Poetry Journal


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         Imagine this state of mind that is all consuming. Yet, not all seeing. You. Yes you, as I talk do I make you feel uncomfortable. You. Do I scare you because I have breached the unbreachable. The solitude.

        The solitude, the seclusion, the aloneness, has you feeling a little desperate, itchy, even for another's sound and presence.

        You sit all alone. You rock, and you rock, and you rock, you rock sitting in a rocking chair in a cabin in the woods hearing things, wondering if anyone is actually there. Inside your head you think you can feel the presence of someone nearby, hear it even. But this is a common occurrence in your world, when a feeling is so fleeting that you can never be sure of company, or of anything really. There is this feeling, but no touch. There is this echo, but no words. There is always this feeling but no touch because you are in solitude.

        You cruise down the long paved roadway at 10:42. It's sad when your only control in consistency lies in controlling the time that you drive at. Today is a sunny day, the picture of happiness some may call it. 

        As you gaze as far into the distance as you can, which is where the horizon ends, there you see cars. Empty cars. Mobile cars devoid of life. These cars are normal to you, though they may not be to an outsider. They are driverless cars. Through your own eyes, you clearly see constantly moving automobiles, all vacated. If you were to view through the eyes of anyone else, you'd be able to spot many drivers and passengers inside the cars. You'd see a man here, a woman there, a daughter here, a son there. You would, but you don't, because you are in solitude, and in solitude you don't notice these things, these people.

        You sit at a desk, in a classroom, in a school. As your eyes openly scan the room, you wonder if anyone will arrive through that door, or that window, or from anywhere really. You ponder if a single student will come in and ask your name. But no, that won't happen because you won't see that potential friend waltz in. And all of this because you are in solitude. Glancing at the blackboard, and seeing a levitating chalkstick that reveals magically appearing words. This only clarifies the assumption that you aren't alone, but that this world of solitude is your prison. 

        Celebrations are nothing but traumatizing event opportunity.

        Thanksgiving dinner is that same as normal, lonely. As your hands hang at waist level you share what you are thankful for. As you look ahead, you mouth just waters taking a peak of the food. This is the same food that floated by itself into the dining room 10 minutes ago. An outsider would have found this display strange, psychotic even, but to you it is perfectly normal. Every year on this day, you sit around with disappearing food as your only company.

        At Christmas you discover the truth. Again. Unless Santa and his many elves live in your attic, there are beings who you assume are your family that tape and wrap presents.when you wake up and see lights all over your house, you hope that they can unblind you. Unblind you from your limited sense of vision, of people. As you slowly, tentatively open gifts, you wonder if it is wrong to take objects from invisible beings, from ghosts, from the beasts of solitude.

        On Halloween, you don't dress up, only retreat to the depths of your house. Hearing of haunting is bad, but experiencing it is even worse, especially when in solitude. The repetitive ringing of the door bell only to be opened and reveal nothing. You place out candy for a beast of strange appetite, and when you open the door and see that it's gone, it leaves you hoping that the offering is sufficient. When peaking outside of your door and seeing other doors constantly opening an closing in the wind. It gives you hope that maybe they are being controlled by a higher power. 

        That is, until the demons in you head tell you that they are beckoning. So you don't listen because these are the voices of solitude.

        Whether it's Halloween p with spooky doors, Christmas with ghostly gifts, Thanksgiving with appearing food, in a classroom with chalk, on the road with empty cars, or in a cabin with rocking chairs, it's loneliness. It's not a disease and there is no straight jacket temporary cure. This is solitude.

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Titanic Survivors

      There are 10 children erupting with tears as they slowly freeze to death. Us parents aren’t quite sure what to do. We divert their attention from the frosted fingertips so they don’t notice the slight blue tinge and question it. I see their body shaking, I silently weep on the inside, knowing that they haven’t build up as much immunity to the cold as I.

     The adults silently communicate with our eyes. We know that we don’t keep communicating with our mouths, the children will start asking where their daddy has disappeared to. I don’t think any of us has the heart to tell them that their father’s lives of been lost.

     Food. We need food. Water. We need water. Warmth. We need warmth. Please hurry, we need you.

^^^^^^^Author Note^^^^^^^^^^^

Old, random school project. Any input would be gladly appreciated.

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 (The poems I post today will just get my old things out there, not good or really structured).

Loss is the going away, leaving, departing of them.

Of a dog, of a cat, of a person

A mom, a dad, an uncle, a sister, a brother.

When you say loss,

Some may think of a pen, or a pencil,

But what is a star, 

To an American flag.

What is the loss of a minuscule pencil

To a monumental life.

Death is the all time loss.

Death brings grief and despair.

But all death isn't the same.

A car accident,

The sudden death in which you may be responsible for,

You may take blame for,

But in the end, 

It doesn't matter

Blame or Fault

An illness,

In which someone painfully, slowly deteriorates,

Until your left with just a shell of a person.

Take Alzheimer's for example,

When you enter,

You are a fighting,


40 year old mom.

Then you're the mom,

Who forgets to pick their kid up from practice,

The one who forgets to cook for their beloved child,

And in the end,

That kid that you loved with all your heart,

Is nonexistent.

Sure they live,

But not for you, 

Not for someone who can't remember their own name.

A gunshot.

A painful death whether deserved or not.

Where your last moments,

Are spent staring down the barrel,

Of your enemies shotgun.

A warrior.

A death known to be coming,

But not caring.

Knowing it was for the greater good of the people.

Of your people.

Not thinking of yourself,

But of others.


All the same is loss.

Whether of a person,

Or a pencil.

A hero all the same, 

It's still death.

The loss of a beloved.

(I want to know if you'd rather have it written in sentences, but not paragraph form, or like this. Pleas comment your answer down below).

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