Who needs friends when you can write bad poetry?

I won first place in a poetry contest at my school with this. Hope you like it. (and yes, the title is based on my own mishearing of the song "Wave of Multilation" by the Pixies)

Wave of New Relation

I'm sick of this worry-wart nail-biting nation
This rag-tag group of know-nothing red-headed step-children
It's time to bust out, be wild and insane!
It's time to race down the highways with broken brakes
VROOM VROOM! Poppin' wheelies all the way to heaven

I want to do something crazy and unfounded
like hold a bed-in for peace at an insomnia clinic
I want to start a Mom & Pop brain surgery center
and just see what brave Bunyan ventures through that door

Don't you see that all this hand-in-face waiting is bad for you?
I can see the passion glowing inside of your eyes,
so intense and piercing, your blood vibrating like
Mexican jumping beans

Please, oh please, don't laugh at me!
And pour salt in my wounds
'cuz I know you feel it too,
bubbling up from your bottom belly

Let's hoof it out of here
and see the world in a wave of new relation,
thumbing down truckers and holding up signs

The passing scenery will blur into our subconscious
and little cigarette butts will bow reverently in streetway gutters,
high heels and sneakers clicking by with no notice

Let's hold hands in art museums,
our giggles causing aerial ripples,
tiny soundwaves of audible sanctity

We'll have staring contests with Michelangelo's David
and whisper to Plato that the greatest wisdom of all
is written on lonely bathroom wall stalls

We'll play Tic-Tac-Toe with Hare Krishna highschool dropouts,
letting them win with grins again and again,
beads wrapped around our feet

After that, I'll no longer be afraid of walking past the sandbar and being bitten by frenzied pool sharks
Together we'll sit on the buoys and watch the sun sink
like magic hole-in-one surprise

There will be no more hopscotch heartbreaks
and Red Rover will finally swallow his pride,
accepting all into his loving arms

And please don't tell me to stop this talk
and politely cut out my tongue
Don't tell me opprotunity is knocking
when I know its ding-dong-ditch

Don't you see that all your fears are unfounded?
There's no downward spirals, just playground slides
That's why it's always fun to hit rock bottom

All of this stands right in front of you,
enticing you to pick up that bat
and dazzle me with your swing

Together we'll stand in this new age,
solemn silhouettes in the twilight sky
Just dance like a child in the sunlight
and I will meet you there

This is probably one of my favorite poems that I've ever written. It won a poetry theme contest the year before. Hope you like it.

Silent Dreams and Midnight Schemes

Don't get me wrong
I remember those days
We were all for one and one for all
Comatose desperados in grocery store traffic jams
The beatnik poets of sidewalk chalk
Gutter punk royalty with nothing to do but
pull our hair and stomp our feet
Maybe we were just hopeless dreamers then,
morning dew sewing our eyelids shut with
false hopes of what was and once could be
But still we rode on,
starting fires in nameless towns
only to forget why we did it in the first place
And we, pale-faced sad day angels,
leaned our heads on one another
forever lost in the sparkling lights
and endless nights
of youth

Here's another poem that won a contest. (you can officially call me 'Broken Record' now)

Midnight Rapture

youthful starlight nights of memories
laughing in the backseat
riding the wind
hair blowing in our faces
lost in puffs of cigarette smoke
our little gang of vegabonds
will never perish
and although we may be forgotten
our souls will race down the moon-lit streets,
smiling angels eternally entanged in telephone wire shadows
with Pollack-speckled concrete flying past us at immeasurable speeds
may the far off city lights
annoint us in a mist of angellic tears
lost in the hope of our immortal downfall
only one way forward
no point in looking back
everything that happened before
everything that will happen again
truly does not matter
tonight we are free
tonight we are infinite
tonight all is possible
tonight
tonight
tonight

A poem written last year after listening to Radiohead's Amnesiac over and over.

