Not Here - old poemNot Here
i'm not here
the teacher speaks
but i don't hear words
marks on the whiteboard
behind me someone laughs
ignore it and focus on nothing
'do the math' she says
but i don't understand
what you want me to write
i don't know why but
my tired mind, so weary
isn't where it should be
this room is cold with
those memories i keep
it'll never be the same
the drowsy days are painful
the nights are too short
i need some real sleep
a fiery feeling, burning like stray paper
i'm still determined but is it
really worth all this heartache?
just sitting here so lonely
as the light switch is flipped
i'm awake enough to notice
a call for attention, no one cares
i see colorful shapes on the wall
it's not worth looking closer at
all i'm thinking of, all i can
is my bruising heart and if
it can ever heal for me again
math and numbers, 1, 2, 3, 4
could they somehow be symbolic?
maybe, possibly, no
the walls are pale, a glossy white
i feel like going home now
The Hunt for SelfThe Hunt for Self
my soul hunts for something
in this jumbled forest
of lost memories
and old smiles.
is it the animal in me?
a totem in my ancient brain?
is my real name unspeakable?
there's a nostalgia i can taste.
living in a dream, i picture
myself standing proud
in the songs of old
and in smells of dead years.
am i the forest-dweller?
the wolf-dog that breathed in me
as i ran free on home's ground
were there was solace in the wind?
my soul screams for something.
i wish i could reach for it,
but i don't know where to grasp.
my identity lies beyond somewhere.
is there a point of source
where the timeless wolf was born?
do i have a home beyond homes?
the nostalgia will remain forever.
living in an illusion, i breathe
a sweet, light, primal air.
prehistoric is the galloping feeling
roaring like a train in my chest.
am i the midnight howling?
the flying, soaring sound
of life dripping from the stars?
will the wolf within carry me home?
my soul sings
The VoiceThe Voice
the quiet voice is the one that screams
deep within bones, buried in dreams.
deadly things gather in a head so alive.
i stumble as my steps backward arrive.
the silent smile is the one that cries
tears of longing, replenished supplies.
trivial words are exchanged between lips.
somehow i'm bruised by the empty it grips.
the damned feeling is the one that beams
hurdling higher up over extremes.
i'm wanting to embrace all that we lost:
taste the burned-out fumes of our old exhaust.
the hopeful thought is the one that dies.
i'm tired of swallowing poisonous lies
fed to me by my beast of the psyche.
the pressure to drown is raw and it's spiky.
the dormant voice is the one that schemes
plotting its takeover, assembling regimes.
i stand ashamed in the light of your face
long after our smiles have dissolved into space.