From The mind

When I'm Not There

2012-02-06T21:57:00.000-04:00

I’ll never be the one to comfort you

When your world is collapsing—

And when you are feeling lonely,

I won’t be there to hold your hand,

Somebody else will make you right.

You will have to dry your own tears,

And spend your nights alone.

When you need somebody to talk to,

I won’t be there to hear your worries.

But when everything falls apart

I’ll be dreaming about comforting you,

And holding you so tight you’ll know

That I’m never planning on letting go.

When everything falls apart

I’ll be dreaming about being there

To take your hand and see your smile.

Every night I dream of drying your tears,

And to rid you of every monster.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Frozen

2012-02-03T19:20:00.000-04:00

She sits mere feet away, so close I shutter,

But I can’t say hello, can’t look at her either.

I pretend not see her and hold my breath

Until I turn the corner and let it go.

I try to find the reason for my silence—

Between her beauty and my shyness

I feel as though I’m sinking slowly—

There’s nobody here to save me.

Her smile is a figment of my dreams,

And I wonder if she knows of it.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

What Silence Brings

2012-02-02T21:57:00.000-04:00

My mind is weary, words becoming rare—

I speak seldom, wisdom fading far.

It feels as though someday you will hear

Me speak the words you don’t accept,

And on that day your heart is going to sink

Just as much as my heart now.

For I know what is not meant to be,

I know what fair wishes are—I see dreams—

I see you holding another’s hand.

Never mistake my smile for happiness,

I’m swallowing down the pain silence brings.

When I speak I’m hopeful you hear the tremble

That has been fixed in my voice.

When I look at the ground as you pass by

I’m hoping to see you turn your eyes—

Holding my breath so you don’t see me cry.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Memory

2012-01-31T16:20:00.001-04:00

There is one moment put on repeat,

When I lose my mind it gets me through,

While I’m falling apart it helps me dream—

It’s the reason I survive even if it feels I won’t.

And the moment I live is thanks to you,

You’ll never know what you have helped me with,

I’ll never be able to describe the endless nights—

Clinging to a memory that has passed me by.

I wish I could tell you but it is buried so deep

That it seems at any moment I could forget.

But I live vividly somewhere before here and now,

Walking through a world that once felt near

But now crumbles once upon a time.

By now you have your own reason for being,

Memories to guide you through your life—

To take you far away.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Ice Around Us

2012-01-22T22:29:00.002-04:00

Show me how to live, remind me what I have forgotten—

The lightest touch against my hand serves as a reminder

That I am human and that life is passing by.

The poison on your breath is what gives me life;

Desire infuses my being as I become lost in a moment,

My eyes fail me, for I can’t believe I am next to you—

I never thought I would be here in a moment with you.

My identity is cast into a sea of people looking on,

Their blind eyes portray feelings of jealousy.

The ice I walk begins to crack—the world is made of ice—

Crystal cracking signals the end, desire shattering.

Reality is now a twisted compilation of memories;

I swallow hard and try my best not to disappear,

Life changes when you’re held so near.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

From Afar

2012-01-16T21:41:00.004-04:00

I sit and watch the people walk by outside,

And I smile knowing you’ll never know—

Or ever care of the way I’ll feel.

I laugh bashfully when you tell a joke,

But you tend not to notice the moments

I’m so nervous I can’t speak.

I watch couples holding hands

And think of how we never will,

So I walk down a different street

Just so I will run into you, accidentally—

I pass right by everyday,

But I still haven’t figured out hello.

I had a dream once

That we held hands all night and day—

And then I awoke alone,

Wondering when you would appear.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Broken Vision

2012-01-10T20:48:00.003-04:00

At this moment my head is flooded

With every word I’ve ever wanted,

But I’m caught in a fog—inhibition at its best—

Which always seems to hold me back.

I look at you and hope for anything but silence,

Your eyes dodge mine—I’m staring at the ground,

Cursing myself for being born without a voice.

You have so many reasons to smile,

And I want to be one but I can’t—I can’t—

I freeze up and end up counting stars—waiting.

And for some uncertain contingency

I have been given so many chances

Which have come and passed me by.

I worry that under some dire circumstance

Today will the last time I hear your voice—

Today will be that last time I see your face—

Today may be where our paths divide.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Convergence

2012-01-05T21:37:00.000-04:00

The chapters of our life have unfurled,

And they have brought us here—

This is the story you were meant to live.

Distance fades like the years gone by,

Goodbyes don’t exist in this world—

Our dreams and fantasy will keep us alive.

Hope will be our only motivation,

As we live quiet nights alone.

No longer will our hearts sink and twist,

We mustn’t think such things

For we know what’s best.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetryblogspot.con

The End Is Here

2011-12-31T19:21:00.000-04:00

So this is how it ends, there’s nothing left—

Your smile is a memory that I wish to see again,

But here we stand at the end of time—

The moments the tore us apart still remain.

And now we start the rest of our lives,

What I wouldn’t give to hear your voice.

Moving forward brings about great despair—

I’ll forever relive my lack of choice.

There is a chance we may never meet

I’ll surely die if you are not near—

I’m haunted by the words I haven’t said,

Change brings about my greatest fear.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Just Let It Go

2011-12-29T15:39:00.001-04:00

I thought it was all I ever wanted,

The feeling was unforgettable but now it’s gone,

You used to be the only one, not now—

We have both come so far.

I used to dream of looking in your eyes,

Find the perfect moment and bring it home,

But I traded dreams for reality—

Hope traded in for a piece of sanity.

I’m still haunted by my past

And now I’m wondering if she’ll last.

Just let it go.

Come with me, we’ll leave it all,

Hold my hand and whisper in my ear

Help me see what I really need.

Stand right here next to me,

Smile and let’s run away—

Show me who I want to be.

By night I forget what I’ve been told

I walk where wrong starts to feel like right,

I search for salvation but find none here.

She lingers around each corner I turn,

No matter where I go she’s here next to me—

It’s unforgettable, how far we’ve come,

I once thought that you were the one,

But I’ll walk the streets forever alone

With the peace I’ve made in my endeavors.

By night I try to tell myself to

Just let it go

Come with me, we’ll leave it all,

Hold my hand and whisper in my ear

Help me see what I really need.

Stand right here next to me,

Smile and let’s run away—

Show me who I want to be.

The world around us never sleeps,

I didn’t think I would ever be enough.

My thoughts drift so far away,

I never thought I would be standing here

Completely sure what I really want.

Freedom eats away at me, I see it—

True peace lingers in her eyes

And I’m ready to try to fight for it—

I’m ready to die if I must—

I’m ready to remind myself to

Just let it go.

Come with me, we’ll leave it all,

Hold my hand and whisper in my ear

Help me see what I really need.

Stand right here next to me,

Smile and let’s run away—

Show me who I want to be.

Just let it go.

Show me who I want to be.

Just let it go.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

I Can Only Imagine

2011-12-25T01:12:00.001-04:00

I imagine what it would be like to hold you

And keep you safe while the world falls apart.

I dream of stroking you hair behind your ear

And to tell you that everything will be alright.

Guilt embraces me as I picture you doleful

Just so I can be there to dry your tears.

A single moment holds my anticipation—

To brush your fair cheek and touch your lips.

Alas my simplicity holds my voice,

Inhibition is created deep within my breast.

Late nights are spent lying wakeful,

Wishing I was the one who knew you best.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Secret Fears

2011-12-20T23:35:00.000-04:00

I worry that you will forget about me

While I am still thinking of you—

I am afraid that I won’t be able

To take your breath away

No matter how hard I try.

I’m starting to think it’s true

That dreams aren’t meant to last—

When I attempt to forget you

I’m drawn deeper than before,

I become lost.

Without

2011-12-19T11:02:00.000-04:00

The stars tell a story I wish I wrote,

They show me your face, give me hope.

Stars light the path from which I came

And remind me of where you are bound.

Dreams and reality now seem to meet,

My body is shaking with our eyes locked.

I struggle with inhibition, an inner war—

Trying to resist reaching for your hand.

I have trouble breathing when you’re near

And I’m sure you can see fear in my face.

I suppress the urge to tell you how I think,

My mind turns blank as you disappear—

The streets are empty without you,

I’m not sure what to feel without you.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Characters of My Mind

2011-12-14T15:46:00.001-04:00

An open book lies on the table,

An unwritten page towards me.

The cover is beaten and battered

And the pages are stained red

With the blood of good intention.

My thoughts are all scattered;

I wish to continue but am unable.

The characters, more real than I,

Speak in a language built of regret—

Whispering slyly from the pages,

They share the secrets that rule me

I name them but they are in control;

No sympathy in their juvenile age,

They tell me the story of how I die.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

You're Gone

2011-12-10T00:31:00.002-04:00

I’m afraid of what you would think of me,

If you understood the way my mind works

And it’s terrifying for me to speak to you,

I shake from my head to the floor.

Your beauty is caught in my gaze,

I cannot rid myself of the image of you,

But now—preempted—you are gone;

All I can think of is your return

Where I can hang on your every word.

I dream of seeing you smile again

And like thoughts keep me awake at night.

But will you ever hear me speak?

Or be told of how my heart beats?

I may always be left with memories,

As unbearable as that thought may be.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

A Single Moment

2011-12-04T12:53:00.002-04:00

There was one single moment,

Where everything felt right.

