Old Poetry II


Here I am again
Late at night
Alone, all by myself
With the hate and anguish
Self inflicted,
They say I’m gifted

Gifted at this,
The pain and sorrow
Lost on those who think
It’s all I do

Who are they to understand?
They claim to care
But what do they plan to do

I don’t know what to be
What words to say
Who it is that is me

I type these words
Not say or tell or speak
But merely write in the hopes that they will speak themselves or in my absence keep
Some record of the pain and blame and hope and loss

Self imposed, imparted, deemed, denied

Left alone again in the dark, at night, only alone am I me.


“A Poem”
A poem, a verse, a rhyme, there need not be a reason
A song, a tune, an instrumental echo of the season
The name, the face, the identity behind it all
The body, the texture, the reason for my fall
A desire, turned craving, turned needing
The action, and the pleasure, the horrible inner bleeding
The guilt and all the agony, looking back on the process
The sleep and the waking, the forgetting of the previous distress
The cycle starts again breeding upon it’s self
until the guilt and agony wash away and leave only that which is myself
How the fuck am I suppose to live, only within myself
Keeping all that is true life, is true joy, outside thy self
Oh fuck, what is wrong, what the fuck am I doing
Hear I am cursing, when I never use profanity. This isn’t going to heal me
Fuck it all, Fuck everything
I fall even further into my depths of self, now never turning back.
When you say fuck to the world and hate it with your all,
the only person your fucking over is the person that you are.

Author: Brandon Fischer

University of Texas graduate and beer lover.

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