old noteboks fill boxes

in a cold New England basement

with chicken-scratch poetry

from a time of insanity

and its aftermath

you know, stories about

taking the wrong path

about drowning

and letting go

of the precious life raft.

Nightmares have eased

but some ghosts linger

the man in the mirror

still pointing a finger

8 years a blur


and stirred

exams taken

and papers written

but lessons learned

too late

must fate be?

blind men saw

better than me



angry and afraid



my bed was made



alone and forsaken

by only myself

notebooks moved

from bookshelves

to boxes

alone only

in my mind

must I be a martyr?

time after

and after

the dust settled

it was too late

thought I’d figure

my shit out

and out run fate



too fast

too late



cheap dates

on Dot Ave

with only god knows



writing A papers

on Dunkin

and NoDoz


and life goes on


and so it goes…


and so fall fell


and it was too late

and fuck fate

and I



because I


to myself


and grandma

moved those notebooks


from the dusty bookshelf

and they sit

in a box

and I try to forget

but some things

you can’t lock


and some things

you don’t want to


and sometimes

you read a page

or two

once every year

or two

and get chills

and sometimes

you read something else

and get chills


and sometimes

you wonder…


scared to death

in Babylon

and something


got you through



kept you from the ledge

of the old Ba’ath party building

on the bad days,

eight stories up


brought you home


and something


and someone…

made you happy

and someone cared

and someone loved you

and you loved someone

but didn’t dare

stay happy

didn’t deserve

couldn’t deserve

wanted to deserve

-did deserve-

but couldn’t deserve…


and pages turned


and chapters fell away


and new chapters started


and ended


and the cheap paper fades

and the memories fade

and black hair slowly


to gray

and I can’t stay


I have somewhere to be…

and I’m always running

but never can find



and the poetry helps



and time helps


there are too many

lessons learned

from too many

mistakes made


and it kills me

that I wasn’t

the only oneĀ 

footing the bill

when the price

was paid


and I’m not running now

but Christ,

my feet itch


and what if

I stayed?


and what if

I stay now?


I sort of know how

and it seems easy

but the demons

always come back


they never fucking leave


and the booze and cigs

are a year gone

and every day

theres a new dawn


but the demons come back

and the angels are gone

and the angle is wrong

and the wagons lonely

but I won’t fall off

and these chicken-scratch poems

will be lost in a notebook

and put in a box

and burned when I die

and I hope no one reads it

I don’t want them to cry

but I’ll try

and I’ll try


to keep hanging on

to the farm

and this life

to my dogs

and my wife


to this pen

and this memory

that I’ll never forget

it’s a catch-22

but of course I regret…











About soitgoes1984

I was born and raised on land stolen from the Pocumtuc. I now live on a small island in the middle of the Pacific ocean, on land that was stolen more recently, from the Hawaiians. I am addict, struggling to kick the habit of fossil fuel. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
This entry was posted in american dream, anxiety, depression, dreams, Iraq, memories, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.