*Smiles with in Solitude* - Page 11

poetry is the lake we drown in together

and the words are our life preservers.

Hallways clearing, sun streaming through polished windows
as chairs take thier places on the tables, my backpack
accepts its meal of woodpulp and pigments
which I will empty on my desk later. Outside the door,
friends run past, whooping, hollering
escasty at freedom and liberation from opressional knowledge.
Completion. Papers bound in ribbon
those robes with the sicilian pizza tray on top
applause, tears, and parents escorting everyone
saying "Here's my son" "Here's my daughter,
She did it!" "He did it!" "Congratulations!"
(For the millionth bloody time)
And we throw our hats and applaude
while in the rooms, the sun streams through polished windows
on empty desks forgotten.

Class of '07: Congratulations!

We count on those that never fall to help us rise.
Connected by greed we feed on one another in order to live.
We alter the facts to fit our life style,
It has to work for us.
Enthralled in the hypnotizing images that bond to tall tales,
The catalyst that sparks our existence is known for a moment.
From the products of life, we synthesize our origin,
The truth is known...
Never have we risen to perfection nor will we.
As a society, we feed on each other's pains,
We are ruthless.
We vanquish our demons and create new ones all in one instance.
We are creators, explorers, and destroyers.
We are the tyrants and dictators of our time.

Solitary Streets illuminated by flashing yellow caution stoplights
driving home the night
Arms dead over the wheel from hours labor
I drive eyes wide with the yellow lines
solid or dashed, stay to the right
as I travel deserted asphalt home.

The radio off
dials glowing red before me, telling me
how fast I'm going nowhere, not fast enough
but I've put my hand over the clock; hour's no matter to me
the patter of the rain on the windshield
and the *schitch- schwoop* of the wipers
serve as my metronome on
Solitary Streets.

Another day
Another dollar, another number to print
on the statement of my worth.
Hours passed with papers and labor
where time matters. But now
as the lights reflect the raindrops and the pavement
I've clocked out for the night
and follow the lights on the interstate
leading me home.

A truck goes by
the high beams high, and they burn my eyes
for a moment, then I adjust to the darkness
from the momentary blindness
(It's then I see the light right)
And I listen the engine purr
and the wipers wipe
and the *fsssst* of my tires on the moistned road
and left and right, the clock reads midnight
and I don't notice
as I turn the key and relax in the soothing patter
of rain on the roof, in the driveway on the left side
of solitary streets so long home.

Mentality of the Mob
Consciousness of the Crowd
A shared sentience between persons and people that erases faces
chains reason and resistance and burns like fire over an oily lake
and we can live only by fanning the flames with everyone else.
Touched off by a spark, a solitary view
it spreads like wildfire, arms raised, voices higher
as the party's plane spirals down and out
and the shields raise to protect the innocent
or the guilty.

Depends on where you're standing at the thought.

Would you alone raise a bat to smash a window, flick a lighter to set the car ablaze? Would you alone wind up to pitch the brick through double-glass doors in the sight of the blue and white? Would you alone move to help a man being beaten on crowded streets?
The human condition, our position is one that is only solid if stood upon by someone else, some more who view similar ideals and morals as you. The cynic says no, I stand alone. The cynic is delusional, for doubtless what one thinks has been thought before and is thought now. Everybody needs somebody to back up, I'll have what you're having, watch and learn, lead and follow, chew and swallow the facts- the mentality exists behind eyes, behind mind, cause few of us will whip off a shirt and cheer a symphony orchestra unless the entire front row is bare-chested.

No, I don't know this for fact.

I face a dilemma. A road block, which seems to plummet into minimum wage, and frankly I'm not satisfied. These lingering fears force me to face facts. I don't want to be like them.

Always asked if I think I'm better than others, in the back of my mind I scream YES! I mean doesn't everyone?

I yearn to capture the best of me in every step I take, whether it is forward or backwards. All the roads, forked or straightforward, will lead me to my goals. It all depends on how long it takes me.

I'm not willing to settle for “ok” or “good” when I know I'm destined for greatness. Shouldn't I see myself as great? Shouldn't I reflect a sense of awe? Why should I allow people to bring me down to oblique realities, when I know exactly who and what I am?

I realize I'm not indestructible. I know my attitude might push people away. But what I don't get is why it's so wrong.

Should I settle for minimum wage or a menial job? Should I allow myself to swim in an ocean of stress and probable depression just to satisfy the unhappy faces around? That's not fair…

I face a dilemma, of which there are several out comes. Yet as I reflect on my goals, the only out come I can see is the one that ascend me to greatness.

She sits there and screams. She is angry. And as I watch her lose control, I sit and wonder of my self:

I handle every task with stride. I have neither flinched nor ran from a situation. Quitting is not part of my nature. I'm not weak...I'm linked to time as my demons line up in rows of four. One by one they try to devour my every being. I am not weak...Outside tremors fail to conquer the outside world; I see a fracture. I close my eyes as the pain is deleted, as long as the blinds are close I won't feel it, I won't know it's there. I walk towards blinds that cover nothing and I stand in silence. I am not weak...

I keep repeating this phrase over and over, yet the more I say it the less convinced I am.

I am fractured from the inside not truly knowing how to cope. These blinds that seem to cover nothing, stands between me and a wall. I sit in the center and strangle the pain, like a monkey on my back, it follows night and day. I open my eyes and rip the blinds in anger...There is no wall, just an arsenal at my disposal. The tools I need to destroy it all were being stored inside me all a long and I finally know how to use them. As I stand, the strings of silence that held me together burst into nothing, I'm falling...

I see her screaming; she's so angry. I can't control her anymore. Her fractures broke her slowly and I don't have enough strings to tie her down. Weapons of destructions are pointed towards me, she doesn't need me anymore. For this arsenal that she has gathered have given her something that I lack....strength.