Vanishing Point

Behold the beach scene.
It is sunset with rain on the way.
The waves become choppy
And as the first few droplets fall,
Like pitter-patter steps of the first few high keys on a piano.
Tiny fish, beneath clearer waters, swim about en masse,
Each one of their scales glistening like dimes on the bottom of a fountain.
The clouds of the oncoming storm march across the darkening sky like Arabian horsemen,
grim and determined soldiers reverberating with rebel yells.
They emanate from the center of the sky,
The vanishing point centered in the third eye of Christ's eternal godhead,
And extend in perfect lines across the horizon.
The sand is paled stark white at the sight of it
And the waves claw at the shore, pleading at first in whispers,
And then extending deep and powerful,
The winds' howling chorus spraying water like spattered blood
Onto pock-marked sea rocks.
Rain falls in powerful torrents,
Proud and mighty like the pillars of Rome.
The swirling pools gurgling into a crescendo.
One can only imagine the depths of what lie past the sandbar,
But none dare venture.
The water is too dark and formless,
And the seaweed chains imprison all who trespass.
These are the workings of cold geometry and the mysteries of nature,
The lone viewers of these dramas,
Who hold their breath as the creatures scatter for cover
As another day ends.

Sophmore year popped up to say "Why don't you skip class and smoke and party anymore, Janice?" And I ask "Has it really been two years?" And then sophmore year responds, "Yeah, I know, I never see you around anymore. Remember this poem from Mrs. Dunne's class?" "Yeah," I smile, "the students used to laugh and secretly whisper mockery when she shouted Shakespeare and jumped on the tables while I thought it was great to see a teacher be so passionate about art." "And you would have never read Fahrenheit 451 if it wasn't for her." "Oh damn, you're right!" And sophmore year chokes on a cigarette, reflecting my virginity to the ways of nicotine back then, and hands me the poem and slinks away.

Man of the Town

He was smoother than silk wrapped in velvet
And he was like heaven to the touch
His skin tasted sweeter than candy
And boy, was he too much!

The hipsters all gasped in fear
(and backed off if they were smart)
Cuz we was a tough-as-nails wanderin' man
A true cowboy at heart

The golden child of Apollo
skipped across the blue blue sky
And I could brag that he was my man!
Never happier was I!

He had a know-it-all spring in his step
A cigarette hung from his lips
He was as soulful as a wailin' saxman
And he was always thrustin' his hips

He struck me blind at first sight
He spoke words truer than tears
And now I knew what I'd been missin'
All these long and lonely years

And even if he somehow died
His ghost would still hang around
Cuz he's just too lazy to climb that stairway to heaven
And he'd always be my man of the town

impressive

We had to describe a type of person with objects in junior year English. I chose intraverts and used the Nazca lines to represent them. The relation between the two may be total BS, but it was still something to do. (Note: A 'hedgehog's dilemma', for those of you who haven't seen Neon Genesis Evangelion, is a dilemma where two vulnerable people wish to get close to each other, but the closer they get the more it hurts, like two hedgehog's trying to touch one another.)

Nazca

Tiny Pebbles
Quiet, scattered, shattered
tattered and trampled upon by the desert wind's
Combat boots
Multicolored and opaque
Dry, chipped
Smelling like copper pennies in a sweaty hand
Their war-paint array of colors are dried chalky,
in haste (no steekin' wars needed here, amigo)

At ground floor they are insignificant,
bumpy compacted shards of sandpaper,
suffering from a hedgehog's dilemma
Their edges are worn smooth by the sighs
of dehydrated vampries
They view the sunken sun caught in
an interplanetary intermission

The stones, ignored, are privy to no secrets
Presumably they hold non of their own,
but you know what mother said about assumptions

Hold you breath, though
for just one second
Slip off your thinking cap
for just one moment
Think through a different POV, PVC, MTV,
what have you
Stand on the purple drippings of the cosmos
and stare at the site
They are transformed before your eyes
No longer are they small gray stones of little or no value

In a sunburst their true image is revealed
and from behind a smirking grin,
a silken veil flung from the waist of Truth,
there enlies the real prize in the cereal box
Perfect lines that stretch for miles and miles,
undefeated and unknown
But what great fun is found
when normal perception is given the ol' heave-ho

Spider legs straddle the belt of Orion
and a monkey, its tail a spiral jetty,
swims in a discarded ocean
The astronaut on the hillside,
hands bursting into stars,
dances the calypso with a blank face
(but who's to say he's not Beethoven in disguise?)

