the song is sung.

(the only reason I began to write poetry was because of my personal problems, depressions, etc. and it has helped me tremendously.):)



Stepping to the flimsy tune

of Failure

, and lost. irregular

with spite and spit
and dejecti-
on. irregular

with “I told you so,”
as you did tell yourself so.
wasted paper: the dead

bark is already dry, since
the branches gave up,
stale-with ice

and
formalde-

hyde, covered in tree-cancers
and grave-robbing mush

-rooms: sycophants
whose pants humidify
the air.

Head heavy and eyes heavy and I
don’t even know
where I am but I

feel like a drunk, aching

Atlas holding the rubber
-coated-stone-filled-earth-sack
on my stiff back, and I’m

sinking, floating in this one-verse, this
polymorphic verse, this jagged-edged
suspension of syllables and
metaphors and clichés.

Yet another

milliliter of
hope dissolved
into the broken
soil I step in--

the infertile ground I tread;

lead! lead,
I’m chewing lead and I
taste the piked, almost sweet metal
-lic flavor

of despair, please

spare me your words.

[cradled in the tree branches,
rocking to the soothing song of
falling leaves].

I seriously hope that more people give your work a chance because this one has the "stuff" of great poetry. It doesn't get any better than this. After the second time I read it I started to "get it" hearing the despair of the wordsmith, and so I wished that by the end you hadn't actually said it. But it doesn't detract from it's depth. One thing this poem can't be accused of is being cliche.

Atlas holding the rubber
-coated-stone-filled-earth-sack
on my stiff back, and I’m

sinking, floating in this one-verse, this
polymorphic verse, this jagged-edged
suspension of syllables and
metaphors and clichés.

I can quote every line---this is work which speaks to a difficult subject, but you succeed beyond the galaxies. Keep up your writing, Holo---never doubt yourself, this is poetry par excellence.

I should say that I didn't feel bound to 'interpret' this poem because each line resonates a part of the whole. Getting at the center, however, is difficult, maybe impossible. I'm curious what you were thinking, feeling, that freed these thoughts from your soul.

that is a really wonderful poem. it works somehow - makes you feel something, like good poems should, even though it's disconnected. it's really great.

jon--wow, words like those from you are priceless. thank you so much. if my pain can create something good, then pain is worth something after all.

"I'm curious what you were thinking, feeling, that freed these thoughts from your soul."--would you like me to explain it? or leave it with an eternal question mark?

mir- thanks bunches. :) in all disconnections lie hidden strings. ;)

I suppose it is best that we leave your fine work with an eternal question mark, and instead, leave the fragrance of its poetic juices to seduce the reader and plunge him or her into its surly depths! :)