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graphic by Marcus Del Greco It Was Late And I Was Tired
by Alex Holden

What I Say

What I say, who listens?

What I say, Iím sorry they all donít listen!

From some unknown source, I undoubtedly listen!

Telling me what I ought to hear, what I ought to know

From me it doesnít come, from me, it doesnít goÖÖ

From me, you know what?

These energies Iím keeping low

For they might just come to get me if I told all I heard and thought.

For once again I am nothing.

That much I hope you brought.

 

Sorry

I pray for the words to express how I feel

However, I know my words will not say quite a great deal

About the way I feel or could feel or should feel or have felt

Or about the things Iíve thought and found out:

Iím sorry for you, Iím sorry for me,

Iím afraid life is only meant for suffering and misery.

 

Christmas Day

I lie here waiting, hoping, pleading, wishing, and wondering.

If things will ever change, if Iíll ever go to bed happy,

Glad to be alive, eager to see the breaking light of the new day,

that before me lies

If I could at least be told how long it would last,

A date on the calendar I could mark and look forward to.

Like a child who awaits Christmas, counting down the days.

Without Christmas day to look forward to:

I sleep, and I sleep to sleep,

I sleep in hopes that one morning

I will wake to finally find it Christmas day,

With my happiness wrapped up in packages under the tree.

 

Insanity and Genius

Insanity and genius, Iíve been told they live intertwined

Some claim between them is only a thin line

Others say they are closely related like brother and sister

I compare them to the relationship between a pair of incestuous cousins

One school of thought suggests

That the only thing separating them is achievement, meaning;

A genius expresses his insanity artistically, while the lunatic canít or didnít

How many Dalis, Einsteins, Anastasios, Crowleys, and Yeats

Slipped off that razor thin edge into the pit,

Their greatness never realized or achieved?

 

Love is not Real

This thought came upon me recently,

As a flash, in what one might call an epiphany,

Projected animus, neurotic impulses,

Irrational desires, masochistic unconscious wishes,

Geographic location, convenience, lust, pheromone chemicals

Your personality, weight, attractiveness equivalent.

Because youíre growing old and scared to be alone,

Whatever you can get if there is no other

Six to one, half a dozen,

Iím afraid Aleister Crowley had it right with his Scarlet women lovers,

Sad to say but true non the less,

Love is not real, at least not yet,

 

Why write poems

ĎWhy do people write poems Dr. So & So?í

A worthy question, considering so many have been written.

A tough question indeed! HmmÖ let me seeÖ.

Out of madness, kindness, sadness or frustration,

For salvation and redemption?

Maybe theyíre a cry for help because of loneliness and desperation?

For fun and profit or to amuse,

To encourage or discourage, perhaps some would say theyíre written to confuse.

To make oneís self seem deep and profound.

Because of lost love or love lost found, is a common theme upon which many expound.

To get over a past folly or shame,

Maybe even to express the morbid realization that life is only meant for suffering, misery, and pain.

Or because one is frightened of the past and scared of the future,

You probably write poems to get a good grade, so as to be a good pupil.

I write poems to get tenure and to get paid,

The Freudian reductionist would say poets simply write to get laid.

In remembrance of good times past or because one has finally realized that they really never do last.

To express an abstract idea, concept or emotion, or out of oneís longing for love and devotion.

Because long sleepless nights lead to tired and weary days,

Maybe to keep from going insane,

To boost the ego and to be admired,

In the hope of attracting a beautiful, witty, intelligent bride.

To motivate, uplift and inspire,

To help raise humanity up out of the mire.

Or are poems simply written out of necessity like the lancing of a boil,

are poems the infected puss of oneís soul?

Why do people write poems you ask,

Honestly class, for sure I really donít know.

 

The War

We were in an apartment or dorm room,

Itís been so long, I can not remember.

I do know however, it was during the war: dark, blind, and bloody,

And very cold, for it was the latter days of December.

During the war she was on one side and I the other,

Although at the time we were both non the wiser.

I turned to kiss her, receive her embrace,

But she was not there, gone, off with another.

I tried to find her, to get her back.

I searched for days and nights while the Earth spun

and turned the seasons around and around

But alas, the search had proved futile, she was nowhere to be found.

The war raged on and God knows I continued fighting

But by and by I gave up searching,

For I had realized she may be lost but certainly not looking to be found,

And I knew that she would always be with me deep in my memories.

"Help Me Somebody"

Help me somebody, Iím stating quite simply,

Help me somebody, no hidden meaning,

Help me somebody, to late for subtlety,

Help me somebody, itís worse and it keeps getting worser,

Help me somebody, before you hear of another Columbine suicide type murder,

Help me somebody, Iíve thunk and thunk and learned itís over rated,

And I think the plasmate from Nag Hammadi climbed up my optic nerve

into my brain and ate it,

Help me somebody, my search for the light has blinded me,

Iíve learned of the truth but it is beyond my mindís grasping

Help me somebody, Iím at a lose as what to do,

Help me somebody, If not you?

Who?

 

Peebol Snabol, Peebol Saabol

Peebol Snabol, Peebol Saabol,

All I hear is Peebol Snabol,

From the time I wake up until the time I go to bed.

Saabol this, Snabol that,

From my parents, teachers, friends,

Sometimes I even find a Peebol or three in my very own head.

Everywhere I turn people are talking of Peebol Snabol and Peebol Snaabol

as if they both truly mattered.

Peebol Snabol, Peebol Saabol, I promise,

In the end the light will not let you win.

 

The ever changing I

Me, myself, is an ever changing self, a dynamic I,

At least so goes the Buddhist philosophy of constant change and flux everywhere- throughout,

The ever changing I, I know what I want to say but not how to say it, if I was more blessed in verse, perhaps I could more adequately to you explain it.

