Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
Fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan;
And watched thousands of recruits try to make my Sooners Team.
Often, I’ve enviously wondered what it must be like
To be a touted Sooners recruit, living out his dream.
He’d had a great career through high school;
Made good grades, was a football star, played baseball too.
Coach said college recruiters were watching closely;
So, he tried his very best to make his dream come true.
You see, he’d played on the L’il Sooners as a kid;
Started getting serious about the game when he was only eight
Played with older, bigger boys and practiced hard;
Always told his friends, “To be a Sooner, ya gotta play great”.
Oh yes, his parents raised a football player;
And, even more important, a Sooners fan;
But he wanted more, to be a Sooner,
To feel the glory raining down from the stands.
Now, the Sooners’ Head Coach is in his living room.
“Son, you’ve got talent. We think you fit our scheme.
We’re offering you a scholarship, an opportunity
To be an important member of our great Sooners Team”.
His mother smiles her biggest smile.
His father nods proudly and pats him on the knee.
“Lord knows, son, it’s a dream come true.
Go be the very best Sooner you can be”.
He walks into the locker room,
Not quite sure what to expect;
But sure that to play for the Sooners
He will first have to earn respect.
He looks each man straight in the eye -
Other recruits, trainers, assistants, and every coach.
“Be proud, but respectful”, his mother had said;
Your character, more than your performance, must be above reproach”.
His handshake is firm and he smiles.
“Only one chance for a first impression”, his father had said;
"Always put yourself in positive light, on and off the field.
That’s what it will take to play for the mighty Big Red”.
He meets so many other recruits, each one a high school star.
He’s played against a few and knows they share his dream.
And, to a man, each knows before any chance for Glory,
He first must prove worthy to play for this Sooners Team.
He knows a few will fail to meet the coaches’ expectations.
For some, the scout team will be their fate.
Many will suit up, but rarely play.
Only the very best will ever dare to be great.
Coach says, “If every man learns and executes when called on,
Then this team, we Sooners, will win a lot of games;
But, win or lose, if you play hard and give your very best,
You’ll never have to hang your heads in shame”.
“But gentlemen, with or without you, this team will win.
Every season, the Sooners strive to win it All.
So, listen, work hard, and prepare yourselves. Each game is war...
And you must be ready when Victory calls”.
Through grueling practices, he finds himself.
As he walks to class, his closest friends are aches and pains;
But, just the other day, Coach helped him up, smiled, and patted his helmet.
“You’re doin’ fine, son. Keep pushin’. Remember, no pain, no gain”.
He sees his name on the "open scrimmage" roster for the very first time.
It’s a moment he’ll never forget, another milestone in his dream.
He calls his Mom and Dad, knowing they’ll tell his family and his friends.
He hopes they’ll actually see him play, proof he’s made the Team.
As he suits up for the last pre-season open scrimmage,
He wonders if the coaches would really let a freshman play at all;
But Coach puts him in for eight plays against the first team;
He makes two great open-field tackles and intercepts the ball.
He barely hears the roar of the crowd, as the whole defense “gives him five”.
He’s so excited, he forgets to ask if he can keep that ball.
Fans are buzzing, “Did you see that hit”!? “Who is that kid”!?
“Will he red shirt or will Coach let him play this fall”?
He sees his name in the Sunday paper, hears it on local sports.
He’s happy, but he doesn’t let it go to his head.
He keeps his focus and uses it as motivation.
After all, he wants to start one day for the mighty Big Red.
Yes, we’ll hear more of this young recruit.
Perhaps, one day he’ll be the hero of the game.
A seasoned veteran, maybe All Conference or even All American,
Who’s tasted Victory many times and helped glorify the Sooners’ name.
Oh yes, there have been so many who’ve aspired;
But many fewer who’ve actually made our Sooners Team.
They are our heroes, each and every one;
For it’s through their accomplishments, we fans can live the dream.
Billy Vessels, Steve Owens, Billy Sims, and Jason White,
The Selmons, Little Joe, the Boz, Josh Heupel, and “Q”
They, and so many others, were once touted Sooners recruits;
Who set a higher mark and built the Tradition that is OU.
