Stories

I’ve grown weary—wasted of—

Stories pandered by a weaker mind,

Written upon stolen ink, rhymed,

And forcefully forging tales of love,

Lamentation, bitterly unkind…

Hearted fables which remain mistimed.

I have sought and searched, dejected,

Brooded upon the secrets seized,

Moments written to make me ill.

I am misguided and misdirected—

I am sick, and plagued, and diseased

By stories that bind me still.

Hopeful awakenings are born to craze,

And at the same time, speak!

Telling of an irony, most intriguing—

Binding belfries and belonging—days

Captured by the subtle mystique,

Telling tales, I find, fatiguing.

But the legends withheld are thieving…

They are nothing—nothing if not art—

Trueness, being, survival and meaning.

Meaning! And belief from a spark!

Surely they have been built, in part,

To march… To march upon the ark!

The animals, in loving shapes,

Speak of why they have been woke.

The giraffes, lemurs, and finches too,

Hippopotami, cockatoos, and apes,

Have all learned of the madness spoke—

They’ve all sought shelter aboard the zoo.

Beastly tongues reminisce, two by two,

Wish ghastly thoughts to demons born—

Beings they have not met, but assume,

Are creatures who cannot be true.

More shameful looks have not be worn,

On the ark, as the flowers bloom.

           DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

Somebody Worth Knowing

We all follow the same quest—

To love each other and to be void of hate.

I want to be there with you—pick you up when you fall

And be there to say good morning when you wake.

We all want to be loved and to have a good night’s sleep—

To find happiness and to be swept off our feet.

I want you to take my hand and guide me through the dark,

Show me what it’s like to have something worth protecting,

Remind me of the sanctity I have forgotten.

I want to know what it feels like to fight—

To have my body broken and my face beaten,

For these thoughts I carry will never be enough,

And I will never know what it is I left behind.

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

I'm Just Me

I don’t want to walk alone in this world forever,

But I don’t want you to follow where I’m going.

I thought I could keep you close to me

But happiness is fickle when we feel so lonely,

I am the memory that wasn’t built to last,

A statute for the broken hearted.

You told me to take it all in stride

But I still can’t believe how you slipped away.

I can pretend to smile just for you,

Or act like my ego isn’t slightly bruised.

If you just tell me where I need to go—

If you just remind me of who I am

Then I wouldn’t feel the need to disappear

Everyone in the world is looking for a friend

And I guess that I can understand.

But you didn’t have to act like that is all we are

Two strangers on our separate quest for happiness

It meant the world to me, but you have already forgotten

And I can’t even take a breathe

Without being reminded of how you have forgotten.

Too scared to be angry I hold onto jealousy

But I guess it doesn’t really matter

Because I’m just me.

Happiness is fickle; somebody always ends up hurt,

The worst kind of pain lingers and sets—

I don’t want you to see me fail when I give my all,

But I don’t want to fill my heart with regret.

I could make the same mistakes again,

And watch you slip away on a different night.

I could watch that smile again…

But you make it clear that this is all we are,

Two strangers on our separate quests—

It meant the world to me, but you have forgotten

And I can’t even take a breathe

Without being reminded of how you have forgotten.

Too scared to be angry I hold onto jealousy

But I guess it doesn’t really matter

Because I’m just me.

Tonight, I’m just me.

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

The Descent

At this moment it hurts to breathe,

I don’t want to wake just to feel the same,

My thoughts race but there’s nothing left.

It hurts to look in the mirror—to wear my skin,

Tomorrow is now in the past but still the world

Refrains from noticing there is something wrong.

I can’t seem to hide anywhere without a reminder,

I tried to run away but with each step brought closer.

At this moment I don’t want to move,

I just want to lay here forever as my tears dry.

Let the voices carry me away, as the thoughtless sing—

I want to feel the contrast of pain and ecstasy,

And the descent of joy to sorrow…Maybe back again.

At this moment I want to be anybody,

Anybody in the world but me.

      DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Summer Nights

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 

What You Do to Me

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

I'm Dying

On the outside you walk by and say hello—
But on the inside you're screaming, banging on the walls,
Hanging from a breaking rope yelling for help.
On the outside you appear to be calm, even bored
But on the inside, your heart is pounding—
The pressure in your head is a reminder
That you’re soon ready to explode.
You smile, say hi—your eyes saying nothing more.
You’re just pretending to be happy,
You know you’ll be the first one to be replaced.
It’s a wonder you can still stand—your mouth is dry.
Wait until you get home to break into pieces—
Then find out there’s nowhere to call home anymore.
You appear to be tired, almost ready to fall asleep?
 But on the inside you're feeling hopeless, melodramatic.
You say you’re perfect but at the end of the day,
Who’s the one sitting on the edge of their bed, dying?  
    DannYetman
http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

Butterflies

My memories flutter through the sky like butterflies,

They die one by one, shredded as easily as paper—

Their colors are all that remain now; violet,

Indigo, and scarlet paintings resting on a stone walkway.

I watch one by one all my memories die,

Chapters of my life turning into vapor,

I never thought my life would come down to butterflies

Fluttering, fluttering though the sky.

You are just one, beating your wings,

When you die the rest shall survive—

Beating, beating their fragile limbs.

      DannYetman
http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/ 

Down The Stairs

   I stare at the door well-rehearsed and ready to write the script to my own funeral. There could be anything on the other side: euphoria, everlasting bliss; my worst fear, regret. I swallow hard hoping the lump in my throat dissipates enough so I may soon conjure speech. My palms are sweaty and my heart is starting to sink; it seems like my sympathetic nervous system has been activated, fight or fight at its greatest.