Think about it, you're really not the same person from one minute to the next,

one day, second, or month to the other.

A good philosophy to live by since it means were not bound by our past follies and mistakes,

And neither can we rely upon on our past achievements for self esteem, Because the I you are now, is no longer the I that achieved,

Always striving ahead, not looking to the past, is where I assume the changing I philosophy is used best.

 

Graduation

ĎAll the things I planned to do I only did half way, tomorrow will be Sunday, born of rainy Saturday,

Are lyrics from a Dead song but Iíll use them anyway, because on this subject they describe my thoughts perfectly, they are exactly what I want to say,

True Magick I practice, you spell it with a K,

Anybody who says theyíre not scared to graduate is a fool or at best a damned liar,

On this topic Iíll take my friends advice: ĎDonít look back or youíll be turned into a pillar of salt- by the fire.í

 

My Little Poem

The biggest man youíll ever see was once an itsy, bitsy tee ting baby,

And at one time or another he probably has groveled like a scared little bitch at the feet of a his lady,

Or if he hasnít yet, his time will one day come, and if he mocks my little poem, I can assure you, groveling at her feet the sooner he will find himself there, crawling on the ground, begging to her for a quarter or dime,

like a homeless, liquor store, wine-o bum.

So if youíve never been there, thank God every day that you havenít yet been put in that uncomfortable position, of groveling at the feet of your woman,

Mock my little poem, laugh if you must, but my humble warning youíll remember, when you find out your lover is now getting railed and sucking another manís member,

By my little poem are you not yet convinced? Now try imaging how youíll feel when you know some one else will be cumming all over her tits,

Funny? Laugh it up if you must, criticize my little poem, say its not art, call it sophomoric, stupid or dumb, fine, say what you must, say what you will,

Because I know if any of these things to you happen, ten years later youíll be remembering my little poem still,

And when you find out that your lover will be whispering those sweet nothings into another manís ear and calling not you, but him dear, year after long and lonely year, you want think of The Road Not Taken, Whitmanís Leaves of Grass, or the depressing crap of Sylvia Plath, no, it will be the words of my little poem on your lips that you will hear,

And when your hoping with all of your soul that it will be her on the other end of the ringing phone, then you will see what Iím speaking of and my little poem will live on,

And when you lying in bed wishing for death but know it will never come

What should you do to avoid the unbearable fate of losing a lover?

I suggest you praise my little poem, and praise my little poemís author,

She would never leave me, millions before you have thought,

Are you really that certain so as to tempt the blind hand of fate?

If not, then praise my little poem, and praise it like you have praised no other!

 

The Prince

A cheesy little poem I thought I should write,

So as to brighten my mood and to help me get over my melancholy plight,

It will make no sense and rhyme too much, not a little, but a lot,

And it will help me not remember the bad things Iíve already forgot,

There was a boy who was a man destined to be a prince,

And would one day have a whole army behind him in his defense,

And in his bellybutton there was an unusually large amount of lent,

And in his wallet no money, because all of it he had already spent,

On things frivolous, objects he did not need,

You see the boy was not chivalrous, and his fathers warnings he never did heed,

Away on his trusty steed he would ride,

To play all day in the forest, it was there that he would hide,

It was there he could just simply be, and there, him no one would ever think to find,

He would just sit and admire how slowly when there did go the passing of the time,

Some days it was the tall trees that he would climb,

But while there he never thought of his fatherís dreams for him, those he had for himself, nor of the busy kingdom,

While there he only thought of simple happy things like:

Mingdom, singdom, fingdom, hingdom, and lingdom,

Never of his or his fatherís dreams for him, nor of the busy kingdom,

Now my cheesy little poem it is time to close,

But I guess it did make sense,

I guess you could say that in a way Iím the prince,

I donít know, I suppose.

Because when I was in the forest with the boy who was a man destined to be a prince,

Sitting in his forest thinking of mingdom, singdom, fingdom, and lingdom,

Not my dreams, the oneís my father has for me, nor of my busy kingdom,

I guess everything seemed to make sense,

I wasnít thinking of my busy kingdom in which I reside,

I was thinking of silly things, happy things, things that didnít matter,

I tell you it was bliss, a truth absolutely sublime,

So when youíre tired of dreams and of your busy kingdom and need a break,

Then read my cheesy poem that rhymes to much, not a little but a lot,

Because it will help you not remember the bad things youíve already forgot,

Take a trip on the Princeís trusty steed, in to the forest away from where things matter in your busy kingdom,

And while there, like the prince, think of silly, happy, fun things that donít matter,

Mingdom, singdom, fingdom, and lingdom,

Because I promise you dear reader, while there, if only for a little while youíll be happy,

Iím being serious, Iím just telling like it is, Iím not trying to be sappy,

While there you will be happy and thatís no easy thing, because being happy is an emotion that one simply can not fake.

 

Life

Like the dance of feeding wolves,

Is full of paradoxical rules,

Resembling the busy street in a city,

Or that of sharks in a frenzy,

Salvation lies deep within,

Pleasure arises from the skin,

Born naked and you die alone,

In a box theyíll place your bones,

By finding love you can avoid itís pain,

Or by putting a bullet through your brain.

 

Searching

Searching for the words to adequately express my soul,

But today they are no where to be found,

They are buried too far deep in my unconscious depths below,

I can find no words or thoughts profound,

So I poke and prod in hopes they will come out,

So I poke and prod in hopes they will come out,

In hopes that from my depths below to my pen they will spout.


Alex Holden is a human with a bizness, called blue deer productions LLC, which tries to make money: www.bluedeer.biz.

Email: mgv0415@hotmail.com
Website: http://alexholden.homestead.com/


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