On a day, during a week and month

That will soon be out of sight.

I was sure I found perfection,

Until the moment I closed my eyes—

That’s when you disappeared,

And I felt a piece of myself die.

There was one single moment,

Where dreams came true—

The memory will always linger

And I promise, I will never forget.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Moment

2011-12-03T13:26:00.001-04:00

I have dedicated my life to this moment

And now that I’m living it I’m afraid

That it will be over before I can comprehend

How this moment will define me.

I know that this is the apex

Of what I’ve been working towards,

Dolefulness fills me as I count back the seconds.

My thoughts drift solemn, so sad—

You will be gone soon enough.

I can feel my whole body shaking

And I’m wondering if you feel it too.

The closeness of your heartbeat

Is enough to destroy me,

And the sound of you breathing

Burns this moment into my brain.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Winter's First Night

2011-11-23T17:15:00.002-04:00

I know if I was coming home to you

The ice and snow wouldn’t feel so cold.

If I was met with your smile at the door

I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain

Of thinking about you with somebody else.

The snow falls into my eyes as I try to walk,

I stagger blindly by night trying to find you—

You’re by the fireplace as he keeps you warm.

I dream of being in his place, to have his voice;

But instead I return to where the lights are dim

And memories are the firewood beneath my heart.

Winter brings deathly laughter and a foreign world,

You’re gone awry in my mind and I can’t forget

The lingering moments that meant so much to me.

I can’t stop thinking about you—there is ice all around;

I hope on this night you stay warm.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Fear

2011-11-22T23:05:00.001-04:00

Our shoulders brush in crowded corridors,

You pass through me like an apparition.

I struggle in believing that you’re real.

You live your life far away from here,

On the far side of a glass wall dividing us.

Someday soon today will be lost—fade away

And I will be looking back at the story told,

Looking at moments oddly engraved.

At the end of it all I wonder where you’ll be,

For your story is almost written

And I am growing bitter and afraid.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Walk Away

2011-11-16T22:16:00.000-04:00

When I try to speak to her my words run dry,

She ties my tongue and snaps it like a rubber band.

Her face lingers deeply within my mind’s eye—

Her voice lingers in my ears even as she walks away.

She could hold my heart in her hand

And squeeze to her desire.

She fills me with delusion

Even as she leaves here.

Her eyes sparkle as she smiles,

Drawing her hands astray.

And before the night is done

She will be gone again.

She’s the face that carries away life’s regret

The echoing voice in the catacombs of my mind.

Life is short: although she might not know it yet,

Her voice lingers in my ears even after she walks away.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Far Away

2011-11-10T00:09:00.003-04:00

Clearly we are not from the same world,

And perhaps we will never truly meet

The way I imagine in my dreams.

We will grow apart until the sun burns out,

Remain distant until the end of time.

Hearing who you are burns my ears

And I can’t listen to where you’ve been.

I will never believe the slander I am told;

I will take my hope to the grave.

Your world doesn’t serve me well,

I get lost quicker than you know.

I just want to be the one that says goodnight,

I want to leave these lovestruck nights behind.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Miscommunication

2011-11-06T23:28:00.000-04:00

Somewhere along the way I was left behind,

Left with a mouthful of words that disappeared—

They stuck on my tongue as I swallowed hard,

They tasted bitter when mixed with silly thoughts.

I tried to walk away but found myself lost,

The streets themselves were painted black.

I returned with the intention of serenading you

With the verses written on the back of my hand

But I took one look in your eyes and lost my voice.

My heart grew heavy as I kept my mind empty,

I looked to the sky in hopes of consolation

But there was just one star shining faintly,

And he looked so lonely.

I felt akin to his regret.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

My Heartbreak

2011-11-03T22:01:00.000-03:00

I once fell for the most beautiful girl,

But I didn’t know how to talk to her—

My words didn’t seem to want to unfurl,

Not even when my heart began to stir.

She slipped away not knowing how I felt,

I still can’t figure out what’s wrong with me,

Caught in silence as she makes my heart melt—

I fail to believe it’s not meant to be.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Beyond Late Nights

2011-10-30T02:21:00.000-03:00

You run when you try to stay grounded,

You wish when it’s time to act.

You look back and try to remember

Why you ever thought you should leave.

Torn away without a mind to ask why,

Your voice is useless here.

So you sit and try to write,

Your words will never be enough—

You are nothing, but a side road

On the pathway to regret.

Your mind betrays you

And your mind leaves you.

There’s nothing left but the shell of you.

Time means nothing, for soon you will fade,

Leave this road one more time—

Live the story you tried to write but quickly failed.

Lose yourself in a world far away,

This surely is not how you should act.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Beautiful Girl

2011-10-27T00:02:00.000-03:00

Some part of her wants to fall in love—

Live the fairy tale she grew up believing

But long ago faded from her mind.

She stares at stars on stormy nights,

Dreaming about the one moment

She has been imagining all her life.

From her terrace built with lattice,

She grows red roses in the garden

And cuts the thorns promptly so.

The cause of her reflection weighs

On a mind delicate and fragile—

The only mind she has ever known.

Behind her eyes true temptation lies,

Slowly she lets seamless desire rest—

I am silent as she leaves dreams behind.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Within My Regret

2011-10-23T00:38:00.000-03:00

There’s something wrong within me,

A switch that was never turned on.

My mind doesn’t function proper

And a passive nature controls me.

Afraid to fight for what I hold dear

I live my life with nothing but regret.

I spend every night wishing

That I was anywhere but here.

Life passes as the nights grow cold

And I drift farther away from home.

My lethargic mind is too tired

To find a way to break the mold.

I would rather sit here in regret

Than find my voice again.

I would rather lose all hope

Than think we’ve never met.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Strangers Walk

2011-10-18T00:31:00.002-03:00

These streets don’t feel like home,

When I march upon them alone.

The ghosts that walk with me

Are memories of our youth;

I think we were both naïve,

Or perhaps we just didn’t want to think

That someday we would be torn apart.

I think it meant more to me,

Because you seem to be doing fine

And I’m still wandering alone—

I still don’t know where I’m headed

But I’ll search the whole world.

We walk the streets as strangers do,

Our voices foreign and faces concealed.

On separate paths we march,

Bound to never meet again.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

This Night

2011-10-13T23:59:00.001-03:00

This is everything from a cry for help to the most important passage I have ever written. I hope to never have another night like this, where I wander the streets just to feel the rain and know that I am real. Penetrating heartbreak fills my chest causing me to become so numb I question the very existence of my life. I torture myself with self-delusion and sad songs just to become lost on a street I can’t even guess the name of; the night drags on and I can feel my brain slowly dying—each brain cell on its own passageway to hell. I’m lost in thoughts of things that shouldn’t be questioned—words my voice isn’t strong enough to pronounce and my mind isn’t comprehensible enough to understand.

Topics of unimaginable guilt and frustration consume me in their entirety leaving me here, in the dark somewhere between home and not. Jealousy and bitterness become life in its entirety; they surely are an identity on their own, a puppet master that controls me. I wander deeper into the night in hopes of finding some type of salvation but all I find are more questions and self-loathing that drives me deeper into a night that has started and ended badly.

If it rains hard enough nobody knows you’re crying and you are free to walk where you please but sadly it rarely seems to rain hard enough—tonight it doesn’t seem to rain hard enough. I want to go to sleep and wake up a month from now just to give myself the time it takes to forget what I hold on to. I sense danger in my mind but for some foolish reason I press onward deeper into the night, deeper into the passageway of regret and loathing. Jealousy guides me and continues to control my thoughts and fair wishes.

I can’t seem to do anything but walk and stare off into the distance for my mind is consumed trying to solve a puzzle that ends sadly. If I had a voice I can’t help but wonder where I would be right now—for surely anywhere but here would be an improvement. This instance in time seems to be the worst it could possibly be. I have trouble pulling one positive from this heavy air filled with nothing bad things I don’t want to hear.

There’s a sinking feeling that seems to radiate through my chest and I can’t stop it. No matter where I walk or how far away I think I am from the problem I seem to always have this sinking feeling, like I want to curl away forever. On nights like tonight that feeling seems to get emphasized and every thought that crosses my mind only serves to continue the cycle. Right now I only have one thought and I hate it for it is not a happy one. It won’t go away or leave my mind. I’m left trying to guess where I went wrong or why fate is so cruelly twisted.

I don’t know where I’m walking to and it’s even gotten to the point I don’t even care if I get there in one piece—a self destructive pile of rubble stumbling on a path that surely doesn’t lead anywhere nice. Each footstep hits the ground awkwardly and inefficiently, I nearly fall often but somehow I remain on my feet. I would rather be on the ground. I would love nothing more than to sit down right now and stay here for the night.

Cruel thoughts evict my brain and stop snowball through the path of memories that lines the way down a slippery slope. And I’m shaking although I must admit it isn’t cold. Get out of my head and let me be, for you make it feel like my sanity is slowly slipping—basic social conventions have become a chore, and once I complete one it’s like a small victory that to anyone else is just another moment of another day.

And now I’m hungry, it seemed like my stomach is always empty—living off the flavors of basil and cottage cheese—too much salt, too many of this, not enough of that. I must admit for this night—and this night only I miss the taste of meat.