Who designed these earthly anomalies?
Perhaps it was the product of chapped-lip Peruvians,
marriachi bands gone astray,
or ET leaving the building
Whoever it may be, these sages with harmonicas
on French cobblestones couldn't help but laugh
at their ghost-writing skills

These wonders, mysterious ink-spills of the mind,
are ominous messages, so silent you can hear
the balloon-universe expanding,
just waiting to pop for that millionth customer

Forever will the Nazca lines dazzle
Forever will the figures sing in unison,
dancing on the golden horizon

Even if they have no audience,
they will always be there

I wrote this when I was 13. I was listening to a lot of Sublime back then and I was really into them. I decided to do a concept of listening to an entire dsicography of a band while writing a poem, so I chose Sublime. It's really mostly about Brad Nowell, though, or at least my idealized concept of him at the time. It contains some explicit words. Enjoy.

Crazy Fool

Voice sweet and penetrating like a razor blade to the soul
tattoos soaked with sweat gleaming in golden light of
the spotlights, his invisible wings spread full-length

Simple affirmation of the truth
Melancholy determination of hope with sweet sonnets of love
True regret in a null-and-void world
But at the end of the day hands wrapped around lover
"happily ever after" theme underneath starry night
Starry night, Oh starry night! Van Gogh weeps with one ear
as camera backs out of fairy tale and fades to black

Sweaty, thin-skinned kindness
reverberating through a goofy grin
and the flick of a cigarette

Notices "oops" cover hand with mouth mistake
Corrects it with slip of the tongue, swing of the hip
and leads champagne sparkling boat off to sea

Cuddly juvenile delinquent you can't help but love
He's stolen your heart showing you his latest piece of artwork
4-year-old finger painting

Voice of an angel you fell from heaven to make someone's life more complete
One chord can tell a whole note's story
Still lovable 13-year-old acne-ridden innocence
even when in adulthood

Ladies and gentlemen! Please applause as he is awarded
for never losing faith and crumbling like so many of us here today!

Bob Marley wannabe never-do-well
Rasta man with a plan
Free-flying reggae spirit
Jamaican but ain't no freak
Steel drummer dance to the beat
Aye! Aye! Aye!
Sunset at sunrise beach glory
Temptation at dusk beckons
So long! Farewell! Aufwiedersen! Goodbye!
beer-chugger friendliness

I saw your bandmate on stage singing your songs
A tear in his eye
Preaching to all us Sublime angels about your divinity
And with that one "A-whoa-o-o-whoa-o-o-whoa-o!"
we all fell in love all over again
With a Sure!-Sure! wink-wink point-point assurance
we beckoned him to go on
I'm the kid screaming "Roots of Creation!" laugh with friends
"Oh, he didn't hear you!" shrug-grin-spit

Eye of Fatima wonderfulness
Shot gun in holster wink
"Strut your stuff girl!" freedom
Tale that'll make old western men
put their hat to their hearts and cry
Roswell conspiracy fun times board game
hotel and motel peanut butter and cracker teeth smile
cuddle up say goodnight

No mourning like those who gnash their teeth
and wail with biblical intensity
An ordinary man with ordinary dreams
yet you helped us all
Indeed great strength still lies in the black hole
of the human soul

I remember sister angelic stick-tongue-out-of-mouth childishness
who claimed your songs hers as she laughed and giggled and with
a flick of her head and a playful "Hmph!" strutted her way out the door.
Now as I look at her grave I hear your songs and cry
but now I am happy because she can hear them eternally
and sing them along with you
Those days with her sublime like pure and golden fields of wheat

His simple sincerity strikes the heart strings of his guitar
vibrate beautiful liquid ecstasy of music
Let the love take a hold of me
Love for the world like a deep sorrow
Sorrow was her shadow
Sorrow was his shadow
Shadows of the soul cloud the night
Doctor Sax rides again!!

I wish I would have met you filter depression
sigh of regret Kurt Cobain generation
Oh fuck it all
YOU HAVE FUN!
Boss DJ ain't nothin but a man

Ooooh! The smooth Cisco Kid beat!
Like a cat stalking its prey it'll eat you good
and you'll feel like shit when it's all said and done

"All the-ese things I do, they're waiting for you"
Come one! Come all! Let us remember this man!
Ok Clappers! Sway to the beat!