So, c’mon! c’mon! all you great young football players!
Dedicate your talents to OU’s Team and OU’s Fans.
Make Oklahoma’s Owen Field your Field of Dreams,
And feel the Glory raining down from the stands.
Long poem by
Peter Duggan | Details |
In memory of Bob
A true story.
It was in spring of two thousand when I first saw Bob. I’d just started working at Perth Dental hospital, and in fact it was my first day there. I walked up to the front door of this building, but it wasn’t yet opened. So I turned around and went to sit in the bus shelter which was just outside the building. As I went to sit down I noted a dark skinned gentleman sitting there with a happy, benign look on his face. He was about five feet eight give or take a little, and he was rather a thickset man who looked like he’d done his fair share of hard work in his sixty years or more.
There was something about this Gentleman that I could not quite put my finger on. He had a certain charisma about him; not the phony kind of charisma that one seen in the car salesman or the philanderer who messes with women’s heads, no, Bob had a kind of friendly smile for everyone that he met, and he seemed to draw people into him with his love, and gigantic heart. I knew as soon as I met him that Bob was most definitely for me.
As Bob looked at me and smiled, the whole world seemed to open up. He said “Ow ya going mate” in a loud ebullient manner, then we started to chat. Bob was like myself, a thinker, and straight away we started philosophizing about this, that, and the other, and it was like we had known each other forever. Then all of a sudden I found Bob talking about death, and the difference in the way the Maori people faced death, compared to the rather the silly way us white folk look at the subject with great fear in our hearts. Now this had always interested me, and somehow it just seemed natural to talk to this Maori gentlemen on this subject, and we spoke about it till the doors opened and it was time to work.
I don’t think anything happens just by chance, and I definitely have this feeling that Bob and I were meant to meet, and I really think this was a major destiny thing. I have found during the course of my life, that as I am aging, I can feel something pushing me into a certain direction, and I always felt that Bob was part of all this; and I had much to learn from him. Although I have never believed in organized religion, and never followed one I have always felt deeply spiritual, and I have met many people who I learned from, and Bob was most definitely one of them with all his great wisdom and patience. As I came to know Bob, we had many dialogues together, on many subjects. Bob used to love music and could always have time to plonk away on his guitar. He used to come round to my place and we would play songs together, though both he and I were no Eric Clapton’s, I would bang around on my guitar and play the harp, while we would both take out turns at singing. We’d have a smoke or a beer or two, and we’d play songs all day long, ahhh, I remember those days well, the memories are so strong.
Bob was one hell of a man, I could tell that he had been a wild one in his youth,
But when I knew him in his sixties he was an icon of wisdom and virtue; he had a kind word for everyone, and gave all his time to anybody who needed him, always.
He used to hear me waffling on like an idiot, trying to make him like me [as I always did] but never once did he tell me how foolish I was, he would just smile knowingly at me. He used to stand there at the window for hours, just drinking in the trees, or the clouds in the sky, and yet he was so aware, I used to try to sneak up on him; it couldn’t be done. His awareness was incredible.
Then one day Bob fell ill with terminal cancer, and he knew that he had very little time left on this Earth. He lay there sick for days in intolerable pain, but you never heard one complaint from him, even when he only had days to live, he was still worrying about the welfare of others. When the day finally come for Bob to leave his shell; he was lying there in deep sleep, when all of a sudden he woke up, with a smile on his face. His children asked him ‘Dad, do you want some pain killers” Bob laughed, compassion written all over his face, and he said to them ‘Not one of you has a clue, have you’ and he died with a big smile on his face.
His daughter got in touch with me, and told me about his death, and also told me that his last wish was to have me watch his soul leave his body. I felt very honored about this and went and sat with his body [as Maoris do]. I got the most peaceful feeling come to me [which I presume was his spirit leaving his body] as I watched his silent body, a Mari war stick and a beautiful rose lay across his chest. I still see it, and I feel blessed by it. He was my Maori warrior, and I adored the man.
Long poem by
Timothy Hicks | Details |
It's the best I can do to explain myself
is standing in between it all, so I can view both sides.