And the slight lisp that follows me and keeps me from speaking properly or fluently as I would like becomes apparent for on this night nothing goes right. And as I waste time trying not to pronounce th as an f you seem to get away. I can’t help but feel a symbolic message encoded in me, carried through the word “with”. For each time I incorrectly pronounce it you become farther and farther away. Wif, witf, wif, wif, wift.

This night is built wif an icy rain that melts away the possibility of desire. I imagine walking home wif pride but I seem to be carrying the passage of insanity. I want to go to sleep and forget what I have been told—wake up in the morning more lethargic wif each passing day. Someday I’ll forget this date in time and everything it could represent but for now the numbers it contains are free flowing through my brain.

Where am I? Surely home is a distant place, the rain is cold but that’s okay. Time holds no meaning for the sun will never rise. I will awake tomorrow far from where I want to be and I still haven’t figured out—this sentence doesn’t even seem worth finishing.

It’s not raining hard enough, but this might be the worst night of my life. I am left so lost, questioning my questioning with no cause or pursuit. Simply empty, each footstep is meaningless, each word is meaningless. Every coincidence that I worked so hard to build is torn down with the disillusion that I also founded. I pray morning comes quickly; I can’t handle another second of this place I live.

Timeless

2011-10-08T01:08:00.000-03:00

She’s so beautiful I quiver when she’s near—

My breath is torn from my lungs,

My heart balances on her words.

When she reveals her heart to me

Bashfulness turns my face red,

Vacates my hopes of speaking.

When I look her in the eyes,

Absolute beauty is held in a gaze.

I try to make sure my words are right,

Yet my lips never want to move.

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Intimancy of My MInd

2011-10-02T23:56:00.003-03:00

The intimacy of my mind

October 2 2011

I built a paradise for myself, in my mind where I only saw what I wanted to see. A disillusion so thick I began to think it was real. The two or three words that we exchange daily, or bi-daily, felt like 2000-3000 and I tricked myself into believing that you were weighing each words importance the same way as I. No matter how farfetched it seems now, I started to believe my thoughts—hopes and desires were starting to all meet. It was a mistake I thought I would be intelligent enough to avoid but unfortunately was not. Now I surely won’t be able to look you in the eye—speak—without thinking how far apart we are; me calculating each word’s measure, while you count the moments until you are free; me praying that the next minute will last the rest of my life, while you continue to check your watch.

The worst part is I never found my voice, and now I never will find it—at least to speak to you. I came close once but while trying to perfect each and every word, making sure they all fall into place perfectly, you left and left me with a mouthful of nonsense, by myself. I don’t even know what I would want to say if I ever found my voice; I think I would start speaking and never stop because if I did then the moment would come when you looked back at me, your eyes opened wide and your half smile insincere. Your head would be tilted slightly to the right with a mix of pity and bashfulness, your words cocked to confirm the suspicion I tried to suppress. And your speech would be short, much shorter than mine, but more to the point. Yes, I have run the moment through my head a thousand times—I even dream it night after night but even there the ending is not a happy one.

There are two types of people in this world, I am the first and you are the second. Simply, I am hardwired to search for love and so I fall too quickly and too hard. I think about it all the time, the emptiness the thought seems to bring. And each time I think that the perfect script has been written I find that I am back to square one. In my head I picture Romeo and Juliet, the greatest love story ever written—perhaps it would be more accurate if Juliet was just in it for the thrill and Romeo wasn’t all that great anyway.

I pictured some type of climax beyond just a simple realization, that you are not the person that I pictured and love stories don’t truly exist. The world brings people together and tears them apart, no reason in its randomness. Our vague existence in each other’s lives is temporary and for no other reason than chance. I’m sure we will go our own wayward ways and never meet again, soon enough. Perhaps if you weren’t so beautiful—pretty—exuberant I wouldn’t mind so much and my insanity would feel less sane. But unfortunately, things are the way they are, no better or worse.

Let’s go back to being bare acquaintances, borderline strangers that only acknowledge each other’s presence in the most unusual of circumstances. Then I can stop thinking about each moment that I took as a tiny victory and see them for what they really are, wasted moments where I tricked myself into thinking there was even a shred of hope. They were little moments, fleeting at best, lasting only a few seconds to a few minutes but after I ran them through my head near a million times they started to add up. It’s funny how now they all start to blend together but at the time each one seemed like the fulcrum point between reality and dreams.

I can’t help but wonder how long these words will stay relevant or if they will even mean anything by morning but right now they are all that I have. And I have to ask myself why I am even writing at this moment, as if a manuscript written to myself will make you fall in love with me. At the very least perhaps it’s a plea for pity. Maybe it’s a continuation of my deeply woven disillusion, as if these very words are some continuation of a story that never existed. Even by the very slightest of slight chances you ever manage to read these words you will certainly never make it this far and more than certainly assume that they are about somebody else—for that’s the thing about being born without a voice, I have no way of communicating through rational methods or anything above a simple guessing game.

I must have lost my mind somewhere along the way, being stuck in one place for so long with no reason to believe. But now, as I try to vanquish the thoughts from my mind all I can think of are the moments you shared when I wasn’t around. But I don’t want to know of those for with my limited knowledge and intelligence my cerebral cortex is filled with all the information I can handle.

I’m left with nothing but a story I wrote with thoughts and wishful thinking. I would bang my head against the wall but I fear that might bring about clarity. For my simple mind and lack of a tongue seems to always get me in trouble, makes me want to bang my head against the wall. If I only knew how to speak then perhaps everything would be better—but knowing me I would only make it worst.

I feel like I am having an argument with myself, trying to win myself over and sway myself into seeing how incredibly arrogant and disillusioned I have been but… But… But… There doesn’t even seem to be a thought I can write to fit that sentence. Surely I have lost my mind over nothing, for life in all respects is no different than it was yesterday but today there is no hope, daily routines that are just that, nothing more—it isn’t all leading to some greater world with a happily ever after, it’s just all leading to the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next until before I know it I will have wasted every moment, every moment wasted on the disillusions that were once the image of you.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

A Painful Secret

2011-10-02T15:20:00.000-03:00

There’s a veil that covers your face,

A blanket of insecurity hidden well—

Jealousy lights your way, like a lantern,

Ghostly shadows follow you soundly,

Whispering to you while you try to sleep.

Your heart pounds in a twisted beat,

Causing you to rot from the inside out—

Learning to slander you day by day.

Jealousy causes hate—inner wars;

You fight but never seem to win—

Weapons are the words you speak,

Pain comes from the ones you don’t.

You seem to get left alone every night,

Blasted through with bullet wounds.

You’re the one left standing in the dark

As the world spins without you.

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Deeper Into the Night

2011-10-01T00:27:00.000-03:00

I don’t want to spend these nights alone,

Wandering until I have lost my way.

I want you to guide me so I don’t get lost,

Brighten the streets so I don’t get scared.

I walk in hopes of passing you in the dark,

But with each step you become farther—

I become more distant from myself.

The hypertrophy of hope each morning,

Is destroyed with the rise of stars.

I stand so far away from home,

But still walk deeper into the night—

Still hoping somewhere, somehow,

You manage to hear my thoughts.

DannYetman

www,yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Fate

2011-09-25T11:48:00.000-03:00

Fate is drawn from hope,

And thoughts so painful—

You suppress them all your life.

The stars never seem to align

The way you wish them to;

For hesitation lights the way

To your hidden desires.

Your mind doesn’t change,

But becomes a burden,

Whispering secrets and distress—

Teaching you to believe in fairy tales.

You begin to wish that someday

You will be bound to fly away

From the memories you left behind—

Dreams you wanted but decided

Would be better to live without.

Fate tests you—knocks you down,

Brings you to your knees

But still you seem to live—

You seem to live without.

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Last Night

2011-09-22T00:48:00.003-03:00

I wrote this for you last night—just for you,

With words that are supposed to describe

The way that I feel in my heart.

My heart beats—some nights it beats slow,

But every night it beats for you.

I started to write in hopes of describing myself,

Letting you inside my mind to see who I am—

I hoped there would be magic in my words,

To make you fall in love or at the very least

To understand the way I felt last night.

I wrote by a dim light, a pen scribbling,

Each word that left my hand was for you—

Designed like a lock and key to fit your eyes.

Fragments of my soul spilt against the page,

Built out of a desire to touch your heart.

Last night I stayed up late, wondering

If you would ever understand

Why my words were spilt by night.

I began to conjure images of taking your hand

And dancing to songs that played on the radio,

All the while knowing that you are clueless

Of the words that were just for you.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Your Voice

2011-09-18T23:45:00.002-03:00

Your voice is just a fleeting echo

That lingers when you’re gone—

So soft—confined to isolated moments;

Delicate and raising flickers of hope—

A trap of optimism that I fall into.

Your words are lost when you speak,

For I can’t hear a word you say

Over the sound of my heart beating

And the weakness that overcomes me.

Silence seems to reign in my world,

But each day I pray I’ll learn to speak.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Without A Trace

2011-09-17T00:06:00.000-03:00

From your eyes, I tried to disappear

My tongue was held when I tried to scream.

And now you’re gone and I’m still here,

Left with memories and painful dreams.