Drugs were your assassin
Little footprints in the sand no longer have yours next to them
The tides of time eventually wash all away

Pool Shark weakness
Why didn't you ask for help?
Sid, Layne, Chilli Pepper man, Shannon, Janis....
and now you too?!
Plastic beds are deathbeds
You should have known better
Dinosaurs, ever so mighty, became extinct
An eight-ball frenzy
Needles like the snake of Eden grin nicely
but keep no promises
Yes, the war was lost
You knew that didn't you?

Eyes closed
Smoke rises from your mouth like clouds of silk
You smile knowingly, but say no more
He wanted to show me the ways of the world,
cigar in his mouth like a 1950s sitcom father,
but my eyes were clouded with grief and he understood

Oh death come to us all
knock on door with car salesman grin like Jehovah's witness
but tires still flatten
and mice still squeal
and love still blossoms
and hearts still break
and children still laugh
and 99 red balloons still fly
and there are no more words to say.

these are fucking epics.

better?

Yeah, that's better. I know that last one was really long. I couldn't stop myself when I wrote it at the time.

Someone might be wondering about the title of this thread. It's the lyrics from the song "Nobody" by Madeline. She's a folk singer who I saw perform at the Plan-It-X tour in Gainseville in July along with Ghost Mice, This Bike is a Pipe Bomb, and others. Her songs are really spectacular, and I chose these lines for the thread because 1) they're funny 2)they're about poetry and 3) I used to poke fun at my friend's boyfriend by repeating these lines since he writes bad love poems for my friend and has no friends of his own. It's cute. Here are the lyrics.

"Nobody"
by Madeline

I'm just nobody
'Cause nobody smiles at me
You must be somebody 'cause your friends sell smiles for free
I wish you were lonely 'cause maybe I wouldn't be
You'd feel sorry for that other nobody

And who needs friends when you can come and cry with me?
It all depends when your cup is half full or half empty
Who needs friends when you can come and cry with me?
It all depends when your cup is half full or half empty

I'm just nobody
I like to write and read
You must be somebody 'cause you never talk to me
I wish you were ugly 'cause I would feel so free
to hold hands and sing with that other nobody

And who needs friends when you can write bad poetry?
Talk of when love ends
The hurt sets in
Oh, the faithful art of the lonely
And who needs friends when you can write bad poetry?
Talk of when love ends
The hurt sets in
Oh, the faithful art of the lonely

I'm just nobody
I call my own phone
You must be somebody 'cause I've never seen you alone
I wish you weren't so huggable when I'm feelin' like a cactus tree
Who wants to touch the thorns of a hopeless nobody?

Great, huh? Buy her album, Kissing and Dancing, for $5 at http://www.plan-it-x.com You won't regret it!

I feel like posting more lyrics. These two songs are from This Bike is a Pipe Bomb. They're a great anrcho/folk/bluegrass punk band from Pensacola, Florida. I've seen them three times. Very nicle people. They gave me lots of free stickers! They're pretty much one of the best bands existing at this moment, so buy their album at http://www.plan-it-x.com or you can see them at The Fest in Gainseville, FL (http://www.thefestfl.com) taking place Nov. 18, 19, and 20th. You'll definitely see me there.

Imperfection
I'm in love with imperfection
Some how I know that you are too
That's how I know you wont be offended when I tell you that's the reason I'm in love with you
So what ya gonna do today?
The same thing as yesterday?
Sit around and decay into a new highway?
All of your lovers are gone
All of your pride is too
You will always have the lonely shy boy, cry boy, with you
Whatever happened to you?
You just dont smile at me anymore
It never used to be like that
It never used to be like that
We used to have the time of our lives just goofin' around
No matter how much you change I still love you
You're my hometown

Of Chivalry and Romance in a Dumpster
We made out in a dumpster behind the thrift store
We had plans
I guess you could say that we failed them
These tattoos are forever
It's gonna snow forever here,
but these things don't matter no more,
cause I'm not a punk rock hero, and you're no fairy princess
just cause you're beautiful and i've got a stupid haircut

Are we allowed to put short stories up here? I hope so. Well, this story here won second place in a short story contest. The guy who beat me and I are thinking of starting our own mini-zine. Fun times. Enjoy.

