Red Region Inferno

Vexation ~

Isolated from humankind,
free of bothersome demands
I find union with creation.
Serenity is salvation.

A fictitious audience,
ghosts often from my past,
critique work as it progresses.
Phantoms cheering my successes.

This solitary time is pretense.
No way to elude pestering demands.
Called away from artistic rapture,
burdens triumphant in my recapture.

—–

I think most any artist can appreciate the poem above.
I wrote it a few years back and have not learned to hate it (as I do most of my poetry) yet.
My thought is that I will hold this one in my mind for evermore and someday publish it in a collection of favorites.

Go on ~

How can I go on without you,

when everything I have ever done,

everything I have ever thought,

everything I have ever wanted,

every thing I planned to do,

was for you?

How can I forget you,

when all my dreams,

all my hopes,

all my faith,

all my love,

was for you?

Did I ever create a thing,

without you in mind?

Without your approval in the back of my mind?

without thinking about what you would want?

Without comparing it to you?

for you?

Only you have been my muse,

my true inspiration,

my semblance of willpower,

my essential audience,

my reason.

So none can replace you it seems,

You are still my muse,

my secret audience,

my passion and obsession.

My deepest pain,

My strongest hate,

my most intense regret,

my greatest loss.

my vital beloved.

~
I wrote this poem a long time ago.
I go on it seems, but I have never been the same.

I miss ~

I

miss

eating

out

coming

home

playing

pool

lying

in bed

singing

badly

driving

around

fresh made

coffee

smoking

cigarettes

drinking

at the bar

Getting

in arguments

looking

at the trees

talking

in the morning

dancing

in the kitchen

walking

down the street

watching tv

on the couch

shopping

for things not needed

with

you

insomnia ~

Eyes sting
burning, itching.
Back is sore
aching, bruised.
Heart beats fast
racing, buffeting.
To hot
perspiring, torrid.
Trapped
claustrophobic, brain-sick.
Head spins
accelerating, reeling.
Lying here
awake, insomnia.

scent ~ or crush # 5 ~

  Ah, she left a bit of clothes
soft, warm, her scent, longing grows
I hold them to my cheek and sigh,
wondering if she knows.

  Her scent, gives me vision to see
only her love can set me free
I hold them to my cheek and die
Knowing we can never be.

This poem was written by me long ago.
It is from a series of poems that I wrote called “The Longest Crush.”
Almost 200 poems exist in the series.