You disappeared, left without a trace—

Stole my heart and broke my simple mind.

I wait for our paths to interlace

But our worlds will never realign

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Born to Dream

2011-09-13T23:52:00.003-03:00

What am I supposed to do on nights

Where I dream circumstances that will never be?

Hidden desires and passions camouflaged

So plainly they stand within your view.

Dreams so vivid, I awake questioning

What is real and what is make-believe—

I awake wondering where you are,

And why my heart is pounding still—

The world passes silently, carefree;

I’m stuck in a moment that will never be real,

Hearing voices that surely will not exist.

I’m lost deep within the chambers of my mind,

Holding a moment with you, I will never live.

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Sun And Moon

2011-09-08T23:35:00.000-03:00

When I open my eyes the walls will split in two,

Thoughts spent—wasted—trying to unite the sun and moon.

I can’t recall when I first saw daylight,

But the moon—oh the moon—so beautiful,

I can’t help but stare in awe, so far above me.

The sun, not to be outdone, shines so brightly

But why must she always be so far away?

I’m positive I couldn’t live without either’s glory,

A dim day, filled with unrenowned sorrow

Or a night so dark I lose my thoughts.

When will they share the sky?

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

She May Be Beautiful

2011-09-07T23:30:00.002-03:00

She is the cause of late nights,

And an ever beating heart

Her eyes alone, a star’s might,

Her face is heavens start.

So delicate she may break,

Surely built with pewter lace.

Her crystal voice leaves fate opaque—

Diamond accents a perfect face.

Hands like cashmere to the heart,

So fair and close to heaven

When she laughs clouds choose to part—

The sun finds a place in heaven

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Barely Alive

2011-09-02T23:59:00.003-03:00

We are all falling apart to different degrees,

Limbs flailing, scarcely connected—

And hearts with murmurs skip beats,

Thinking of love and human inventions.

Metacognitive of fleeting seconds,

And eyes that will never stare back.

Sometimes we begin to wonder,

Who it is living in our dreams—

The face we see every night,

Before and after we go to sleep.

The world that we have built so soundly,

Is being torn to the ground around us—

Soon lovers meet and pass;

Cloudy eyes are left when nothing else is;

Your face is left, when nothing else is.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

What Has Been Missed

2011-08-27T01:15:00.000-03:00

I once thought that I was lost,

So I held onto what I found—

A beating heart and blood so thick

I had forgotten how to talk.

You gave the carbon copy,

Of a life filled with regret—

And I hated myself for feeling,

So I broke the path last night.

Now I’m built from solid stone,

No joy, sadness, longing or regret.

No limbs, heart, eyes or face—

Just veins that are filled with sand.

I once though I found the world,

And so I stopped searching—

Now I see what I had missed;

I see what a fool I have been.

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Above

2011-08-22T00:28:00.000-03:00

Up above—on the edge,

Bittersweet remorse hanging loosely—

Hung over my head.

Memories disappear one by one

All I remember now is the sea.

And somewhere deep inside of me

I wish for it to take me away.

Your voice is remembered fondly

But unfortunately it too

Is bound to fade away.

I am sitting on the edge,

With an empty mind and rocks below—

Salt wounds and a damaged brain,

I wish to hold your hand

Before I let go.

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

For Once

2011-08-17T01:11:00.000-03:00

For Once

Daniel Yetman August 16, 2011

Click Here to Download

The covers bounce lightly against Deacon’s chest as he breathes hard—out of his mind, still in a lucid state. He perspires heavily and almost convulses; his eyes roll back into his head like he’s possessed. He murmurs softly uttering few tangible words; a pitiful wreck he lies asleep with nobody around to wake him. He dreams alone, as he has done his whole life but recently he has begun to resent his isolation. He has been alone since he was a kid; his memory is an anthology of moments sitting alone, at home with the TV on Saturday night or at school, recess, where he killed time by walking in circles around the school for fifteen minutes until the bell rang.

His foot twitches as he begins to wake, at first it seems as though he is going to arise slowly, take his time and ease into consciousness but after several moments of shifting he shoots straight up in his bed, and stares at his alarm clock with bloodshot eyes and hair nearly long enough to cover his face. Perspiration rolls of his skin and causes his shirt to stick to him. His eyes are glued on the wall across from him; blankly he keeps his gaze fixed. It takes several moments for him to collect his thoughts; he coughs twice and takes the first icy step out of bed.

Deacon drags himself to the bathroom where he closes the door behind him even though he lives by himself. He stands half bent over the sink, keeping intense eye contact with himself—he almost expects his reflection to walk away or twitch but it doesn’t. He fills the sink with cold water and submerges his face; it feels like a thousand needles are sticking through his cheeks but oddly enough it is refreshing. He holds himself there for close to a minute before taking a gasp of air afterwards. It has become a ritual that he has performed nearly every day for the past ten years.

He towel dries his face and then steps on a digital scale. He leans and contorts his body, putting all his weight on his heels and his arms behind him like a skier. He still finds that he is up nearly a pound this week.

Breakfast is as routine as every other aspect of his life, he pulls out three pieces of whole wheat bread, spreads on a sparing amount of jam and about a tablespoon and a half of peanut butter. He also pours 150ml of 1% milk into a small white bowl and mixes it with two small handfuls of a whole grain cereal. Like every morning he eats it and finds he’s still hungry for more, thinking of the pound he has put on he drinks about 500ml of tap water to fill his stomach.

Normally on a Monday morning Deacon would sit at home until 11:00am thinking about all the things he should do after work (but he knows he’ll never get around to). He would leave his apartment ten minutes after the hour and return home again that night just after 8:00pm. His social interactions have been slowly dwindling—Deacon has been losing his desire to be around other people, often he becomes so lost in his mind that he may go an entire day without speaking to anybody, or at least encoding the conversations into his brain.

Unfortunately he has today off meaning that the whole day is empty, there are so many possibilities—he could finish all the chores he has been putting off, catch up on some reading, go out in the world and interact, go shopping, meet a girl. Likely though he will sit at home until he goes to bed, sitting in front of a computer killing time and curse himself for wasting his life.

He sits down the office chair next to his laptop; he spins around to face the picture window. He puts both his hands behind his head and considers his options. The sound of thunder outside allures him however, and he considers leaving the small apartment that he has come to call home. Absentmindedly he walks towards the door, plucking his jacket off a chair and steps into the rain. Deacon seems to wander without destination, if only to get away.

Water runs down his forehead and soaks him beyond recognition. He blinks away the pain and continues to walk straight down the road; the only other walkers are a few dog owners who look absolutely miserable. One woman in particular, who is walking a Scottish Terrier, seems like she is going to blow away in the wind. She stands just over five feet tall and can’t be anymore than 100lb’s. She’s young, but not too young, attractive and it can be assumed that if she was smiling she would have a perfect set of teeth. Deacon walks by her using his peripheral to capture her. He would have liked to have said hello but such an action would be out of character.

He walks for nearly an hour before he finally decides to take refuge from the elements. He finds a coffee shop on St. George Street that seems to consist of mostly artistic couples who wear thick black glasses and speak of politics. Feeling out of place he shyly slips towards the counter and orders a medium Café Latte that warms his hand and will probably burn his tongue if he tries to drink it.

Sitting down at a booth with black leather seats he watches the couples around him, taking a break from their interesting lives and sitting down to reminisce of adventures past and future. Watching the hand actions and body language, Deacon mentally creates a script for them and fills in his own storylines.

“Oh yes, I got back from Paris last weekend, it was simply a bore.”

“But didn’t you have time to visit the Louvre this time?”

“Sadly not this time, I didn’t cross over the Seine the entire time I was there.”

“That’s a pity, hopefully next time.”

“Next time indeed.”

Deacon takes a glance of his right shoulder to the rain that falls. It keeps the streets clean of human activity. A single rain drop, that’s significantly larger than the rest, sticks out from the others stuck on the outer window. It seems to cling helplessly and then, in a single moment, it blows away into the wind. Deacon shutters pensively as the he begins to realize how cold he is. A sip of Café Latte seems to warm him temporarily.

Without warning a hand slaps the table, waking him up and almost sending him through the roof. The hand belongs to a man with short, curly hair and a fleece sweater harboring raindrops. He’s a tall man, at least several inches taller than deacon himself, and he’s built solid with the appearance of somebody who works outdoors for a living. The man with a crooked smile slips into the booth elegantly and crosses his fingers on the table while fiddling his thumbs.

“I see I wasn’t the only one who needed to get out of the rain,” he says.

“I didn’t think I would see anybody I would recognize here.”

“I saw you through the window and thought you could use some company, by the way you owe me for the coffee,” he says holding up his cup.

Deacon throws a loonie on the table callously. The man sitting across the table from him has been a sole friend in many nights of need. Since high-school the two have had a back and forth that has provided valuable for both of them over the years. Mark has always been one step ahead of him in matters of endearment and has provided insight on nights where he was battling a broken heart. But Deacon has stayed a realist with insight on every day matters which from time to time Mark seems to miss; more than once Deacon has picked up the puzzles pieces of Mark’s life, rebuilding him. They were once equals but now the man sitting across the table is much more successful. Relying on charisma and extroversion to make up for his faults he worked his way through life, climbing the rungs of society’s latter—finding his place in the world’s hierarchy.