Who are you to say that a summer days more beautiful
than the dead of night?
You profess to have to wisdom by dousing words in philosophical jargon,
but I'm here to let it all loose with an unchained honesty...
it's the best bargain
I have to offer. I practice love cause it's simple.
Respect your body cause it's sacred, a well built temple.
like ramen noodles from the supermarket, just add water
and presto! Easier than reading words off a teleprompter.
Uncensored laughter like it ought to be,
letting it self be know, however audibly.
You don't have to have to reason to love thy neighbor.
When smiles are born from your efforts,
ain't no such thing as hard labor.
Nobody's righteous, man, just a few
who strive to be a little less wicked.
No matter the masks we give ourselves
is ever gonna change the facts that the clock's still ticking.
I believe in God despite what friends close to me might say.
For the sake of fitting in I could claim ignorance,
but there's just no other way.
Cause I know at the end of the day,
there's one all encompassing thought that keeps the doubts at bay,
there's gotta be something more than what I see currently.
Is it so naive to think there lies ahead my unfolding destiny?
God's guidance may be obtained from a book, perhaps,
but I dare you to take a second look
when passing by a mirror
... tell me there's more than what appears.
Is it God you see or is it the devil?
Now let me bring it up a notch to a philosphical level.
Whether you're planting the seeds of kindness
or the seeds of deceit, either way,
it takes effort to roll up your sleeves.
You might as well just be providing carbon dioxide for the trees.
If you don't take chances nothing much happens:
the universe and I unanimously agree.
Call me cardinal cause here I am stating first things first.
Just who the hell are you and what's your purpose?
If a messenger is what you be make it clear as crystal.
Vagueness and obscurity be corruptions might.
A gardener need not be afraid of thorns and thistles.
That's where the berries congregate, am I right?
It's all just talk and not enough walk,
with poetic phrasing I aim to knocks your socks off.
But if you judge by actions I'd be lucky to get a sneeze or cough.
Oh the bitter irony of this conundrum!
A lover of the night who chaseth the sun.
I'm stuck between my two great loves:
The naps in the shadow
and the beauty of the spotlight.
My wish to see the crowds
from the solace of the clouds
or be squeezed between 'em, airtight.
But I just cannot seem to change my outlook,
in many ways I'm both a closed door and a open book.
War and politics wish to claim my writer's soul,
though love and kindness be the intended goal.
They be packing nuclear weapons, but all I got is this pistol.
Flashing with them golden intentions like bedazzled tinsel.
But when the end comes all our egos take advice from soft drinks, fade and fizzle
Guess peace never come, 'til Jesus blows forth the heavenly whistle.
I can't just brush the deaths going on around me as nothing,
despite what the Beatles sang about, love isn't everything,
from experience I've learned, however,
when all you care for just shatters,
love is perhaps the only thing that matters.
So when you see me or when you don't,
a person you can touch and feel or a singular thought
pulled straight from thin air,
know that I am THERE!
I have a heart and mind, and flesh and bone.
Knowing this none can say that I am alone.
Long poem by
Robert Nehls | Details |
He sat behind the counter,
Inside the used bookstore.
I thought I recognized him,
As if we'd met before.
"Can I be of service Sir,"
He asked with smiling face.
I'm looking for a book, says I,
Called, "Life's Impassioned Race."
It's poetry that touched my heart,
With words that long endure.
Though we've not met, I know him well.
The author Isadore.
Introduced in sixty four.
I was but a young lad then,
Whose race had just begun.
My wings were young and fragile.
My future plans were none.
Had left the comfort of my home,
Determined to be free.
Then, suddenly I found the world
A dreadful place to be.
I was hungry, cold, and beaten.
Had to fight the urge to steel.
And many times I fought the cats
In alleys for a meal.
It all seemed so unreal.
Yet, through the pain and hunger,
My wings began to grow.
I spread them wide and rode the wind,
Wherever it would go;
Until I found a friendly town,
That looked like home for sure.
I saw a sign, "HELP WANTED,"
Outside a Used Bookstore.