Zero Degrees of Separation

It was a Thursday night in the spring. I had just stumbled out of the car and gained balance on the nearby pavement. My friends had gone in to pay for gas, but I didn't feel like walking inside of the conveiance store with them. The thick, bullet-proof glass is too depressing, isolating the cashier from any human contact. The security cameras are disheartening as well, "disheartening" being true in the purest sense. The mechanical eye which whirs and oscelates inside of a metal skeleton does not embody a heart, only steel gears and wires, peering down on wary customers behind an oval, mirror-like riot-gear shield. And so, waiting patiently for my comrades, I sat with burning eyes, tired and ragged, on the sidewalk which, due to the county officials' ability to color inside the lines, linked directly to the roadway.
As I sat there, I turned to view my surroundings. The streets were clear and vacant, no cars to be seen, and the landscape boasted little of any trees or foliage. And then, cradled in the gutter, I saw a plastic soda bottle, obviously Pepsi. The streetlight above rained down light upon it, its shadow stretching so small in the night, seeming so insignificant in value to anything or anyone. Its story then struck me right there. BULLSEYE! Like an arrow through the heart. I saw a sweet sincerity and holiness in that mass of plastic and I could only guess at the adventures that occurred in its little litter life.
Imagine the classic Midwestern scene, a complete embodiment of NOWHERE, U.S.A. Miles and miles of empty road stretch on and on with a crazy serpentine will to see how far it can go before eventually dropping dead from sheer exhaustion. Small tuffs of wild grass grow everywhere and the towns lie in a serene duldrum, the winds blowing with leisure and sloth. The origin point lies at a public reststop on Route Who-Knows-Where? To turn left is to view scattered puffs of weeds and other vague foliage which normal folk remember by sight and experience while botanists remember through latin definitions and long caffeine-fueld nights of study. To turn right is to view the same, the ultimate simularities, which repeat over and over in this uneventful area of calm.
The restroom is small by any standards and made of the darkest, oil-stained concrete. The floor, which has been icy cold for decades, is speckled with spit-out gum of vagrants and passerbys, eventually tatooed in gunk by the elements. A long, almost unbearably long stretch of space lies between the two choices of rest, and in the center of this stretch is a soda vending machine. It is plugged into the buzzing electricity outlet which has escaped from the murky concrete for air. Its outward signs show pure commercial optimism and satisfaction, an image of a cold drink with glistening condensation waters sweating down the plastic label on its side. The brand name of the drink is written in fancy cursive created by a team of advertising moguls somewhere where the wild things roam and loom in tall skyscrapers, skykickers, skypunchers and skykissers. This vending machine glows with a happy face straight from manufactured bliss, which is strange and foreign to the apathetic and neutral workings of nature, and there is no one to see it for miles around. The only living objects to take daily notice of it now lie dead in pools of grease and gunk that inhabit the building, mosquito legs and spider hair trapped in their worshipping stance of the heavenly glowing obelisk. There is nothing more than this.
A boy, a field worker, 17 years old, thirsty after a long day's work, stands in the center of the street, facing the old and abandoned rest area. In that moment, in the still night, he is the nexus of this tiny world, but to him he sees only a vending machine, only a rest stop. He steps up to the machine with dry lips, fumbling in his pockets for change. In the corner of his eye he can see markings on the wall. They are rare artifacts of the rest stop, and its only written history. What's seen there are handprints and scribbled messages of those who have visited this place in the past. These handprints, created by grease, grime, dirt, soot, ash, gook, or what have you, are tiny storybooks which are as of much importance as the writings of the most advanced of civilizations. The way that DNA leaves information about genetics, handprints leave information about how a person lived. These hands that have created these imprints each could tell of an infinite amount of adventures which could only be guessed and pondered at for eons. These hands have worked in fields, worked in factories, thrown baseballs, driven cars, picked flowers, thrown baseballs, broken glass, washed dishes, pummeled heads, picked up children, lit cigarettes, caressed shot glasses, donated at church, loved their neighbor, and have given high fives. These hands are sacred and holy in the way that all rare and unwanted things are. The marks that have been left are barely noticable, driven deep into the dark sepruchal walls by the ware of time. The boy does not notice these things, these miniscule majesties. All he sees is grime on the wall. All he wants is a drink.