Mark’s reddish brown hair used to be kept longer, past his ears but now he keeps it short, kept neat and out of the way. His smile, which has been one of his most relied upon traits, is odd. It’s not so much charming as it is alluring. He has the smile of a car salesman which isn’t too farfetched considering his tycoon history.

He wears an all black sports coat left upon in the front, exposing a white shirt with a design across the front consisting of a series of black cubes.

The two talk about sports and then they talk about the world—tornados, shooting stars, earthquakes—and as the clock shows no bound they become more existential asking the big questions which time and time again seem to have no answer. But mostly they talk of women, broken hearts and lovers past. They talk through their first round of coffee in a matter of minutes but by their second round they drag it out only sipping to wet their throats. By the third round they drink so slowly that it takes nearly an hour for them to empty their cups. Deacon holds his between his thumbs and forefingers tearing away at the cup nimbly—subconsciously.

There is a lot of laughter and if the table had flesh it would be badly bruised from the number of times it has been slapped across the face after each and every anecdote.

“No, no, no, remember that time in grade ten when you bet me I couldn’t steal a kiss from Lisa Green during the end of the year school trip? And then I spent three days chasing after her—”

“Yes, I kept telling you that I overheard her friends say she thought you were cute,” interjects Deacon.

“Right, and then after nearly five minutes of talking to her I finally worked up the courage to pull a move but as I went in to kiss her she took a step back—”

“And you landed flat on your face in front of her and half our class.”

The conversation continues steady until a certain name strikes down Deacon like a lightning bolt.

“Remember Erika Kane?” Mark asks.

Deacon freezes cold and shutters a little bit as if an apparition has passed through him. “Yes, I remember Erika.”

“You loved her didn’t you?” It almost isn’t a question, more of a statement.

“No.”

“You acted like you did.”

“Lust.”

Mark turns his head as a parakeet does; quizzically.

“I feel like you’re lying to yourself.”

“I wasted nearly ten years of my life on her, stuck in a torturous loop, a never ending cycle.”

“What ended it?”

Deacon looks down towards the table then returns his gaze, revealing the esoteric features of his face.

“I just decided it wasn’t worth the effort anymore, I buried it so deep I would never find it.”

“And that worked?”

“For a while,” he responds.

“And now?”

“Now it is.”

Mark stares back at him with reverence and apprehension. He opens his mouth and half utters his next sentence before trailing off. He looks down at the row of coffee cups on the table and the Styrofoam that Deacon has been shredding unknowingly.

“When was the last time that you saw her?”

Deacon thinks for several seconds. “Once, three years ago and once four years before that,” he finally responds.

“And it is?”

“It is.”

“Curious...”

“What is?” Deacon asks skeptically.

“Do you want to see her?”

“No… Why? What do you mean?”

“Just do you want to see her?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Yes hypothetically.”

“Maybe.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Mark stares off prophetically, like a man much wiser than himself. He glances down at the table, at the increasing number of Styrofoam shreds. He rubs the back of his right wrist with his left hand and pushes down on the end of his ulna. It’s an idiosyncrasy that he had developed years ago.

“Okay then, let’s go.”

***

The rain, that was pounding the rooftops of every building in the city less than an hour ago, slows down until the rain drops start falling so rarely one wonders if they are falling at all. The sound of water against tin roofs is like a tractor engine.

“Here we are,” says Mark.

“But how?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Deacon looks at the house they are parked outside of—pink, wooden siding with the paint chipping off around the edge; a white fence that looks like it hasn’t been maintained for years; a gravel driveway with no tire tracks in the gravel; and a roof with metal shingles, a dull burgundy. Three pigeons sit on the roof, two as a pair over the doorway and a third by himself at the house’s peak.

“What do I say?”

“Tell her you love her, that you’ve always loved her.”

“And what will she say to that?”

“She will say she misses you.”

“And that she loves me?”

“No, that she misses you.”

“Then why should I tell her how I feel?”

“She already knows, and you are not a conversationalist.”

And so Deacon stepped out of the car with a light foot, careful not to disturb the gravel path. His footsteps are slow and fleeting, and he edges his way to the dying grass of the front yard and from there to the cobblestone path leading to the backyard where it can only be assumed that a garden lies in wake. Deacon cognates images of orange Lilies and pink petunias with butterflies callously dancing from flower to flower while all types of song birds—Jays, Vireos, and Warblers sing in the gentle lifting fog or a tropical storm.

His heart starts to beat through his chest as he lifts his left hand which now weighs a hundred pounds. He knocks lightly on the door but to him he feels like he is pounding—a thousand farm animals calling and ramming against the door, willing to stop at nothing to break down the door.

He holds his breath as he waits for her—the girl, now woman, who has held his heart since the beginning of time. And when he runs out of breath to hold and he is still standing on the porch alone he feels his heart sink and a thousand memories of familiarity flood his mind. He turns his back to the door and looks at Mark, who is still sitting in the car, and gives him a look which reminds Mark of a dog watching his owner drive away without saying goodbye.

Deacon takes a step back and then a second but before he has time to take a third a shrill but beautiful voice calls from the second floor window.

“Helllooo!” The voice drags out.

Deacon turns around, petrified with fear and surprise.

“That door won’t open, one of the hinges broke last week, come around back!” She says excitedly.

Deacon does as asked; he hustles around the house, using the cobblestone path he crossed earlier. The path doesn’t lead to a garden as he fantasized but a relatively plain backyard in all accord. Centered is a picnic table painted the same burgundy as the roof of the house and slightly behind it is a rusting swing set with one of the three seats missing.

The lawn’s grass is dry and dying, a yellowish brown patted down in locations that are more highly trafficked. The butterflies he imagined are replaced with little blue caterpillars ugly by definition and destroying the few flowers the yard presents. There is however a beautiful white terrace with white lattice and ivy flowing to the ground. Deacon can imagine her on nights she feels restless, walking outside holding a glass of water with two ice cubes and staring at the moon—the same moon that he too stares at when he himself feels restless.

Then like a princess out of a fairy tale she bursts through the back door onto the terrace, the sun catching in her golden hair. She descends the steps until she reaches the bottom and stands face to face to Deacon, her eyes slightly below his. She smiles while he stands dumbfounded.

“Hello,” she says simply, causing Deacon to swallow harder than he meant to.

“Hello. It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” she adds.

The two find themselves at the picnic table before too long; they share stories of the years that have passed both of them by. He shares anecdotes of loneliness, adventures that before seemed quite mundane but now come to life by the tip of his tongue. She laughs in all the right places and shares her own stories of misadventures and solemn nights.

When it is time for him to leave Deacon stands up from the table and she remains seated. He pauses before walking away and reflects upon Mark’s advice.

“I love you.” It’s a statement he makes with confidence.

She doesn’t say anything at first; she stares at him contently, “Oh…”

“I have always loved you, and time—the time that should have torn me away from you and made me weak and turned me into a wiser man seems to have missed me because here I stand a teenager in my twenties with words that have been kept off my tongue for too long. I don’t know where you’ve been for the last ten years but to say the least I miss you, and I love you and I’m running out of things to say but now I’m afraid that if I stop speaking this moment will end and I will never be back here, staring into your eyes. I’m afraid if I stop speaking you will forget about me and my heart will never beat again in the manner of which it is right now.”

“I have missed you too,” she says as if it is the only thing she heard.

Deacon stands, heart beating and surprised, and she sits calm and collected. After a few calm moments she turns towards the house—her house.

“Chloe!” She shouts.

A little girl with fair skin and blonde hair comes running into the backyard, her hands and knees covered in mud. She sits on her mother’s lap with a look of endearment—Deacon is captivated in awe, jaw held open and his body again petrified.

The walk back towards the car is a long one, the sound of his heart echoes in his head. He doesn’t say anything to Mark and likewise Mark sits silent.

“I ran into her a couple weeks ago, we talked like no time has passed. She told me about it. I thought you should know…” Mark voice drifts off.

“Who is the father?” Deacon asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Is there a—”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Take me home.”

And without argument, that is exactly what happened.

***

The rain falls hard on a clear night. The city sleeps soundly unknowing of the unsettlement brewing from within. Deacon lies on his bed, staring at a ceiling which never seems to return his affection. He has abandoned thoughts of sleep hours ago—his thoughts now are of surviving the night.

He picks up his frame and slithers out of bed, his eyes nearly shut he makes his way to the kitchen by memory, avoiding every chair and counter. He pours himself a glass of water with two ice cubes and after careful consideration he puts in a third.

He walks onto his balcony and lets the gentle breeze blow at the edges of his face. He stands, leaning against the edge as only a man with thoughts of love does. He looks up towards the sky in time to see the moon pull away from the clouds. Simple in design and elegant in stature, the moon hangs in the sky, a sign for lovers eyes.

A hang falls on his right shoulder and a chin rests on his back.

“Is everything okay?” She asks, concerned.

Deacon turns back towards her, kisses her passionately and lingers in her eyes. “ For once.”