This very store we're standing in;
An old man with a flame.
In fact you look a bit like him,
And, Jacob was his name.
Into his world I came.
Oh, I was grateful for the job,
And Jacobs pay was fair.
In back a cozy little room,
He said that he could spare.
So, there I was, at home and work,
With time and books to read.
The wee-hours my companion,
As mind and soul I'd feed.
I read my way to poetry,
And high among the dust,
The title, " Life's Impassioned Race,"
Came at me with a thrust.
It's reading was a must.
I read it time and time again,
Surprised at all I learned.
I felt my soul cry out with joy.
A fire in me burned.
So, I brought the book to Jacob,
And asked of Isadore.
"Did he write any other books?
Are they here in the store?"
" Isadore? Oh, it's that old book.
The only one he's done.
Old poems of life's impassioned race,"
He then began to read one.
A strange phenomenon.
As if it was a part of him,
His heart poured out each line.
With Isadore, he ran the race
That God and man design.
And I could see, and feel, and smell,
The world of Isadore.
I thought that I'd found all his gifts,
But, Jacob gave me more.
I asked him if he'd read them all.
"Just one each day," he said.
Each morning we would journey on,
Until they all were read.
My need for truth was fed.
It wasn't too long after that,
I felt the wind once more.
"I'll learn of life's impassioned race,"
"Like he author, Isadore."
So, I bid farewell to Jacob,
With a tear and smiling face.
"You might be needing this," he said.
It was, "Life's Impassioned Race."
I carried it for many years.
It's wisdom served me well.
It's words have helped me gain the strength,
To shun the gates of hell.
There's so much I could tell.
Well, I came to see old Jacob.
The book has been misplaced.
Every man should have a copy,
Of, "Life's Impassioned Race.
Then, the man that looked familiar,
With a smile and a tear,
Said, "fortunes your companion, friend.
I have the book right here."
"You're right, I look a bit like him,
This was my father's store.
Well known as, Jacob to his friends.
His Pen Name, Isadore!"
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/twos_magic_nose_538609' st_title='Two's Magic Nose'>
Such a nose had Ol’ Blue.
Best in south Missouri... everybody knew.
Could smell a pheasant across the plain.
Could point a covey in a hurricane.
That’s the way the legend goes.
Ol’ Blue had a “magic nose.”
As Blue got older, his master’s mind would drift away
To a place where he and young Blue used to play.
In the mornings, sitting over his coffee cup
He found it sad there were no pups.
He thought it would be such a shame
If the only memory was Ol’ Blue’s name.
So, Jim was compelled and full of pride;
He made a search, far and wide,
To find Ol’ Blue a suitable mate.
No doubt, his offspring would be great.
It seemed likely, he supposed,
At least one pup would have his “magic nose.”
She was a Champion Miss from New Orleans,
A beautiful “red” named Cajun Queen.
But Blue suddenly passed away, before the pups were born.
Jim was broken hearted. He and “Queenie” mourned.
Then came the litter, but there was only one.
Jim struggled for hope; after all, he was Ol’ Blue’s son.
Dappled and lanky, a handsome little cuss,
He looked just like Blue. Jim made such a fuss.
Naming this pup would require no ado.
It was obvious. Officially, he would be “Blue Two.”
Oh yes, these were mighty large tracks to fill.
“Can he?”, folks asked. Jim would say, “Heck yes he will!”
So his nickname became “Two” and he seemed to be smart.
Soon it was time for his training to start.
The basics went well, but Jim’s outlook grew very dim
When, instead of pointing, Two would wag and jump and bark at him.
Oh, Two seemed to be trying; but try as he might,
He just could not seem to ever get it right.
“Blue’s son or not, he’s got to go!”
Jim found Two a “pet home” far away, in Tupelo.
On his way back, he stopped in Texarkana.
Been too long a time since he’d seen his sister Hannah.
Six days and six pounds later, he was back on his way.
Work at the farm was callin’ and he’d be drivin’ all day.
He thought about Ol’ Blue and wondered if and when
He’d ever have a birddog as good as Blue again.
