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    Lux Apollo
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Lux's Indulgences - 4. Lonely

This set of shorts is from some darker periods written between age 16 and 24.

I

 

Nobody knows the tears

I’ve wept.

No one has seen the invisible

Marks I have left.

No one has heard my voice

My desperate-silent cry.

 

Everyone else has a

Life to live.

Why don’t I?

 

Nobody knows what

I have to hide.

No one would want to know

So why would I?

No one cares enough to be

My guide.

 

Everyone else has a

Life to live.

Why don’t I?

 

Nobody touches me

I cannot feel it.

Nobody looks at me

Without contempt

Nobody knows I don’t know why

I still want to live.

 

Everyone else has a

Life to live.

Why don’t I?

 

If I am alone

Because no one

Could ever love me

 

Why should I?

 

 

 

 

II

 

Some things are different

Melting in still-cold sadness.

Where have all those

Wasted tears gone?

 

It seems more sensible

To just forget, waiting for

Another sacred moment.

 

Will the mystery clue

Appear?

 

 

 

 

III

 

Under my watchfulness

Another friend leaves

 

Gone

 

Away from pain

Away from my pain

Away from me

 

No one wants

To hear about your

Emotions,

Caught up in those

Deep thoughts

Again!

 

I've had enough of your

Your self-righteous

Martyrdom.

You're not a Philosopher

And no fucking Saint.

 

Will you just stop?

 

When you don't know

How to be that person

Other people want around,

Or the standards they'll

Allow you to hold

 

When you don't know

How to live a life

Worth living

How do you stop?

Where do you stop?

 

Why?

 

 

 

IV

 

Bells for no one

Not even me

Sonorous ringing

No longer

 

Fading away

 

There’s nothing I can do now

I can’t stop what’s coming

Why does the struggle seem

So worthwhile amidst the

Ideal, anyway?

 

Under the pillow

I planted the disease

No, I cannot stop loving

What I never began

 

What will never begin

 

 

 

 

V

 

It’s so cold in here

 

Here, there must be

Something...

 

Can you explain to me,

Where has this come from?

I know you hate, but is that

What makes you love?

 

Sons of sick men can still love

 

Maybe not me.

 

 

 

 

VI

 

Pass me a drink

 

I see them holding hands,

And I should be happy.

 

I see them kissing,

And I should be happy.

 

I see the ring,

And I should be happy.

 

I hear them fucking

Right across the hall

And I should be happy.

 

Happy.

 

Pass me a drink

And maybe I won’t hear

 

Just one more night.

 

 

 

 

VII

 

Some things are melting

Did you show me?

But you ran away

 

Still, I don’t know why but

I trust you anyway.

 

Is this yearning

Forgiveness?

 

Do I truly give it

So easily?

 

 

 

 

VIII

 

I never was much of one

For words.

 

Small-talk is unreal,

Tiny icicles prickling,

Piercing my skin

An internal friction of

Tissues, of organs

Grating against one another

 

Wishing for it to be over

Or to have meaning, an

Unfeigned connection

For once

 

So maybe in this cold

Warm way, I will find

That it’s just my own impatience

And not the frowns of Fortune

That deter me from

What I seek.

 

Frankly I believe

Everything and yet nothing

Seems to be the best option.

Giving up, waking up,

Singing down,

breathing the words…

 

I could have

I should have

 

I didn’t know.

 

Should I go away?

 

Pink nebulae await

Newcomers in their confusion

But I am old and have

Naught but ashes left.

 

If you breathe with me

Born of the sun

Rainbows guiding you

Away

 

You can go now,

But stuck

I only can

Stay

 

Would it still

Be this way if I had

Hated?

 

There isn’t much

Left to consider.

 

Years go by, and I’m still waiting.

Where is the answer, the call in the dark?

 

I don’t want to play

These games anymore.

 

 

 

IX

 

Simply worn,

Wrapped in a blanket.

The porch is peeling,

Bleached yellow in the sunset.

 

Certain uncertainty settling

Where it has always lain

At my feet, waiting to be

Picked up and read by

A blind man.

 

Surrounded by daylight

And yet still in darkness

Cold and lifeless

Warm

 

Why not a hobby?

Don’t go.

 

I’m lost in the crowd

And I’m so alone.

 

 

 

X

 

It'll hear you out, heal you

Even after the winter time

The darkness that hurt you,

Stumbling

Astray.

 

‘Blest are they,’

That’s what they say...

 

Time hurts when it’s only

A number on a clock to

Keep you working.

Praying.

 

What a cold and blunt reality.

 

‘Here I am, Lord.

It is I, Lord.’

 

But I have not heard you

Calling in the night.

 

'Should I go, Lord,

If you lead me?'

 

Is this madness,

This false belief?

Is faith just self-deception?

 

Am I alone in this

Infinite finite pocket of

Spacetime?

 

A machine of entropy

Formed by chance natural law?

 

A body with no anchor,

Holding false people

In my heart?

 
Short piece X refers to lyrics from 'Here I am, Lord' by Fr. Daniel Schutte, adapted from the Book of Isaiah. I had a deep, Catholic faith when I was younger but life put all too many chinks in its armour as I grew up, reflected here. This particular one was written while home on a break, one of the last times I attended a Catholic mass outside of my continued reluctant participation at Christmas and Easter for my mother's sake, and for weddings and funerals.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kiGZ9j3OD88
Copyright © 2017 Lux Apollo; All Rights Reserved.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Why is it that you have a knack for writing words I felt years ago, or feel now? You connect me to powerful moments in my life when all I could do was watch other people enjoy, love, and laugh, all while I wondered why I could not do the same. Bravo to your younger self for its eloquence.

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On 10/07/2016 03:22 AM, Parker Owens said:

Why is it that you have a knack for writing words I felt years ago, or feel now? You connect me to powerful moments in my life when all I could do was watch other people enjoy, love, and laugh, all while I wondered why I could not do the same. Bravo to your younger self for its eloquence.

I can't know why, but perhaps just that we have enough parallel experience and the emotions are universal enough... I am glad these old pieces are doing something. I guess it is nice to have some validation all these years later. After having an English teacher brutalize some of my work - and the content in particular - I found it hard to approach this stuff anymore, even when I was only writing for myself (hence 'indulgences'). Poetry, like dance, is very easy to criticize, but much more difficult to connect with and appreciate... Even looking at my own work, sometimes, I wonder what is really there on the page and what is just in my own mind.

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My poetry is me .. that's why i rarely change it at anyones suggestion. I have very strong feelings about that.
And i may not always connect with everything you write, but i appreciate the work, and the cost, because often there is a cost behind each word.
Like you earlier stuff, Lux... look forward to more...
tim

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Might be the wrong day for me to have read this, because the pain I felt throughout, amplified my own. VIII stood out for me in its clarity... I have felt those exact words more than a few times... particularly this section... beautifully written and expressed...

 

I never was much of one
For words.

 

Small-talk is unreal,
Tiny icicles prickling,
Piercing my skin
An internal friction of
Tissues, of organs
Grating against one another

 

Wishing for it to be over
Or to have meaning, an
Unfeigned connection
For once

 

So much in these, lux... sending the younger you a hug xo

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X really got to me, because I grew up Catholic and have questioned my faith for years.
Throughout each poem there was an undercurrent (and sometimes a tidal wave) of loneliness and pain. I hope that the years since you've written these have brought you some happiness. :hug:

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So many feelings condense here…

Taking an idea from @Headstall, let me hug your younger you. Thanks for sharing such personal creations. 

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