All rights belong to the original author, as defined under the Canadian Copyright Law.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Long Walk

2011-07-26T11:57:00.001-03:00

The Long Walk

Daniel Yetman July 26, 2011

Click here to download

The sun sits as it should, full and bright in the sky uncontested by the clouds. I can feel it heating up my skin infusing me with its energy. There’s a squirrel to my right, small, brown and with a peanut in its hands. I veer slightly off my path to see if he moves in my presence—he does. There are voices from tourists all around, they hold cameras in their hands and chatter in a language that means nothing to me. I am as foreign as them in this land yet I have grown comfortable with my surroundings in the past three days. Still though, it’s a long walk.

I kick a vicarious white pebble against the asphalt; it seems to stick out against its surroundings. There are buildings off in the distance that seem like skyscrapers from here but in reality are only ten floors high. My heart begins to pound hard as the blood being pumped through my veins seems to thin. I suddenly become very light headed but I cannot tell if it’s from excitement or dehydration. I make a fist only to find I can’t clench it tight, it hangs loosely by my side. I look to her and see her looking down, her eyes fixated at her feet or the ground. I can’t see her eyes but if I could they would sparkle against the sunlight. I open my mouth ready to speak but before a single word comes out I close my mouth again and scratch the back of my head. She twitches as if she thought I was going to say something. With each step I take my heart begins to pace, against the clock I race against myself.

A bird flies by but I don’t have time to break my focus, he swoops low against the ground almost taking off a few heads. Its presence seems to be a distraction for everyone as they point and gawk at it.

“Zenaida macroura, a beautiful specimen but not something out the ordinary.” I think to myself.

We walk across a long parking lot that lacks a single car, there are wooden stakes sticking out of the ground periodically with electrical outputs. I can’t imagine what they are for but I don’t expend too much thought. The sun goes behind a cloud slowly, creating a long shadow across the parking lot that chases us slowly. It brings with it instant coolness—it’s still nowhere near cold but not as comfortable as it was before. I remove my sunglasses from my eyes and place them on my forehead. I run my fingers through my hair and straighten my shirt in an attempt to look more presentable. My pulse still seems to be erratic and my blood pressure is still rising, physiologically it is something I haven’t felt in quite some time. Mixed with feelings of faintness and nervousness it is becoming progressively clearer what I am feeling.

I seem to be caught in one of those instances that I wish could last forever. Here in the moment, I’m already thinking about how special this instance of time will become when I look back or dream about it when I’m old and gone. But for now each footstep personifies my emotion and I feel like screaming—I have been here before in this same moment, it’s a different city but everything else is the same. There is no possible way to fight against time, make it last forever, I can slow it down, make it last a few extra seconds but within the half hour I’m going to be sitting in a bedroom so far from home thinking back at what I should have said—travelling through all the hypotheticals that I’m deluded enough to believe.

And here she stands feet away but I continue to bite my tongue, each footstep drifting farther away. And my head is pounding I can feel my superficial temporal artery pulsating in a rhythmic fashion—she looks so calm and collected, as I do I would imagine—on the outside I look almost bored, but just below the surface I’m bubbling.

I close my eyes tight for a fraction of a second; I feel the neurons in my brain firing but come up with no master plan. Instead I walk faster, slightly ahead of her—enough to gain about three meters in about twenty strides. From my new vantage point I hold the distance and pretend to stare at some interesting feature on the building to our right. My pace slows again until she catches up again. When she is about fifty centimeters behind I half turn and point out what I was looking at. She laughs automatically—politely and then I ask her the first question that comes to my head. As far as questions go it’s not special, in most situations it probably wouldn’t lead to anything other than a simple response. To my good fortune she seems to have plenty to say and with little input of my own I am able to coast through the conversation.

I breathe calmly while speaking to her but each word captures my heart. My thoughts contradict my tongue as I hold back what I’m thinking. The sun shines brightly as I nod along and interject blank statements into her story. I feel like my eyes are sparkling but I don’t think it is noticeable.

I smile when I look back, where I see the rest of our group twenty feet back. My heart bounces in my chest as I realize that we are both in the same moment. I can only imagine what she thinks of me—I assume I don’t cross her mind at all—but it also seems like at this moment her thoughts drift towards me. Maybe I’m just a plastic figurine, a blank slate to bounce ideas off—my personality feels flat and nervousness feeds my inhibition. Her voice seems to be a distraction too, it rises and falls like the melody of a Baltimore oriole.

Tic, tic, tic, tic… The clock counts down the seconds until acquaintances part and life returns to normal. I wish I could resist but it is a fight I—nobody—can win.

It doesn’t take long for me to run out of words and before I have time to fully enjoy the moment she seems to be gone again, back into the crowd, leaving me alone. We are so close to our destination I can see it rearing higher with each footstep. And as we step upon the doorstep I imagine shouting at the top of my lungs, “Stop!” And dictating instructions of how we don’t have to take this—we can fight against time’s corruption. But he has an endless army and we stand being eaten alive but his grunt work—on our skin and in our guts, eating us inside out.

We filter into a building that seems only half built but still high above everything around it. The inside smells like sterilizer and saw dust; as she walks by me I steal peripheral glances, feeling smug knowing that only moments ago I was speaking to a girl so beautiful.

A man steps off the elevator looking like he stepped off a time machine—he wears an all black suit with a top hat and a cane, he is the human embedment of Mr. Peanut.

We step on after him, crowding together and ignoring the maximum weight capacity sign. I start to think of how terrible and inconvenient it would be to get stuck here on an evening like this. She stands in front of me, I want to say something but given the close quarters the conversation would be anything but private, as soon as one of us said something interesting somebody else would jump in and annex the conversation.

Eventually we reach the top floor and step off one by one; she gets off before I do. I swallow hard and take a leap of faith; I place my right hand on her shoulder and pull her aside as everyone walks by. She’s caught off-guard at first but she quickly realizes what is going on. I look down at the floor and back up into her eyes to be met with two crystals that seem to say, “I just want to be friends.” She doesn’t look intimidated however, she seems collected as if she has been here before—I know I’ve been here before. I open my mouth and panic when no words exit my mouth. I feel like she is communicating with me telepathically telling me not to say what is curling on my tongue. She looks so beautiful I chicken out.

“Never mind.” I say after what feels like an eternity.

She smiles and walks down the hallway—I half expect her to turn around and get in the last word but she never does. I watch her walk until she takes a turn and disappears beyond closed doors. Little did I know that by the next morning she would walk out of my life forever.

All rights belong to the original author, as defined under the Canadian Copyright Law.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

I Am One

2011-07-25T00:42:00.000-03:00

I am just one of ten lying awake,

Trying to retrace my steps

And find where I went wrong.

I am one of a hundred

Living life hopelessly,

Staring at stars desperately.

I am just one of a thousand

Staring off to space night after night,

Waiting to been taken away.

I am one of a million

Wasting my life,

Rotting from the inside out.

I am just one of billions

Who has a story to share,

But lacks the ability to write it.

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

A Girl so Beautiful

2011-07-18T15:24:00.000-03:00

I know a girl so beautiful,

Her eyes sparkle like the water around her.

She is prettier than the shells that lace her—

She’s more breathtaking than the highest mountains,

Voice like an Oriole.

I met a girl with skin so soft

She makes my spine tingle when our two hands brush

Her hair blows perfectly in the evening breeze

That’s when I think she is at her prettiest,

By the moon’s dawning light.

There’s a girl, who turns grey skies blue,

With two eyes so strong they could cut through metal

Sometimes when I see her I lose my balance—

I stumble, and when I talk to her sometimes,

I begin to wonder.

This girl is not hyperbolized

For surely she deserves every metaphor,

And on occasion when I write about her

I lose myself in a fictitious moment,

Staring to sea, waiting.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Insanity

2011-07-12T16:00:00.000-03:00

I’ll say sorry for what I said,

I’ll apologize for my actions—

But I stand by my thoughts.

I don’t want to remember my name,

I might forget where I am,

But I’m glad I lost my mind.

You better hold on,

For life soon becomes a wild ride,

When you lose all sense of yourself.

I’m not convinced this is my face,

My hands feel foreign at best,

But such in insanity reflects on me.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Turn Back Time (Lyrics)

2011-07-05T01:40:00.000-03:00

I walked the streets without a name,

I wished that someday you might feel the same—

My mind blank as night turned to day,

Face blank to what I had to say.

She looked so pretty in the light,

I tried to speak—she left my sight.

Never will I tell her my regret

I just pray we will both forget

Now by night I seem to lose my mind,

I can’t help but think of everything

And my heart will always feel this divide,

Hoping that words will turn back time

Sleepless nights are my best friends,

Counting stars till we meet the end.

I stand by you, try to speak—

Slowly thoughts begin to leak.

Now eyes begin to drift away,

All I want is for you to stay

But he’s the one who hears you,

And he’s the one who holds you.

Now by night I seem to lose my mind,

I can’t help but think of everything

And my heart will always feel this divide

Hoping that words will turn back time

Bloodshot eyes affixed in a glance,

Tears down my cheeks as you begin to dance,

My heart beats—I can’t stand to glimpse,

With each breath I begin to wince.

