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Fucked Up College Kids Poetry 020
F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S
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- t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e -
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poets are often souls of the tortured variety.
the tortured soul is in touch with pieces of
himself that most people are not even aware of
until they read that one line or phrase that
reminds them of the dark places that they seek
to hide or ignore. often, the poet is a loner,
or only seeks the company of others similarly
tortured - an irony, for much of the genius in
poetry lies in the universality of the human
experience.
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PURSUING MOODS
To Tracey Hilkey
i hear footsteps following
me
or maybe i'm following them
but in the early morning,
when everything is
quiet
and it seems no one is around,
there's enough aroused to scare
me
into believing it's afternoon
and i should be
somewhere else, doing things
normal
people would do in the later
stages of a day, but instead
i find myself keeping watch
on a world that won't sleep
alone
because in the flickering
night sky, this planet makes
love
with various massive bodies
that float in its atmosphere
and still, and still i
listen
for those footsteps to remind
me
that i cannot escape
from being followed
and i cannot stop following
someone
although i do not see anyone
there's no touch, no voice
and there's just a sound
trying to tell me something
about this path i take, about
myself
and how it cannot be sane
to wander blindly behind
invisible footsteps or realize
footsteps
are walking hand in hand
with my tracks, with my
frustration
that swells in my feet,
that lingers in my face,
that travels through my
tunnels
to seek that shimmering light
but i cannot
cut
myself to let blood force
out my indelible hatred,
to taste an inner freedom
that gropes for an opportunity
to feel like a normal shadow
walking
in front of the pack, not behind
where footsteps rattle the staircase
and i am confident, in rare form, to
shout
for someone to step forward,
reveal
that he is that constant in my life,
this imaginary friends i've spoken with
since i was seven, since i
fell
into desperate hallways inside
school buildings that helped trap
myself
within my invisible cosmos,
where words on paper gave me
shelter
gave me something to savor
when underestimated forces
swallowed
me whole, to digest me inside
their stomach tract where i found
myself
surrounded by people without faces,
without voices, without any markings to
distinguish
one person's fears from another's
but we felt safe, we could share
feelings
with just words written down
and when we finish this digestive
process
we can, i can again hear footsteps
made by an imaginary friend
or some wingless guardian
angel
that can comfort only through
telepathic means, that motivates
through photosynthesis, needing
nothing
but someone to believe in them
and i believe in footsteps that guide
me
to somewhere that i can feel
secure with my voice, my face
and with those scars only
i
can see on the membranes inside
and i'll secure faith in what
spirituality
rests, or works, in my poems
because that's where my happiness
waits
for me to take control and forget
about footsteps that lead, footsteps
that follow me endless journey
nowhere
because the best footsteps
are those i strategically,
those i confidently place for
others
to examine how i paced myself
in trying to deal with everyone's
footsteps
Indiana Poet April 2, 1998
tears run down my face,
but now even that is just a fantasy,
made callused from the inside,
my own stupidity burns my soul.
outside the skin is still tender,
but I forget and put it too close to the blade,
getting cut again, but nothing like my inner scars,
and the skin becomes harder.
now even immortal gods and love can't make me feel,
no one hurts me but me,
no one makes me happy but me,
no one loves me but me.
with all this callousness I can finally get closer to what i want,
I can be who I am not, but who they want me to be,
my soul can finally be sold,
now being ripped from my body, causing no pain.
happiness from about,
others making me happy, finally friends,
finally hope,
maybe some day even love.
an offhand comment, a slip this hollow shell shouldn't make,
the others see what makes the blood pump through my veins,
they see past all the callused skin,
they see into what is left of my soul.
they all cringe in hatred, not understanding what they are seeing,
I try to explain, to help them understand,
but how can they when I don't either,
all I know is that it is real, and it is me.
they run, all it took was a second,
left standing alone again,
they crack in my skin leaving an open wound,
must wait, only time, before it will heal.
I stare at the wound, hurting me as much as it hurts them,
none will accept it, my blood too red,
from the crack comes what I hadn't felt for so long,
the tears finally run down my face.
Dactrius
meaning in art
static depression, the start.
my brush of anguish
resounding splendor manifests before me
the cry of hope amidst the repressed
shackles of fury cage their power
null hope, a wondering glimpse
taste the sight or smell the aura
square one, am I done?
mea culpa 12-16-97
Childs Eyes
Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
can you see the innocence?
the desire to live
Look again into the child's eyes
once reality sinks in...
Do you ever wonder
where it all went?
The stained glass illusions.
The dreams of catching rainbows.
A strong harsh wind
had silenced his internal flame
forever
Vengeance and fear thrives deep
beneath the scars he bears
All hope vanquished
powerless, frightened eyes
pleading for your mercy
The longer his gaze lingered,
The more rivers flowed,
reaching the ocean of your soul,
The harder the impact
of your callous blows.
Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
and wonder........
When the angelic blue turned icy?
Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
and wonder..............
Can I ever be forgiven?
Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
and wonder.............
Will he really pull the trigger?
Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
and wonder.
Bluerose
Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
my surveillance of you has turned too caring,
with permission may I move forward and hold you,
a melting memoir relaxed for eternity,
discreet in passion you take me behind shadows,
a harmless secret of tempting desire.
Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
my moment with you has turned too erotic,
now delicacy demands we part for a while,
to cryptic realms we share the darkness,
your echo of desire is drawing me closer,
alone we are to emit are emotions.
Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
my time with you has turned to love,
rowing through oceans of stormy emotions,
I forever feel your breathe upon my body,
inside of me you are I confess this love,
together forever I will please your lust.
Puncture
Defy the manner in which all is known
Not knowing the history, nor asking.
Future of the present is here now.
Deem who to be worth of such,
and all shatters at your touch.
Not knowing does such.
Capture the memories, black and white
single snapshot in a mind gone blank.
Past is no longer in search of the present.
Torture your memory to remember,
such things should have been long forgotten.
Leave now, to only reach the "to be".
Toss away all hopes and dreams,
do not claim to be a god.
The power is gone, and the sight is lost.
-Kamira March 20, 1998
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E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com
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(c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997