And finally his hands clasp a huddled mass of quarters which he slowly tips into the coin slot. Calloused fingers press the desired button and the bottle comes clanking down, swift and fast, like a guillotine blade.
"Hey! Jim!" He turns around to see his friends calling him from the window of their pick-up truck. "Hurry up! Let's get a move on!" He quickly grabs the bottle, the nerves in his palm jumping from the coldness, and climbs into the bed with rusted corners that are so brittle and so weak (Oh Time! Must your dog-toothed smile gnaw at everything you see?). The truck's motor slowly turns and turns and moves and groans until it creeps onward. As the trees begin to blur from the speed, the boy opens the cap, the bottle releasing a small sigh of fizz, and then plunges the cool soda into his scratchy throat. It fills and soothes every crevice and he is happy. He holds the plastic bottle with both hands around its girth and stares up at the sky. The moon hangs like a crooked painting, no cloudy vapors around to shroud it from anything. It shines so bright unto all underneath it, and the boy cannot help but stare at it with gleaming eyes. This moon which acts as a lonely witness to all the dark-night happenings and feelings looms gigantic and legendary. This same moon that stares wide-eyed upon the wide-eyed boy is the same moon that looks upon all the French beaches that he will never see. This is the same moon that hangs over cats in cardboard alleyways. This is the same moon that, unfortunately, even with the power to tug all the oceans in one triumphant motion, tried and failed a tug at the hem of Christ (thus ensuring its eternally pale appearance). It is the same moon that peers down over the men in suits with cellphones (the boy never dreaming of needing one) who eat dog-eat-dog for lunch and drink martinis at expensive clubs. They do not see the moon. All they see is letters, bold and tall, that read "PUT YOUR MONEY WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS!" The boy has no money to put anywhere, and his mouth is full of teeth and cola and saliva. There is nothing more than that.
And the boy, for one moment, sees past his dull eyes and sees the entire scene around him. The treetops become frames that throw glorious balls of praise skywards. The sky turns into a blank and shining canvas and the wind whistles and rushes by at immeasurable speeds. And as the cosmos trembles and forms an awesome crescendo, the omnipresent moon opens itself up in one slow, graceful movement. He sees it. He sees the pupil of the moon which does not blink but stares deep, deep into him. The void inside of it makes his bones creak and shake like Hiroshima, making him snap his teeth in grim anticipation. And then it, the moment, is over. He looks down and the bottle is gone. He had dropped it and now it lies far off in the distance, dull and trampled. He does not see this. All he sees is the lines of the road, endlessly blurring into one. There is nothing more. He tips his cap over his eyes, dirt caked in the corners, and sleeps.
A cold wind blows and I shiver a bit, clutching my shoudlers. The street light flickers and the bottle looks upward at the sky, the electrical light creating a shining aura around it. For an instant I feel it. It permeates me, this feeling of unity, of comradery, of connection to all things. It is a warm awe that consists of something larger than anything ever imagined. It testifies that everything is holy and pure, every person and every piece of trash, and all their stories are connected together with tiny golden strings of divinity. I finally realized that there is only zero degrees of separation and I should never let anyone tell me otherwise.
"Hey!" I snap my head back, out of this vision. I see my friends, all smiles, waving at me as I stand on the cracked sidewalk. "Let's go!" I join them and together we leave, cozy and sleepy-eyed in the clear spring night.