Not yet to goodbye, Not yet
There's still time for laughs, for talk through the night
minutes to hours to hold the phone, annoying the world
but caught in out own little sphere of silence and levity
Not yet to goodbye, Not yet.
Clothes cover me, bags lie open on the bed
one hand to the work, the other to the phone
as I talk with her, talk of nothings
things we'll forget instantly and remember eternally
plans, dreams, observations, just being there
listening to enthusiasm, happiness, content
Not yet to goodbye, Not yet.
It seems eternity until I must go
down the horizon line into a cell of knowledge
and she into hers, so far apart
but as long as this phone is here, not so far.
So long as her hand threads mine, not so far
so long as she laughs, she is beside me, in front of me
Not yet to goodbye, not yet.
We talk of the future
further classes, further adventures
each our own, each our path to separate salvations
we talk of what we desire to see, to do
we talk of the pain it is to find textbooks
but though we are apart, not yet to goodbye,

Not yet.

By Definition:

A selfish word that tends to protect the individual. We're naive to think such things. It's late, and the summer air has grown thick this evening. It is no time for such talk. Yet, when is it appropriate? I know it all and all these disguises seem to build up clutter. The carpets full of crap, I guess I can't sweep anything under there for a while. This game has grown old; I'm not up to it anymore. Green and brown camouflage that makes you look like a fool in a light blue background. Don't you understand I can see where you are; a sitting duck on season. The waters are calm; they seem to reflect nothing. It's hard to see anything anymore...But in the midst of it all I can still see you. BANG! Your silent appearance lets me know where you are, and has allowed me to see who you really are. You float there, but no one says a word; the waters are calm. Let's make room under there, no one will ever notice...

How naive, but don't worry I'll try my best to play along. If only for a little longer.

The final stroke of my pen; it's all here
all I was, all I became, I am
who I am.
The story writes on, letters on the pages rise from time
but I'll set my entries to mind.
I can see my timeline in the lines
from heartbreak to resurrection, apathy to adventure, it is a lesson
which as the constant student I memorize and analyze
then close the book and move along.
This has been my song,
melodies of mind and heart, mindless timeless
to those who know.
The guitar returns to its case, where it resided before
to await the time its strings will sing again.
For now, my work is done.

Vortex271

What a fright.
They come down like vultures, distraught and confuse we pull away.
We're filled with fear.
They're leaving as the darkness pulls.
We grip hoping someone's there to hold tight.
In. Out. The air goes past us.
We hope to open our eyes and see the clearing.

Persistent babble, the noise is unbearable.
Dragged and lectured, the scene is set.
An in and out operation.
Just hello and see you later, all empty promises but it fills the heart with hope.
Deep breath...

Machines and drips.
The room is stale, and not human.
This setting is wrong, it's all WRONG.
Familiar terms yet this time it matters.
There is no in and out operation.

Weak and afraid he lays there,
I've never seen him this afraid.
I hold his hand,
His grip it tight.
Shaking with the fear of a thousand, he never lets go.
I promise I won't let go.

Flashes of past moments rush by,
Yet I can see each one for what they were...
My grip gets tight.

Terms that would at one point make my heart skip with joy now fills it with anger.
My thoughts scream out "Incompetent white coat!,"
But I sit there quiet.
Just holding on.

Thoughts of what I can do rush through my head,
Yet not one makes sense.
I can't do anything,
So I sit there,
Holding on.

I always thought I get through this,
I thought I would find a way.
A simple concept that I've handled before,
Yet this time its different.
I don't have answers...
I don't want answers!
Because at this moment all I can do is hold on...

Hold on to his memories.
Hold on to his words.
Hold on to all the things I learned from him.

All I can do is hold on to his hand as he lays their in fear,
As the world around me turns inside out,
And the emotions I hold are buried along with his soul.

Please promise to hold on, because no matter what I'm not ready to let go.

hi neuters

i read some of your poems..and i was so amaze...can i ask a favor?..could you write me a poem?
a poem that i can dedicate to someone who become my inspiration...i met her, then i become astonish by her every actions and words..she became my inspiration... we dont have the time to talk so i was not given much time to know her..but still she's special..we only talk if we see each other on the hallway,but most of the time we only exchange smiles and hello's...i want to tell her the thoughts in my mind by i there's always no chances..she was always circled by the crowds who also adore her and i was just satisfy of looking at her in the distance..and sometimes im just shy...now her birthday is near so i don't want to pass this chances to tell her how she become an inspiration..please can you do that?please

hi neuters

i read some of your poems..and i was so amaze...can i ask a favor?..could you write me a poem?
a poem that i can dedicate to someone who become my inspiration...i met her, then i become astonish by her every actions and words..she became my inspiration... we dont have the time to talk so i was not given much time to know her..but still she's special..we only talk if we see each other on the hallway,but most of the time we only exchange smiles and hello's...i want to tell her the thoughts in my mind by i there's always no chances..she was always circled by the crowds who also adore her and i was just satisfy of looking at her in the distance..and sometimes im just shy...now her birthday is near so i don't want to pass this chances to tell her how she become an inspiration..please can you do that?please

I believe that you need to avoid such cliche's, such as 'darkness' and 'consuming', due to the fact that it is reminiscent of the not-so-tolerable-less-than-acceptable, stupid overly displaced depressive music and poetry that seems to have become popular. I do understand that you may have felt something truly deep and insightful when you wrote this, but the fact of the matter is that you need to read some poetry and maybe get a feel for rhyme scheme and metaphoric usage.

to amoureux_angel here is the poem you requested. I did my best in capturing your words and your emotions: