aide to my bloody soul, earlier I was in a state of hemorrhage, moods gushing forth too profound to stop, as sense of danger from an old former friend. I would have never expected to cut so deep, using two knives of my own creation, to cut the inner self, and heart in a cruel and heartless way. My skin caught fire as I felt more and more naked in the noon day sun of darkness. I sometimes lose my vision and my sight. Now I wonder at the friends that I've yet to meet. How they can come into my life binding some of the wounds afflicted on this day? Holding up a looking glass where I can more plainly see things that are things, and I can't only but control things that are me. I reach out in my words seeking love from dear lovely friends, who help me to understand all the cobwebs of my psyche. Could they all be an invention or a creation of an inner thing that is purely special to myself? Teach me all of things, that I alone can control.
You have applied a band aide to my bloody soul, earlier I was in a state of hemorrhage, moods gushing forth too profound to stop, as sense of danger from an old former friend. I would have never expected to cut so deep, using two knives of my own creation, to cut the inner self, and heart in a cruel and heartless way. My skin caught fire as I felt more and more naked in the noon day sun of darkness. I sometimes lose my vision and my sight. Now I wonder at the friends that I've yet to meet. How they can come into my life binding some of the wounds afflicted on this day? Holding up a looking glass where I can more plainly see things that are things, and I can't only but control things that are me. I reach out in my words seeking love from dear lovely friends, who help me to understand all the cobwebs of my psyche. Could they all be an invention or a creation of an inner thing that is purely special to myself? Teach me all of things, that I alone can control.
Bert and I were as tight as two people can get. We shared laughter together, and, I'm sure, tears. Bert gave me life and I gave her the joy of motherhood. We played with large rubber balls and little boy's toys, we would the explore the mystery of the wild outdoors, in the fenced in playground of the back yard. Bert taught me all of the little things a boy needs to know, how to tie my shoes and dress myself for the day. She was my constant companion throughout the day, when father came home he allowed me the use of his long legs, to build my baby blanket tents, to hide in. We all were busy. Father painted blue stripes on my bedroom wall, played with my electric train, showing how a real engineer did it. Bert, dressed in an apron, with silky brown hair tied in a scarf, took to the kitchen baking pies, cake, and cinnamon rolls. Many things have been said in praise of a mother's love. All I know, is that for far too short of a time, she was mine. We would play, and she would hold me and give me comfort, whenever my narrow little boy world came crashing down. She was so good to dad and me, perhaps, she was too good. Shortly after she gave us another love, little brother John, she left us. My world was never the same, I couldn't understand why. A big part of me was empty, pretending she would come back. I sorely missed that thing that every little boy needs, his mother. Daddy became a haunted, lonely man, not knowing where to turn. As hard as he tried, and as much as he was there for John and me, his only fault was that he was not Bert, but no one could be. He and I didn't understand an inevitable fact of this mortal life, when God summons and calls you, you must leave loved ones behind. You have to abandon it all, even your own physical being. I pretended that Bert flew through the clouds on wings anew, free. She was heaven bound, leaving three people behind to grieve her passing. Now, years later, a cold wind blows, the cruel frozen ground of December, covered with partially melted dirty snow, hides her monument from my view, I stand with tears in my eyes, just like I did when I was only five, crying out, "Mother, mother, sweet mother, where are you? Where did you go?" Years have passed, John has no memories of Bert, dad doesn't talk much. I often wonder what Bert would think of her grown to manhood boy, would she approve and offer her support in all of my wild follies? What would she think of her grandchildren, now as one is lost to me? Bert, where ever you are, look down at me from time to time, I still need your love and warmth in my empty painful life. And Bert, I still love you the best.
Do you hear it? The wind and the clouds passing by? Songs sung by mute mouths with big warm smiles? Sunshine in bright wide eyes? Do they call your name? Are you listening with your heart?
Can you see it all? Long green blades of grass, flowers with colors brighter than any rainbow? Kite that light up the gentle sky? They are all there, beneath the frozen ground.
Has your nose caught the sweet smell? Incense, perfume, daffodils and roses? Hot coffee and warm cocoa? They belong to us for the sharing.
Has you skin felt the tactile embraces? Of love, fire, ice, and life? Has the breath of a baby caressed your breast? Joy comes in the feelings. In the embrace of life.
Smart assed bleeding Jesus, smug in your adoration of many, answer me this if you truly can, where have all the Gods gone? Why have we, the broken, been left alone and forgotten by them? The arrogance of them, especially that big one who calls himself I Am, I used to believe in you, even when you didn't believe in me. You've gone the way of Zeus, Jupiter, Mars, and a thousand others, you've lost your place. T.V. men in white patent leather shoes, tell us to believe in you, and to send in them dollars to prove it! Worthless, wretched, pitiful, hateful, wicked, jealous God, maker of hell, of right and wrong, of men and women, left and right, go away! No one here wants to see your "beauty" and "glory." Perhaps, if you do really exist, you'll see your own folly, and make yourself right with humanity.
I wander through the night all alone, my days are spent in seclusion. I left my house to see if there were any people there. There were many who go through the day uncaring, I found out that I'm amazed to be glad that I'm not one of them. I can see sunrise and sunset in deep colored hues, the leaves of every tree are alive, and I know that. I hear the birds as they sing their happy songs, and I now know that only a bipolar can be this free!
Love is a bit like a feather in the wind, that blows here and there. Every time it lands, there is a chance it will blow away again.
Feathers are a lot like love, soft, colorful, fluffy, and light. They come in many moods and flavors, and leave with a gentle puff of the wind.
night has again fallen deeper than before casting its shadow over the day my soul has turned dark and i want to escape where can i go to get away wherever i am there is me i dont see an after life just long sought out oblivion heartless cursed thing that has descended i never in my life invited you yet we are partners alone in the darkness
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