A Eulogy for the Inexscusable

As I sit here contemplating 2005 it's not unlike contemplating all our mutual suicides. How much of our aspirations and dreams and expectations for the past year ended up falling to our own friendly fire? Only now, on January 1, 2006, do we seem out of ammo. As I look at the photos taped to the wall, Japanther pulses through my stereo, each speaker a ventricle of musical musings. Japanther, to me, has become a soundtrack to the self-portrait of the past year. In popular music, lyrics serve as the meat and potatos of the composition, the music merely the background medley that's meant to make us hum and tap our toes. In every one of Japanther's songs, the vocals are in the background, hazed out by the persistent instruments. The vocals act merely as background music that humbly serves the repeating rhythms of the feelings conveyed by the music itself, an after-thought to the main idea. In so many ways did 2005 feel like this. The words spoken last year were merely a background, glossed over by the ever-prominent actions that were taken by each and every one of us.
2005 was a 12-month date-rape that was fueled by fumbled passions and cheap beer. Emotional scars were groped clumsily between dirty sheets and the cracks of the system. Insecurities were unwillingly flung into the spotlight and ripped open by cold, clammy, uncaring hands. We hated the harsh examination but somehow in someway we had all become addicted to the bitter taste of crocodile tears.There were so many new experiences. We all underwent multiple head rushes of unexpected circumstances that left us whirling in the gas fumes of late-night goodbyes. And, goddamn it!, crying in public!, choking back tears as we screamed at the top of our lungs!, white-knuckling the steering wheel in traffic! How much could we ache before eventually being crippled under the sheer weight of utter sorrow and disappointment? When being let down was the trendiest of fashions, we all longed to run naked and wild in the woods. Unfortunately, the cold wind was oh so freezing, our mouths too full of chattering teeth to forgive each other for our inability to act. There were so many unforeseen questions and we sure as hell missed the way we used to feel. Wow, were we ever so joyful? Did we really stomp our feet and clap our hands to the beat of brown-eyed idealists or was it just the whiskey talking? Did we really twirl on our tippy-toes in poorly-lit warehouses or was it just something we saw on TV? Did we really once care for each other or was I just stoned? Did you really give up all hope or was that just the sound of my heart breaking?
Empathy is the only key to close relationships, friend or otherwise. Empathy was felt in the sidewalk that held as many chips as our shoulders. Empathy was felt in the sunlight that kissed open our eyes and revealed the bright foliage of a new morning. Empathy was felt in the skull-grey sky that dominated us as we felt ourselves sink into the tarry pools of apathy. Empathy was felt in our tired faces and the way we shook our heads in drug-fueled fervors, flailing madly in the pits as the aggression spouted from our lungs like shooting stars that couldn't carry any of our damn wishes, no way no how. Empathy was felt in every goddamn bruise, every goddamn hit, every goddamn note, and every GODDAMN time we CHOSE to STAY SILENT and not defend the notions and people we love.
The year bore down on us with the power of a million atom bombs, and yet none of us admitted defeat. We had made it. We had survived the constant taunts of blue-eyed, self-destructive nihilists who wished for our hearts' demise and New Year's Eve finally knocked on our lonely door. Exhausted, conflicted, confused, we saw that chaos had become the ungovernable force that ruled each of our lives. We shuffled towards the midnight hour with pale-faces, enthusiasm long-gone. We cut our feet on our shattered conceptions that littered the floor of the bedrooms and bars that we somehow called our homes and, breathless and bleeding, we watched as 2005 tore its way out of each and every one of us. The memories became a lumbering beast, a teeth-gnashing giant, clothed in a dirty hoodie and stained pajama pants. With bare feet it stalked through 540, barrelled down Wrecker Highway, and crawled desparately across Central Avenue. And then, as the new year dawned and glasses were raised, each pop of the champagne bottles was another wound in the behemoth's side. It collapsed onto Havendale Boulevard, its tattered roar drowned out by the buzzes and whirrs of the the fireworks that littered the streets. It's last gasp echoed through the simultaneous ruffles of calendar pages and its immense body fell flat on its face, its eyes staring fiercely and silently into the dark night. Joyfully we celebrated its death? No. How could we? 2005 had no conclusion, no resolution, and there was no going back. So troubled and torn was the ghastly year that even the new year could not defeat it completely. Its ghost could be seen in the fog that immediately descended upon Polk County when the ball had dropped. The ghost loomed in the fog for the entire morning, its claws shining for one second, only to turn to stop signs and headlights when one tried to spy them. All I could think, as I traveled through the vapor, was, simply, If I searched hard enough, could hope still be found in that misty misty fog?

My friend,
Your poems are great!
But instead of wasting your time writing in this list, maybe you should post somewhere where people will be more interested in poetry per say.
I wonder if people ever read anything here.
Take care

Lol, thank you! Your compliments are going to give me a big head. Yeah, debate is more prevalant on here than poetry, but that's okay with me. Posting poetry in the dark and musty corners of the internet is fun