And when he looks into your eye,

I breathe and hope I’m soon to die—

Left alone in memories of you

Walking alone in a world without you

Now by night I seem to lose my mind,

I can’t help but think of everything

And my heart will always feel this divide,

Hoping that words will turn back time

Now by night I seem to lose my mind,

I can’t help but think of everything

And my heart will always feel this divide,

Hoping that words will turn back time

Now by night I seem to lose my mind,

I can’t help but think of everything

And my heart will always feel this divide,

Hoping that words will turn back time

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Black Sheep

2011-07-01T03:48:00.000-03:00

My head starts to spin; I barely can open my eyes—

My thoughts are calm, the usual, but my hands shake

I think that tonight I am afraid (of how my heart may ache).

Pick me off these streets and burn the reciprocity of my lies.

Burn it into my brain, make sure that you cut deep—

Build a perfect solider from this black sheep.

And let the fight be clean, for one shot at fame

I’ll kill my brother—bloodlust ears hear no names.

Cut my hand and let me bleed on a stage,

Take my identity, tear it and hear me wine;

Tonight I’m not me—tonight I am blind,

I am but a sheep, stuck in a simple cage.

Free, free, free—free once upon a time.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Perfect Girl

2011-06-19T23:55:00.000-03:00

Perfect Girl

Daniel Yetman June 19, 2011

Click here to download

The few scattered clouds in the sky seem to disintegrate across the horizon, leaving nothing but a perfect blue backdrop. Darryl stares at the sky with longing eyes, hoping that maybe somewhere near, she is staring at it too. The sky isn’t the only perfection today, for today she looks perfect too. The sun beats down on his skin leading him to believe that he will soon burn. He doesn’t mind though, the sun will be setting soon enough—in another hour shadows will stretch across the ground. Aloe Vera will heal the sun’s scars but nothing will ever heal his heartache. But why would he ever want it healed?

A broken heart is motivating, a driving force in an otherwise flat life. It keeps one from getting too comfortable in one’s own skin. It keeps us from growing lethargic—a reminder of why we must always stay dedicated.

Darryl stares directly into the sun then looks away still with the afterimage burned into his cornea. His feet have trouble gripping onto the shingles of the house and he has to constantly shift his position to stay somewhat comfortable. He tries to enter an innocent mindset, watching the birds and butterflies. He seems to be in an emotional state resembling plastic happiness, tears seem likely. He’s not holding them back per se but he is like a ticking time bomb—if he receives one piece of bad news or if somebody is less than polite today he will likely breakdown. He has already made peace with the fact he is going to cry today but he would rather wait to the end of the day.

His heart is fluttering instead of beating; unfortunately he can’t remove her from his mind. To him there is no better feeling in the world then just sitting on a rooftop picturing the one who holds his heart. Alas after such mania comes jealousy, resentment and most of all yearning. There has been so much yearning. There still is so much yearning.

He slowly climbs from the rooftop back through his bedroom window carefully repositioning the screen meant to keep insects out. He searches through his closet looking for the perfect shirt. None of them seem suffice, even his favorite shirt now seems bland and dull cast upon his shoulders. He puts it on anyway and looks in the mirror to be met with the reflection of nothing special, just one of billions—replaceable in every way. He tries to fix himself up, put gel in his hair and dress as presentably as possible. He begins to worry, wondering if he should have had a shower but he quickly remembers that he has already had four today. Still, one more couldn’t hurt… He barely resists the temptation. He sprays on cologne, a foreign habit for him. He’s not quite sure how much to put on so inevitably he puts on too much.

Darryl reaches towards his nightstand and picks up a mint, eats it and searches for gum. After nearly five minutes of rotating between mints and gum, trying to make his breath absolutely sublime he opens his bedroom door a crack and creeps downstairs towards the kitchen. Although his hunger is unimaginable he cannot eat anything for it might undo the perfect scented breath that he worked so hard to achieve. Light shines through a window above the patio door and lands on a sofa in the living room; all the sun’s might seems to be concentrated in one beam of energy. He sits slightly askew from the sun spot and stares at a television that isn’t turned on. Darryl’s heart is pounding so hard that the leather seems to have a pulse of its own. People walk in and out of the house freely, running up and down the stairs to their own quarters and back out towards the pool. Time moves three times quicker than normal and there’s a feeling growing between his abdomen and chest that feels almost sickening—almost as a falling sensation. When finally she is the one who walks through the door he finds himself petrified like a piece of driftwood left for a hundred years. Her eyes don’t befall upon him like his do upon hers but instead look straight, too straight to pretend she didn’t see him. She walks by without so much a smile. Darryl shivers as the wall that is his disillusion seems to crack.

As she leaves the room again Darryl pulls a piece of paper from his jean’s pocket. Scribbled on half a piece of loose-leaf is everything he has ever wanted to say to her. It’s not a long note but it is efficient, dictating without any unneeded novelties. It is written in red pen that bleeds through the page and it is smudged in spots leaving it essentially useless to anybody but him. He folds it back into his pocket and walks back up a staircase that now seems to have fifty steps. Darryl goes back into his room, takes off his tie, rolls up his sleeves and lies face up on his mattress relieving an exasperated sigh. There’s a small vent on the ceiling that seems to be blowing out cold air. His gaze becomes fixated on it until hours later he lulls himself to sleep.

He dreams all night long, images of her. He dreams of what it would be like to kiss her perfect lips or touch her perfect cheek. But they are only dreams.

The next day he wakes up two hours later than he meant to. When he opens his eyes he’s met with the vent again. It seems to sparkle as the air around it spins. The day seems to progress in much the same way as the last, by midday the sun is shining brightly and he is sitting on another rooftop staring at the beauty that surrounds him. She becomes his only thought in his self-imposed isolation. And again he prepares himself for a night of tears, he climbs back through the window into his bedroom and finds his second favorite shirt and relives yesterday’s ritual. Once the knot in his tie is perfect he creeps down the stairwell—he stumbles on his way down and almost falls face first on the bottom stair. She is there to witness his awkwardness. He tries to smile and play it off as nonchalant but his smile is forced and she looks back at him like he is insane. Embarrassed he walks by her without saying a word. He strolls to the garage, sweating heavily and sick with worry—love struck and with about as much charisma as a dead rat.

He sets the fifteen pool balls inside their triangle and removes it cleanly. His break is wild and indicative of a rookie; one ball does find home in the far right corner pocket, the nine ball.

“Stripes,” He says to himself.

There are voices in the kitchen and Darryl is convinced that they are about him; he hears his name and tries to eavesdrop but their words are broken.

“Darryl… have a chance… to know… she said… to be told…”

“Doubt… hopeless…”

The word hopeless is particularly painful. It hurts enough knowing that he is bound for a hopeless heartbreak but hearing somebody else say it is devastating. He finishes his pool game, beating himself. By night he returns to his rooftop hideout. The crickets sing a melody so sweet it sounds like a love song (to Darryl at least, but to him everything sounds like a love song these days).

The stars are beautiful, probably more beautiful than anything he has ever seen before. The sky gives him chills, knowing how small—insignificant—his life is in the grand scheme of things—yet, with this vast universe, billions of years of history and billions more still to come it seems that she is the only thing that matters. His eyes begin to water as his weakened emotional state seems to emphasis his limerence. He can’t stop imagining her not imaging him imaging her. He takes a deep choppy breath that brings with it self-pity and loathing. When the sun starts to peek across the horizon he finally goes to bed.

The next night with a lump in his throat eventually the time feels right; he stands outside her door ready to knock. He looks straight up at the doorway—a door frame that now seems twenty feet high. He knocks three times and can hear a voice on the other side of her bedroom door. She is not the one to answer the door, of course she isn’t.

With a heavy heart he speaks, “Is… Is she there?”

“Yes, one second.”

The girl who opened the door closes it again. Several seconds later she opens it again and simply says, “She wants you to come in.”

“That’s good.” He responds, so nervous he’s on the brink of consciousness.

Walking into the room, she stands as the centerpiece. Only one word is needed to describe her appearance, perfect. Her hair is still wet, as if she has just walked out of the shower. The slight curls and waves in her hair suit her well.

He tries to speak but nothing comes out; Darryl becomes very aware that she is looking at him and he has a pretty clear idea of what she must be thinking.

“Hi,” he starts.

“Hi,” She says with a hint of empathy.

He begins his speech; every word is perfect, it is clear that he has rehearsed it a thousand times in his head. He tries to read her facial expressions but she seems to have no tells. When he finishes she seems to weight his confession of limerence. She takes her time before speaking. He knows what she is going to say even before she does. He crosses his toes subtly in his socks hoping—praying—that her word choice spares him of what he fears most.

“Please don’t say I’m nice” he says to himself.

“I think you’re a really nice guy—” The knife twists in his chest, and then is dragged towards his right hip.

“I think you’re nice—” The words spin in his head, beating him into the ground.

“Nice…nice…nice…nice—” Hearing it is painful.

She looks at him with sorrow in her eyes, as if she wants to give him the response that he wants but she simply can’t. Her eye contact becomes fleeting as she starts to have trouble looking at him straight. He thanks her for her time and a minute and a half after he first entered the room he’s leaving again. All choked up he tries to make his way to the staircase but he is intercepted and is forced into a conversation he wishes to avoid. He tries to edge himself out of the mundane conversation he has somehow been caught in but it takes longer than he would have liked.

