I walk with weary eyes
Tired of seeing, no longer willing to hear
My head spins from the smoke of your conflagration
Burn me down from the inside out
Lungs of ice trap the filth
Make sure the essence becomes my own
I try to scream but cough out words of rancour
A whirlwind of smoke and embers
My ashes block the sun
Nothing can grow here

I wake up and I am heavy with the weight of last night
My whole world collapsing onto me
Outside the cool rain touches my skin
The rhythm of the droplets crashing from the sky
The essence of the rain permeating the ground
It cleanses me and I shed my armor for the new day

[page 1] I'm a narcissist. I'm self-aggrandizing. I'm self-centered. I'm selfish. I'm ungrateful. I'm ugly. I'm emaciated. I'm neither here nor there. I'm almost androgynous. I'm awake at odd times. I'm asleep too often. I'm always on something. I'm always off-the-wagon. I'm incomprehensible. I'm rarely belligerent. I'm out of control. I'm out of cigarettes. I'm awful with money. I'm awful with your money. I'm spending all your money. I'm smoking all your ****. I'm not coming out today. I'm trying for tomorrow. I'm not really trying. I'm really sorry. I'm always sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry. I'm not letting that get out-of-hand too. I'm lying to myself. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off. I'm trying to convince myself I'm better. I'm convincing a lot of people I'm better. I'm better. I'm lying to 

[page 2] myself. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off. I'm trying to catch myself, before I fall into another loop of mundane infinities. I'm often repeating myself. I'm okay with repeating myself. I'm pretty sure you've heard me say this before. I'm saying it again, anyway. I'm so glad you'd listen. I'm so glad you still call on Sundays, and some Thursdays. I'm working this Thursday. I'm sorry. I'm dreaming of breaking hearts. I'm the one breaking my heart. I'm heavy-hearted, but barely broken. I'm buried in a journal of mine, from 2009. I'm disgusted by its contents. I'm not that person anymore. I'm not capable of describing the totality of my purpose with sentences, so blank-yet-still-slovenly as: "I have no other motivation for anything. I just love, want, and respect you." I'm not okay with having meant

[page 3] those words sincerely, and without even the tip of a tongue grazing the closest part to the teeth, of the inner cheek. I'm disappointed in my past selves. I'm motivated by my mission to make memories of them. I'm not letting them take that away from me.  I'm not angry. I'm better. I'm trying to catch myself, dozed-off, in the big-leather-recliner. I'm just wondering what time you all left last night. I'm not sure of when I passed out exactly. I'm not as embarrassed as I should be. I'm making it part of my routine. I'm not sure Dad would like that, though. I'm, either way, etching my own aphorisms into the infrastructure of the eternity. I'm attempting prose. I'm, admittedly, copping-out. I'm lying to myself. I'm trying to catch Myself, not paying attention to Itself. I'm failing, up to this point. I'm

[page 4] aware of my "exacerbating the issues." I'm aware this means I "don't want to get better." I'm a lot more aware of what I want, than you've been. I'm unable to catch myself, dozed-off, tranquil-for-once. I'm decided upon a signal of my impending arrival. I'm banging pots and pans, on the stoop, outside. I'm only a few minutes late. I'm not sure it'll make "a huge difference." (I'm sure it won't make any difference.) I'm finished, arguing about it. I'm proud. I'm light-footed, but proud. I'm lucky, beyond only the extent of my imagination's furthest limit. I'm in-flight, towards that boundary, searching for clues. I'm too close to the sun, considering my wax wings. I'm falling. I'm trying to catch

[page 5] myself, nose-dove. I'm amazed by the enormity of the earth below me. I'm running out of air underneath me. I'm evolving my opinions on God. I'm looking up at another-Icarus-ending. I'm staring down, at Salvation Incarnate. I'm calculating the time it'd take. I'm not-trustworthy. I'm awake. I'm not strong enough. I'm wide-awake. I'm not gonna survive this. I'm sick of being awoken by That Unmistakable Whistle. I'm out-of-breath. I'm all-out-of-breath. I'm lost in my lungs, and the Earth only grows. I'm telling lies to myself. I'm sure, I'll catch myself. I'm the only help I'm gonna get. I'm content now, in freefall. I'm watching the wax melt, onto my face. I'm wiping the wax off my face, while I laugh.

[page 6] I'm holding my own forearms, in a tight circle, tangential to my shoulders, too small to cradle a falling seagull, and motioning, as if I mean to help myself catch myself.

The rain falls the same and that black cloud that follows me around never seems to white. The sun beyond the sky never seems to shine just like these words line after line.


I Pretend like everything is the same so the ones we love don't see the pain.


I'm surrounded by these four white washed walls  


tears filled up to the rim


The bright light that used to reside inside my soul has grown dim.


I'd break this world in half just to see you again


I would then take the broken pieces douse them in gasoline and strike the match if it meant I would get to see your smile again, but I know that won't happen


I just can't win.


The fog still lingers the same and the cold that follows me around never seems to warm. The sun never seems to rise just like my words written here hidden behind the lies line after line.


I don't feel alive something inside me has died


I said I was fine but I lied. I'm just an empty shell of a man that I used to be.


Why did the universe take you away from me?


I don't feel alive. It feels like everything inside me has died.


I'm just a broken record skipping between verses and choruses


The rain still falls the same even more so when I hear your name.


I can't come alive everything inside me has died.


I'd smile but it would just be a lie.


~ D.P. Shoemaker

Conjugated amid liberated duality,
     surreptitious catharsis of
        poetic revelations' flip side,
          the underbelly of sentience
  potentially validating perceptions'
          indefinitely extended,
figuratively speaking beyond
      literally unleashed metaphors
             play it backwards, if you dare

when every morning
the things that used to sooth
exhausted heart  
and hands become unwelcome
stalkers that assault
the mind like smog
and fumes bathing Manila;

when the obnoxious cycle
of age-old lies and greed
grows stronger every minute,
where can one find deliverance?

or is there such thing as deliverance
anymore? refuge of pen from pain?  
but it only accentuates the misery;

the faster the words
populate the page, the deeper
the memory stabs the heart;
yet, is there any other way
than this catharsis?

The fragrance: to satisfy
As you present nearby
You are dear merciful!
As it gave me inner bliss
As rain is to catharsis