2003-09-21 16:57:31 ET

I wish this page had a hit-counter, so I could at least see if anyone actually cares.


so lonely.

Giving Up
2003-09-16 15:04:44 ET

Since when do I do nothing
but write stupid love songs?
What makes me waste the ink
and stay up all night long?

Emotions pour on the page
and my words they tend to ramble
and the chance that it'll be any good
is a big risk to gamble

Who's going to read them, anyway?
Do I keep them so when I die
they'll find my books and afterwards
say, "There's one lonely guy?"

Why does love even matter?
Why cry myself to sleep?
It is even worth the effort
when my poems just repeat?

So I'm finished with sappy love songs
From now on it's lust and angst and rage
and this poem is ending now
'cause it's the bottom of the page.
1 comment

West Hazleton's Got a Secret
2003-09-16 15:01:46 ET

You're lucky I'm a man
or I would have burst into tears
driving from your house last night
where I get all my good ideas
poems I mean to write
things I should have said
Or like tonight when the words
won't stop ringing over and again
She told me we were over
then kissed my lips softly
smiled and said she loved me
my eyes stared blankly
as they do at the long, lonely
stretch of 309
careening down the mountain
the Valley, draped in peaceful fog
little do they know
it stores a secret from the all
A treasure buried deep
beneath the coal,
the hopelessness and
the dreams;
a hometown girl untold.
Failure gripped my frame
except for my foot
which pressed the pedal
pushing me further from
her home,
and closer to the end.
How easy it would be
if we all got what we wanted
without toil or worry
How nice it would be
if for just one night
you were back asleep at my side
instead of your song
playing softly as a
poor substitute
and would that a man
could cry;
not that I would,
but it sure would be easier

2003-09-16 14:55:55 ET

trailing the cracks
in the ceiling
that run over my bed
I feel like a traveller-
a visitor in my own head
the cracks threaten
to collapse the framework
of the house
when in fact they give
it character
and tell the story of
it's faults

the cracks meet and divide
a quilt of shoddy
or a map of human hardships
they lead down the walls
over doorframes and
around corners
following stress and tension
the walls split and rejoin

the cracks keep a history
of a house and of its time
they attract our attention
when tensions are low
and when we can
take the time
to look around
and count the lines
that creep to and fro.

Labor Day poems
2003-09-16 14:52:54 ET

Damp rainy day
curled in bed
like a cat
in a blanket
no plans
no goals
no worries
just a book
and an open

Labor Day
end of summer
yadda yadda

Jealousy -
grey cat
on a blanket

last day of summer
smells of barbeque and beer
bored out of my skull

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