The rooftop looks different tonight, the stars don’t seem to shine but sit dampened, as if they are soon going to extinguish. Darryl reaches into his pocket and fumbles for the piece of paper with his script written on it. He stares at it blankly until he realizes that he didn’t say everything that he should have said to her. The void in his heart grows as he tries to capture the memory of the moment that just passed—the melancholies of crickets in the distance don’t do him any favors either… He folds the piece of paper twice in half and walks into his bedroom. Above his bed he fixates on the vent that gently blows cold air. Carefully he slips the paper between the strips of metal, making sure it balances. He sleeps soundly with a broken heart. But even still, in the bottom of his heart resides a slight flicker of hope. Like a candle refusing to burn out he sleeps, dreaming of the perfect girl.

All rights belong to the original author, as defined under the Canadian Copyright Law.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Without You

2011-06-03T01:19:00.000-03:00

What am I when I don’t think of you?

What am I when I’m not dreaming too?

Who am I when not standing in the rain?

Who am I when I have forgotten your name?

How can I live with no voice?

How can I believe without choice?

Why must time be wasted so carefree?

Why am I still me?

Why do things end this way?

Why do things end today?

To Fall for You

2011-05-30T23:49:00.000-03:00

I think I might want to fall in love

And lay next to you every night until I die.

I want to find you and whisper in your ear,

Hold you tight and squeeze you until I find my breath.

I want to save your life and kiss your forehead,

Tell you that everything will be okay—

I want to take you to Paris and watch the stars

And remind you of the years that we should have shared.

I think I might want to fall in love when I find you;

I’ll be a concrete wall so you can watch me crumble—

I’ll come running when I hear your voice.

Let me be the humility in your own eyes,

Tell me that you never want to see me leave,

I think I might want to fall in love,

I might want to fall in love with you tonight.

DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Summer Nights

2011-05-25T23:42:00.000-03:00

Summer nights are for broken hearts,

Staring at stars while the world sleeps.

They are for watching the birds go by,

Listening to the crickets and forgetting—

Forgetting we will wake up alone.

Summer nights are for taking hope,

And breaking it across your back.

They are for destroying your mind,

Reminders of where we nearly died—

Where the stars shined so bright.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

My Heart

2011-05-23T01:15:00.000-03:00

Don’t believe a word I say,

Surely I must lie to you—

And I hope that you lie too.

On my mind you start to weigh,

Leaving me sad and confused—

Ego the salt in my wounds.

My heart pops like a balloon,

Jealously may leave me bruised—

Jealousy tears me in two.

The world must be made of sand,

It melts when you hold his hand—

I am torn because of you.
DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

A Crow Named Ceres

2011-05-21T13:28:00.000-03:00

A Crow Named Ceres

Daniel Yetman May 21, 2011

Click here to download

The rain falls in a seemingly endless fashion, large drops that flood the fields and drown anybody foolish enough to remain outside. A single crow sits on a barbwire fence that encloses a field with seven dairy cows. The grass around the fence grows chaotically and untrimmed. It grows nearly to the top wire and completely circles around the field’s perimeter while the grass inside the enclosure only reaches a couple inches due to the constant trampling of the bovine. The crow calls out, a shriek caw caw, but nobody responds. She cocks her head to the left and stares at the cows momentarily before becoming bored with their simplistic role in her life.

A small red car pulls into the long gravel driveway running parallel to the fence and slowly drives towards the farmhouse. It is as if the driver is purposely driving as smoothly as possible, avoiding every bump and pebble. A man steps out of the vehicle when it rolls to a stop. He’s not a young man but neither is he as old as he looks. His eyes are sad and experienced but at the same time his skin is unwrinkled, hands unscarred. He opens a navy blue umbrella and walks around to the passenger side of the car. The sound of raindrops off the umbrella creates an allusion to sitting in a tent as a child waiting for the rain to stop so he could finally return home.

He opens the car door and grabs a woman’s hand, a hand much smaller and fairer than his own. He helps her stand up and places his left hand on her lower back to brace her in her walk to the front step of the farmhouse.

“Thank you,” She whispers with a coarse voice before coughing twice.

She is a woman who has aged before her time; she looks as if she is nearly fifty years old when in reality she is less than half that. Short black hair and a fine complexion her beauty is only scared by her chronic sickness.

The man with the umbrella escorts her into the house and makes sure she’s on settled away before he steps back onto the front porch to reflect upon a life he never thought he would live.

He’s sits in a wooden chair on the veranda staring off into his fields. His hair begins to stick to his forehead as the wind renders the umbrella useless. He gazes at the cows, huddled together and seemingly ignorant to the weather.

His eyes drift towards the crow who is staring back at him with her head turned slightly to the left. Her feathers are glistening against the fierce rain but with a shake of her head the water bounces away and she’s left staring at this strange man again.

He rounds his lips and makes a sucking noise to try to call the bird closer but it remains unresponsive. The man sets down the umbrella ignoring the pounding rain. He opens the rickety screen door and walks into the kitchen without taking his shoes out. He can hear his wife calling out to him—coughing—but he pretends not to hear her just this once. He opens the breadbox and takes the two end pieces of a whole wheat loaf and covers them in a moderate amount of peanut butter and blueberry jam.

Upon his return he is glad to see that the bird hasn’t moved and stares at him with the same look it was giving him during his initial arrival. The man makes the same sucking noise and throws half of one of the pieces of bread towards the bottom of the fence. The bird flies away on wings so light the only noise they make is the sound of the raindrops bouncing against them. He sits on the veranda for several minutes staring off into his pastures before returning inside again.

His wife is in the living room watching television, huddled in a blanket coughing coarsely.

“Would you mind…?” Her voice is cut off by another coughing fit. “Can you boil a pot of tea?”

“Sure thing,” he responds.

He does what he is asked and boils the water with a section of ginger root three-quarters of an inch long. He brings the tea to her when it’s ready, passes it to her and sits next to her on the beige sofa. She shifts her position so that her head rests on his chest. His heartbeat sounds strong compared to hers—a steady but reliable beat.

He turns her head with a soft hand and kisses her passionately—very matter-of-factly—before gripping her—holding her—with all his strength, trying to save her from everything.

“What’s wrong?” She asks concerned.

“I don’t want to have to live without you.”

She doesn’t say anything but instead rests her head back down on his chest until they both fall asleep there in the living room.

And so the routine repeated for the next couple of weeks, they would drive into the city early in the morning and come home as the sun was starting to fall from the sky. Some days it rained but usually it did not. The crow became a frequent visitor, appearing everyday at around the same time. When the man made sure his wife was settled away and had everything she required he would sit on the Veranda and watch his newfound friend sit on the fence staring back at him. Unfortunately no matter how hard he tried as soon as he stepped within ten feet the animal took off, not returning until the next day.

His wife’s health became a burden on the two of them—the unknowingness was the hardest, not knowing if she had a week to live or a year. She began to think it might be harder on him then for her, she had already accepted her mortality but many nights she would awake only to find him in the next room over crying himself into a daze. When he returned to bed she would pretend to be a sleep.

Maybe it’s because of all those sleepless nights that when she did eventually pass on he couldn’t shed a tear—there was simply nothing left. All he could do is sleep in a bed built for two and spend the days alone tending to the fields. He found that if he left bread scraps by the fence the crow would stay longer. After time he found himself talking to the crow, not expecting to get a response but just to have somebody to share his mind with.

The crow always stared at him with a look of confusion, its head tilted to the left and its head shifted away from the man as if it is ready to fly away at the slightest motion. But come summer, come winter it returned to sit on the barb wire fence overlooking the field of cows.

The man, in his growing loneliness, continued to test the threshold between them, everyday trying to get half a step closer without it flying away—whispering pleasantries to the bird, trying to comfort it. It was November nearly three years after their initial meeting that the bird, which he gave the nickname Ceres after the Roman goddess of harvest, finally ate out of his hand. Their bond grew closer until finally the bird would perch on his hand and let the man carry him around the farm.

It became the only pinnacle in an otherwise dreary and monotonous life, that time of day around 5:00pm that he would share half a bag of bread crumbs with his little friend. Their everlasting bliss was not without tribulation; all good things must come to a horrific and premature end. It was a Thursday when it happened, of course it was raining. The first warning sign was the tardiness of the creature, the man sat on the Veranda waiting for nearly twenty minutes before it arrived but when it did finally come it did not arrive alone but with three other crows which seemed to ostracize Ceres.

An animal has never looked as human as the moment Ceres looked into the man’s eye, it was clear that the animal was asking for help. Before the man could react the three other birds chased Ceres into the woods, screeching and bawling.

The man died soon after, alone and with nobody to come to his funeral. He died with a broken heart and memories that have died with him. After the bird left him for good, his life lost what little purpose it had left. But now buried underneath the field and next to the barbwire fence two crows visit him every day.

All rights belong to the original author, as defined under the Canadian Copyright Law.

DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

What You Do to Me

2011-05-16T00:42:00.000-03:00

Breathing stops—time stops,

Confronted with absolute beauty,

Words are nonexistent.

A perfect portrait—every detail noted,

A face to make the world unravel,

Never will there be another.

I hear a voice—I hear a chorus,

The theme song to my sorrow,

Tears are not resistant.

One to fight—One to die,

I would gladly give it all,

Surely there is no other.

There is doubt—there is anxiety,

Words don't seem to be enough,

Surely you must be so distant.

DannYetmanwww.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com