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James Fay Poem
The past is ash, you gotta rise like the phoenix, don’t like it call your mama and ask for a Kleenex. The time is long past due to stop thinkin’ and start doin’, start rootin’ for the man inside and stop all the internal booin’. You sound like everybody else with a story, braggin’ about past glory. What about today? Tomorrow will be today again, are you gonna be your worst enemy or be your best friend? Nobody believes you, you don’t even believe yourself, you need to take that bull*****and put in on the shelf. You can only judge and fix yourself, work on that person, no one else. You need to man up and fill your cup with the nectar that life has to offer. You want to win and be stronger, not lose and be softer. You want the fruit of your labor, to love yourself and your neighbor, to love the fan and the hater, to love what you got cuz you got it and you took it and made it cuz there was no tomorrow or later, only back then, back when, back in the day suffering every which way with your back against the wall that you made with your sorrow and your rage. Do what you do and stop being blue, you need a new blueprint printed out and co-signed by the future you, your future self, the architect and the tenant. You know what you got? A new start and a new shot. A chance to stop being a robot. A new lease on life with no lease payments and at the very least, no leash to stop you from running free in a new lot. Now it’s just you, yourself and the pie in the sky. Become the apple of your own eye, the catcher of your own rye, the ink in your own dye, the voice that will question your feelings inside and shine brightly upon all the lies in your mind. Create your future fate before time flies by and history says it’s too late, these words are your bond and your mind is a clean slate. Carve them out and breathe in each letter, fake it till you’re feeling better. Those who wronged you don’t exist, they are not your enemy, burn that list, of people you think owe you something...no one does, except one person, the hardest to find, and while you’ve been dying and losing your mind, and stressing and flexing on struggle and strife, he was right there in the mirror the whole damn time.
Copyright © James Fay | Year Posted 2013
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James Fay Poem
To the authorities, your hands may be clean...yet to those who matter most...to those
looking up at you now with welled up eyes, your hands drip reddish black with my
blood...the children catch a glimpse of your sly victor's smile...quickly you hide it
behind a newly saddened facade, feigned and fabricated. The price of your happiness pales
in comparison to it's cost, woman...you just don't know it yet...
In this life and the next, I shall be your dark shadow...I shall haunt you without mercy.
Though you won't see me, I will be there. I will be the cold breath on the back of your
neck...the sense of impending doom that pushes down on you. When you hear a noise in a
dark room, it will be me, crouching in the corner with claws out, watching you in your
trepidation, whispering your vile name...I will be the chill crawling down your wretched
spine...the catch in your throat when you can't breathe and I breathe anew...
I will be all of these things for you, Rita...this is the least I can do to repay you.
Tell the children what you will about their father...the painful truth will be reflected
back to you every time you look into their confused, mournful eyes...when they stare off
and you try to catch their tears, oblivious to the waves of sorrow inside. Your victory
will become the wolf disrobed of the sheep's clothing. I will be the puppeteer of your
remorseful conscience, as it wraps it's hands around your gargoyle throat and ever so
slowly, takes your life.
Though my thoughts became my fantasies, I never had your murderous resolve. Tell everyone,
tell the children that you never wanted to keep them from me, that I could come by
anytime, like you always said after months of painfully endured reality...no one will ever
believe you. Everyone knows, Rita...especially the children. Pray for my words to unetch
themselves from the forefront of your demented mind...still I will dangle them in the
background. Our beautiful children, your little pawns, your poker chips with a
pulse...will come to truly know their mother.
So enjoy your foul, pyhrric victory...these six feet of cold earth matter not...the grasp
I have on you now is surpassed only by my reach, and like an unwelcome guest at your door,
I will be the puppeteer of your painfully reflective conscience...I will haunt you forever
in the darkness.
Copyright © James Fay | Year Posted 2008
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James Fay Poem
Everywhere I look, I see you. And when I seek respite and close my
eyes, I see you still. Empty memories haunt me...I
am scared to be alone now. Solitude is like an
unwelcome guest, parasitic and imposing, forcing me to
be it's reluctant host. I was always alone...except when I saw color where gray used to
be...that's when I was with you. But now you're
gone and the void that you left in your wake seems impossible to fill.
Nothing can sate it's hunger or quench it's thirst for
my suffering. I cannot seal it off, nor can I seal myself off from it's
dark vacuum. The passage of
time that promised to rebuild me once my heart forgot
the truancy of yours resonates a familiar betrayal. I drown in an ever deepening sea of
foreboding and regret, at once looking ahead at the ominous clouds of love
lost while looking back at my former selves in the rear view
mirror...wondering where all the other people
are. There was only you, Tanya. You filled the
monochromatic shades of my existence with meaning and color.
But look at me now. I am but a fractured, fraction of the man I
transformed into every beautiful time we touched. As
you walked away your invisible chained hooks ripped
away my better parts...my gaping sores weep anew, as
if just gouged. I am a distant memory, and a host to
many more. You twisted and contorted my universe
to go seek out what you already had...but maliciously
chose to destroy. ...and still I admit that without you my heart physically
aches in my tired, heavy chest. Less torture would
befall me if you'd grabbed a blade and run me
through...the sting would've lasted but a moment...and
if you'd be so kind as to hold it outright with a firm
grasp, I'd willingly exchange my resolve for yours and
slide down upon it. And if you think you're so brave as to not feign a second
thought, prove to me now woman that your treacherous heart is
truly black and do not break your eyes from mine until your first tear can be held no more
and my last breath cannot either. Hold back
your guttural whimpers...indulge a dying man and tell
me: who else do you presume will ever love you so
much...who do you presume, notwithstanding an eccentric
on Shakespeare's parchment, has ever loved ANYONE...so
much? What, my love? I cannot hear you...only the
velvet on your lips can I see, but no words pass them
by...what did Shakespeare know of love anyway, my dear? He never wrote about us...
Copyright © James Fay | Year Posted 2008
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