Oh, he knew another “magic nose” was just a far off dream;
After all, it wasn’t something any man could scheme.
A “magic nose” was a gift from God, only given to a few;
And he was proud and very lucky just to have known Ol’ Blue.
As he turned into his drive, he broke into a smile.
“Why… I can’t believe it! It…It must be 300 miles!”
Two was on the porch, thin and dirty; but he struck a handsome pose.
Jim ran and hugged Two hard. “How’d you get back? Lord only knows!”
Suddenly Jim realized; and struck with awe, he slowly rose.
A tear trickled to his smile. “Why Two… you have a “magic nose!”
Two and Jim are best of friends, together everywhere.
From milkin’ cows to bedtime, Two is always there.
Jim doesn’t hunt much anymore, now Two’s a rescue dog.
Just last month, he saved a little girl lost in Cooley’s Bog.
Jim struts and tells proud, heroic stories;
While Two wags and jumps and barks, and shares his glory.
Jim boasts, “Like father, like son!”, then speaks fondly of Blue;
But all know the largest tracks to fill are those of Two.
His deeds are known far and wide,
And fill Jim’s heart with love and pride.
For with every rescue, the legend grows;
About a dog named Two, and his “magic nose.”
Long poem by
Timothy Hicks | Details |
As the man on the roof, took two steps towards the edge, he was unexpectedly stopped by the sound of a bright and familiar voice, down below.
"I thought you were at work dad, watcha doing up there?", asked Daisy with a serious look on her face. He was hoping she wouldn't have to witness this, and was desperately thinking of ways around it, to explain his actions.
"I came home early, honey and well-- things will be a little bit different from now on, sweet pea... please, just go back inside"
She hugged herself tight as the autumn wind attacked her bare arms. It was freezing out here. And although she longed for her cocoa and wool blanket inside, daddy just wasn't making any sense.
"I'm scared... you always said that the roof was dangerous and--"
Her slightly panicked plea was cutoff by yet another familiar voice, though with an unusually angry tone to it, like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard... but not quite.
"Charles! What on earth are you doing up there?", roared from what only could be Daisy's mother. The man on the ledge, sighed. Two problems arising in the span of a few minutes. There's just no way around this, if I'm gonna do this at all I gotta do it now! He thought to himself.
He took a couple steps back, inhaled a quick breath, and lifted his leg as if it sprint. While gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes closed he leaped off the edge into the blustery cold day. And in mid-air he hugged his legs tightly with his arms, creating an impressive cannonball shape.
A great whoosh sound happened, as the girls immediately raised their arms in defense of the coming splash.
"You just ruined your best suit!", said the woman, as the man lifted his head up from the icy chlorinated water, with a mad grin on his face.
"Well it looks like I won't be needing it anymore."
"You mean, you-- Oh Charles, what are we gonna-- Oh Charles," she incoherently blabbered on.
"It's alright dear, something will come up. There's a whole world of possibilities now," he gestured with his arms at the general area of their front lawn. "I'll do something else, something better even. A detective, an archaeologist, an astronaut--"
"Or maybe an Olympic diver!", shouted Daisy contentedly.
"Anything's possible," he chuckled. And on that note, they left their front lawn, while half a dozen anthills fended against the unexpected flooding. And as they walked through the front door of the house, they were uncertain to keep, they all held hands, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing board games.
Late at night when everyone else was asleep, he walked in his pyjamas and gazed through the window. The pool was mirror-flat, filled with silver moonlight, and autumn leaves were casually floating on its surface.
A good day, Charles thought. Today was a good day.
