what do you receive
when you trace my hand?

are there bones
sharpened by stones,
or
enough cushions
to take
something
poorly sewn
and wipe away skin
revealing doubt
that I'm not
meant for
the word
that I'm in?

is your vision rosily tainted,
or am I worthy of
finite
ink?

I'm scared that
I'm picking off
pieces of decaying skin
without anywhere
to
put
them.

One day,
I think my
excuses for
waking up to
stars
turning their heads from me
will run out.

One day,
the last of my flesh
will dissapear and decay
and the night sky
will gain a star
burnt out
before ignition.

I think sometimes the drugs wear off
too early.

Sometimes,
she gives me hope
and sometimes
she gives me enough
coffee to
keep me up for weeks
and miles.
But miles down the road
isn't really what matters yet.

Don't disguise this as
a call, a
morning song
of pain,
or anything
I've thrown away.

This is the same
shovel I'll dig
my own grave with
if you jump down
and play
in the dirt with me.

Don't leave it
to rust.

, and so weather patterns are not correlated with (mis)trust because there is collusion.

V. Conlusions:
Any meaningful exclusion will compensate restitution.

Material, though, wears thin as your heart wears my skin like your favorite shadow.

Plants don't operate like this because they have common sense.

It's some sort of yearning-
***** of yarn,
stars that burn.

There is a path that never connects me to the center, nor does
the center define
an end goal;
it's something south of overlapping my dreams
of yearning and
knitting and
lighting fire to everything inside my head that tells me every single ******* day that I'm not good enough.

I ignite fires on days where
it is too cold to be
mindful
or be positive
because
I must.

I just want
existence to thrive.

Breathing is affected by
my lack of left-handedness
and
my inability
to experience emotion in any pragmatic method.

Drown me
in the sea
of instability
and broken
dreams.

waking up
now reminds me more of
digging up bones,
rather than skipping stones.

water isn't all that I hyped it up to be.

I drove miles and miles just
to discover
that the heat was broken,
and that your affection
is more of an illusion
than an authentic token,
wrapped in ***
and compassion.

Through metal weights
and steel plates,
I make a living.

Through some sort of
endless storm,
I will live

the darkness will ultimately illuminate all of the light and altruism that we have to bring to this world.

--

O' darkly death
I seeith thou off in the distance;
Thou canst hideth
From me mine love.


©Brandon Nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©Prophecy of death........

The Vessel
A wounded vessel tossed about in the storms of life
The vessel was once strong unshaken by the wind sure and secure in itself and about life
The once strong vessel is wounded again feeling hurt angry insecure ashamed lonely
Overwhelming blows of feelings hitting the vessel the pain is intense the memories of abuse are
Strong a blow to the heart and emotions
A cry out for assistance I cry out for the captain’s help in facing the crisis I look at the holes in the vessel
I ask for support from friends and groups etc. to help me repair the vessel to make it strong again
The vessel is not the same as it once was but there is hope that one day it can be better than it is now
The vessel is being mended and is getting stronger for the first time it's experiencing sunrises and sunsets that it has never seen before
Maybe it can be made stronger than it ever was and sail towards peaceful shores