roaming

yah i'm roaming through this city
looking for some place to cry
someplace to try my new voice
somewhere to live, anywhere to lie

i'm looking up at you, trying to see why
you wanna' walk on all over top of me
i know you wanna laugh at me until i die
you wanna' hit me again, you wanna' make me fly

something doesn't fit right in here
the puzzle makes no sense to me
i'm trying to see what comes next
i'm trying to figure out what's left

yeah i'm trying to calm down
trying so hard to know
to find out what this all means
to know where to go

i'm looking for anyway out of here
looking for someone to see
to know you for your true colours
to know me for me

no, something doesn't fit in right here
these pieces just won't sit
i'm looking for my next fix
i'm looking for just one more kick

still i'm roaming through this town
looking for any place to cry
anywhere to try my new voice
looking for somewhere to rest, anywhere to lie.

This is the last of three poems I wrote during finals week last winter, as I was camped out in the Drinko Library. My physical and emotional journeys in Huntington when I needed to run away from economics for a minute or two.

Your Lie

Something I just can't say,
my fears frighten the words away,
to a place where no one can go.

I've been through this day before,
but this time I just can't endure,
I can't find the will to stay.

Just look at me,
let your glare fall right through me,
bury my feelings,
throw them aside.

Find some way,
no, you're not afraid,
to cut right through me,
to laugh at me and the tears that I cry.

You're coming here once more,
you need say no more,
to tear me in two and then take to the sky.

If only I could close the door,
and tell you I love you no more,
But those are words I just cannot say.

You breathe vengeance,
I must give you penance,
but you're not here for me,
you're here for your lie.

Just look at me,
let your glare fall right through me,
bury my feelings,
and throw them aside.

You're not here for me, you're here for your lie.

The second of three poems I wrote while camped out during Winter finals at Drinko Library. This one is the last poem I have written about Dustin, to date in July 2004. The last ever? Somehow I doubt it.

Divorce

My mind and I are no longer on speaking terms
I’m now waiting for the divorce decree
Perhaps cruel and unusual punishment and harm
I imagine she’ll want full custody of my memories
Their value is diminished as it is
Long ago deserted, unquestionably neglected

My head is now vacant
My eyes just blank stares
I look around and see nothing
Nothing, nowhere
The forest is missing its trees, the sky its stars
Saturn its rings, men their Mars

Orbital now, what’s remaining of me?
As you can obviously see, some caffeinated cadaver
With coffee mocha blend for blood
My veins some ductwork with autopilot
Like a train on its way to wreck
Like some unintended casualty on their way to death

I commented at the time that this was "easily the most bizarre stuff I've ever written." I still feel that way! This was the first in a trio of poems I had written during finals week, while I was practically living at the main library, working twenty-four-hours-a-day to finish my classes. I passed every class that semester with an A or a B, and it was almost solely because of the work I did that week! These three poems were what I did when I could do no more psychology or economics. They were great then, and I enjoy them muchly now.

If

I could stand here and tell you I still love you
I could call you and tell you I miss you so
I could lie here and imagine myself next to you
I could find you and feel as though it's the you I know

If only I could tell you, if only I could say
These things, I know I'm dying,
I'm trying to say

A parallel moment of confusion, with Real. Remember, him. Remember, Ottawa.p

Real

I'm lying here in the floor
Knowing not what to feel
I once felt I knew you
When I thought you were real

Now I can't be sure if
You are who you say
Or if maybe you're even trutful
Or if this is just how you're telling it today

A short I had written about my most famous guy to write about. I was in Ottawa at the time.

Unknowing

I am unknowing of your intentions
Clueless of your plans
Uncertain of your motivations
Unsure what's hiding in your hands

I am missing all your feelings
Naïve of your thoughts
Unconvinced of your next move
Oblivious to your fault

So share with me your secret adventure
Tell me your demands
Find in me your deepest pleasure
As time is running through our hands

I am unknowing of your intentions.

A sudden thought, really, of one of the few times in my life when I truly didn't mind being utterly confused about something or someone.

Moving

Searching inside myself
for an answer, for some light
to explain where and how
And why

leaning forward, but am I sincere
maybe it's all imaginary
I fear
That maybe it's all true

Knowing what I know, now I ask
yes or
No, it can't be
Can I keep this up

Searching inside
for something that might not be there
But it seems like a worthy cause
And, for the moment it keeps
Me moving.

Broad in a lot of ways. Still true, in many ways, too.

Disengaged

Tell me how you feel
And I’ll try and understand
It may not be easy
But life rarely is
And I get your feelings
My heart hears you
But my brain needs some time
To translate, to comprehend

You say things would be easier
Stuff would be simpler
If you were uninvolved
I hear you out, I see your point

Things would have been easier
If Marguerite were uninvolved
If she disengaged herself from her feelings
And left the world alone

And stuff would have been simpler
If Jeanne were uninvolved
If she escaped her silly visions
And laughed it all away

If only, I, too, could be uninvolved
If only, I, too, could be disengaged

One of the first poems I had written in Ottawa, about a boy still back home in West Virginia.

Landscape

It’s a cold morning, and I’m here,
Surveying the damaged landscape.
Looking for signs of life, looking for something to salvage.
Looking for salvation.

It isn’t good, I know.
I see my dreams, they’re falling fast.
But this, this I can handle.
I’ve seen this before.

When things aren’t going my way,
You know, when my back’s against the door,
That’s when I feel comfortable,
When I can find my way through, through, and out.

This, this I can do.

The colder climate in Ottawa was something I truly loved, and still do, a few thousand miles away. This was about what fuels me then, and really, even still.

i think it might show

walking down this sidewalk
i see something fresh, i see something new
i see something i think might change me, something that might change you
i see tomorrow, i see yesterday, i see today, i see my downfall
i see nothing, i see nothing at all

can i say, can i say i'm sorry now
for maybe i've shared something i have no right to
maybe i've said something wrong somehow
it seems i've stumbled, it seems i'm falling low
it seems i'm breaking apart, and i think it might show

i know now what i was ignorant of then
i know which way the world turns and exactly where i've been
i don’t know which step to take next, or in which shoe
i think that’s the funny part, after all
don’t you?

Something I wrote after a long hiatus from writing. My first poem in Ottawa, also.