Long poem by
Monterey Sirak | Details |
I found you crying in the closet when you were only five
A walk-through closet that opened onto both our bedrooms
You had a bad dream didn’t know where to turn
Mom and Dad weren’t home left us with Uncle Joe
but he always went to bed right after supper
And he wasn’t our uncle just a lonely old man
who stayed on when we rented his house
You were my little brother so I took you to my bed
Later you told me I petted you like a little lost puppy
The next morning I helped you make your bed
Our first chore of the day making beds
smoothing and tucking covers
erasing signs of disturbed nights
Making neat what was chaos
We didn’t realize we were making beds in a burning house
Inside our home reality was knocked askew
to match our town struck by the tornado a week ago
I held tightly to your hand as we boarded the bus
Mom was running away from Dad taking us with her
No great adventure awaited us only fear of an unknown future
At ten all I knew to do was bury my face in your cowlick and cry
You ran away from home I found you sitting at the corner
with tears rolling down dirty freckled cheeks
stumped because you were not allowed to cross the street
Your pillowcase full of clothes a sad lump on the pavement
I took your hand and led you home
I taught you to make your own bed
with perfectly tucked corners and fresh clean sheets
But our house was still burning
Soon only the two of us would be left
Our sister headed to Heaven wrapped in her chenille bedspread
Mom trailed behind hanging onto a loose tail of the sheet
flapping forlornly in a cool autumn breeze
I took your hand sat with you on the window seat
We watched parades of people passing through our house
who never noticed us And we waited
We waited years for Mom to return although she slept in her bed
each night and made it first thing in the morning
Our house was still burning
You grew up to set your own houses on fire
It was what you knew making beds in burning houses
Each time I found you took you by the hand
led you to a peaceful place where we could sit quietly
and watch the world go by for a time
Words unnecessary between us
They had been since before you could talk
when Mom placed your chubby newborn self
in my four-year-old arms and said Here’s your baby brother
You watch out for him He needs you
Your fires have all gone out now
No burning embers left to catch on the bed covers
You make your bed with ease precision
and a renewed sense of purpose
I watch happily from a distance of only miles
And know you can feel me still holding your hand
For Kevin, the most exasperating, loyal, and lovable little brother anyone could have.
Long poem by
Alex Duffy | Details |
4.30 In the morning and I’m writing this
Thinking of how beautiful but difficult of a life it is
Looking up at stars
But doing more than appreciating what a beautiful night it is
Thinking back to when I fell for a girl who didn’t love me back, it was quite a slip
She took my heart
Left it covered in bruises, cuts and scars
But id didn’t put up my guard
Until I got stabbed in the back by a friend and the knife stuck in hard
At the time I’d of sold my soul to the devil just to have my heart back
But I worried what good would it be with scars attached?
That was the moment I allowed poetry to become my advocate
So my pain was no longer hazardous
When you’re going through it you don’t realise how bad it is
When you’ve been through it, it can’t be as bad as you first thought because you survived
And overcame the worst obstacle in your life
And you realise happiness is actually attainable
Be yourself, don’t copy and realise life’s aren’t exchangeable
Enjoy the moment you may never get the chance again
Enjoy the song you may never be able to dance again
Truth be told, if I’m fully honest?
Then I never needed anything I thought I wanted
Maybe I wanted out of greed, or just a case of never having it
Maybe there were many cakes on the plate & I was grabbing it
To get the best out of life you need to be strong through the worst times
Don’t judge because you’ll rarely be happy by what you first find
Everyone’s a working progress, grow with them, realise what a blessing they are
Let them open up on there own, don’t question their scars
I’m not preaching or teaching
This is just a guy who’s been through hell speaking
Now it’s almost 5 in the morning and I’m not even halfway through saying what I need to
You’re wasting time trying to be someone else, while somebody is dying to meet you
Take a risk if you’re willing to lose for it
Sometimes you have to take a step back to move forward
I used to want my ex back
Until I got better
Now I’m happy we’re not together
Don’t pick up a thing from where you left at
Dust yourself off start from scratch
Grow in time; learn where your heart is at
It may take time
But in the end you’ll have a strong heart & great mind
I began to hear hate better and became blind to love
When I was heart broke and I realised every contract is signed in blood
I like to recall the bad as well as rewind the good
It just prepares me
Reminds me I’ve been through the worst so nothing should scare me
Life gives you hardship so you won’t sink easy
The moment you begin to think freely
You’ll see life is a risk but usually worth the gamble
When you stop letting life control you and reverse the handle
Long poem by
Anthony Cast | Details |
I can't pin point when it started, where everything went wrong and I got left behind discarded, it might have started back in the day, family in turmoil forever in dismay, we were torn apart, separated and forced to split, playing both sides of the fence I was torn and split. I remember when it all took place, I took my first toke hit my first joint, needless to day I was slipping away and that was my point, road to addiction and apathy, not caring about whatever lies ahead of me, looking for that escape that one hit, drown my sorrows in alcohol and keep that bong lit, white lines leading to a false reality and get away, falling further and further under the surface, unsure and doubting myself believing I had no purpose, on the path to self destruct with no way to construct, just straight up ****ed, I remember back in the day I was a good kid, perfect student in every class I had an a, loving family everything seemed perfect, but life had another plan for me and my fam, all the good times seemed to have faded, family dinners smiles and laughter the memories are out of reach and I'm left just jaded, the only relationship I can safely say was destroyed by my addiction, my girl of seven years lost without a rhyme or reason. Other than my own selfishness I betrayed her trust and repayed her loyalty with treason, after losing I became clean, doing extremely well going to school and working a functioning member of society and the sober team, the elation was short lived and no way to blow off that much steam, at the peak of serenity to be be brought down to nothing, thought I was expecting, a child a new life, a new reason to get myself right, but I was unable to get into contact, no way to talk left alone with my thoughts, crushed for over a month, the epitome of bell in my eyes, no happiness just sorrows, frustrations and cries, not the way I thought my life was supposed to be screaming up to the heavens why are you doing this and testing me, completely broken with nothing left inside, emotionless with everything to hide, but today is a new day and there's always a new tomorrow, no longer wishing to change the past and asking for time to borrow, no longer just a skeleton and hollow, living life to the fullest giving myself a second chance, although from the outside it may not seem like it at a quick glance, I know what I want for myself and my life, stay on this positive road wish upon that shooting star tonight, that everything will be how I know I can be, to be comfortable in my own skin, persevere through the struggles and be addiction free, basically saying I just want to be me.
Long poem by
Jiril Clemons | Details |
Humble yesterday, your intimate memories are now
bearing false witness, following our demise.
There are scattered whispers of a residential cloud
nine, that I called my own after the storm.
No myth could be written guiltier.
For beyond this stable armor of masculinity,
existed a worst case scenario that I had obtained.
It is no fault of your own, to interpret me with the
simplest guess, and yet, it would be the greatest
therapeutic comfort, knowing that you recalled my
brief torture. Here it reads.
The cruelest servant was obviously day one.
For as I showered in my own gloom, the clearest
joy accepted no hint of my presence.
The hours worked overtime to deplete every page
of life, that bordered around this broken clockwork
By now I merely existed by priorities merciless
hand. As I forced myself upon my studies, there was
no absence of absent guilt on call.
I realized this inevitable misstep, the moment I
stumbled into a single entity yet again.
By the time I found a conscience to shave towards
a better day, spring had already departed,
and I was just beginning to exit sobrieties
The cause to blame beyond myself was tempting;
to see the bewildered scene, as opposed to feeling
its complex wounds.
I yearned for this flood to cease constantly, in
However, the suffering hadn’t pierced my spirit just
yet. That cherry that ultimately left a mark on top
was my sick eyes.
Perhaps defined as the perfect fate for the already
faltered, was my cluttered throat, which
allowed no apologetic cliques to exist in air.
The devil’s vomit that would not pause until
more suffering regurgitated, and lastly,
the mindful ache that vibrated at its own
Friends could sense the hell that plagued my
sleep. So much that they offered their similar
battles to my faint ears.
I heard their souls, but never their hearts; only
mine was selfish enough for that luxury, despite
its hostile coma. But then, 5 months, 22 days, and
4 afternoon hours later, another chapter was introduced,
and it was entitled The Aftermath.
The acceptance of what could only be formerly
beautiful, came to be the answer that cured me.
In the end, I was thankful for the inferno, and
overjoyed that these words could be written from
Previous rose, as you open and fold these heartfelt
abrasions, be mindful of these moments that are no
longer bleeding, but rather teaching, of those bullets
that never truly miss.