   I’m dressed for the morgue, already assuming failure. Draped across my shoulders is the shirt I bought last week for seventy-five dollars in preparation for this moment. My hair keeps falling in front of my eyes, a sign that the gel is no longer keeping its hold. The smell of the gel mixes with the cologne I’m wearing and creates an overwhelming aroma that seems to systematically wake me from my state of disillusion.

   It’s time, I’ve stalled too long as it is. My hand grasps the silver door handle tightly and a phantom rattling can be heard, almost sounding like I’m trying to break into the room. I take a final breath in a feeble attempt to relax. Three minutes from now my life is going to take a sudden turn in one of two directions, the immaculate or probable.

   I swing the door open and take a step forward, momentarily forgetting to take my hand off of the handle until I’m met with resistance. Feeling foolish already, my hand drifts off the wooden surface and begins to push the door shut. It makes a clicking sound before closing completely. Without warning I’m instantly staring past her eyes; the monologue that I thought was flawless now seems mundane. My mouth opens but no sound comes out.

       DannYetman
http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

I Think Incorrectly

What if all my wants and desires

Contradicted everything you wanted?

Everything I think is wrong—

Every action is incorrect.

Would it be so farfetched to think

That I should act in the opposite manner

My brain tells me?

Surely I would be happier,

And you would be happier too,

If I did not think at all, never spoke.

How can somebody who never thinks

Possibly say what he shouldn’t?

He’d find a way.

         DannYetman

http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/ 

Lose Control

I creep down the stairs slowly—my hand shaking so much

The rattling can be heard through the entire home.

When I reach the door I place my left hand on the silver

Doorknob and sequentially breathe in. I open it so quietly

It feels like I’m trying to hide from somebody—everybody.

Now you’re standing in front of me wide-eyed with your lines rehearsed.

Draped in indigo you wait for me to speak first.

My words aren’t stammered as usual but fluent and sincere.

You listen to each, not really hearing any of them.

It’s obvious what you’re thinking—by this point I can read your mind.

Blood starts to run down my right index finger,

It’s from jamming my thumb into the side of my hand, a nervous habit.

The crimson glows underneath artificial light but luckily you don’t notice.

You pause momentarily when I’m done speaking,

Absorbing the last few words by repeating them silently to yourself.

Time stops, the world spins but you respond quickly enough.

I smile through your riposte blinking back tears,

Trying to keep my lips from quivering. I close the door behind me as I leave.

Still blinking away tears I make it halfway up the stairs

before I can’t hold back any longer.

       DannYetman
http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/  

The Soldiers

Broken Soldiers
Line the toybox.
Guns and rifels
Remain in sand.
Plastic men
Line the toybox.
Broken soldiers
They remain.
      DannYetman
http://www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

I'm Sorry (Sorry for Everything)

I'm sorry, more sorry then you'll ever know.
I'm sorry for everything,  I hope you know how sincere I am.
When I breathe, guilt punches me in the stomach, it cripples me.
Often, I lie on my back broken, I stare at the ceiling
and think of all the wrong I've caused—it breaks me.
My hands are scarred with the guilt I can't share with you,
I want you to know why I am the way I am—I've never really told you.
I'm not as neophobic as you may think.  Obsessive? Compulsive?  Of course,
but I'm not afraid of change.  As you can tell, I've always been different,
and right there, that's the start of my demise—my self-disdain.
I don't know how to talk to you; I've never learned.  I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for the way I talk and the way I present myself.
Guilt keeps me awake at night, it lets tears fall down my face—my cheeks;
I want you to know I'm aware of how wrong I am. I'm metacognitive
when I am around you.  It lets me be silent, even when I don't want to be.
I'm sorry for the way I act, it's not who I am; it's a mask.
It keeps you from getting to know me—I guess there's nothing wrong with that
but I wish you knew me.  My guilt controls me, I want to leave you be.
You're running through my mind and I don't know how to forget that.
You would think sleep would bring the best of me—yet—I always dream.
Those are the worst moments, the ones where I'm asleep.
In my dreams, I know how to talk to you—then I awake—without you.
I arise from my bed confused, and with reality twisted.  I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I dream—the guilt is eating away at me.
I'm sorry for everything,  I hope you know how sincere I am.
I'm sorry, more sorry then you'll ever know.
I want you to take my words to heart—know how sincere I am.

My Final Confession

From now until you die, don't believe a word I say;
everything I tell you is a lie, and it's ridiculous.
I can't tell you anything; it kills me in every way.
To you, I want to whisper every thought that crosses my mind
but I know you don't care what goes on in my simple mind.
     
I'll pretend you care what I think; and to myself I'll lie;
you've never cared for me and you tell me that everyday.
Some part of me keeps hoping that you lie (the way that I lie),
after all, I'm fluent in pseudo-truth.  What am I saying?
You make me ramble and sound broken.  What am I saying?

I want to tell the truth but instead I spit out regret;
I hide my trails well; I make sure you never know where I am.
I've done things that don't make me proud but I won't forget them;
why would I want to forget them?  To forget is to regress.
My stories no longer fit together; I must confess.

My stories are simple memories; moments inhuman.
If it takes innocence to show who I am, then naïve I'll be.
I want you to know where I've been, see that I'm just a man;
look to me and watch me bleed,  I need you to see me broken;
I can't look at my reflection- I feel I've misspoken.

I think of what's missing; it's suffocating- I concede.
I want you to see me broken; crying in an empty room-
you'll see how human I am, I'm not a machine, I bleed.
It's ridiculous, what I think; the disillusions I live.
You deserve to see me broken; see how I really live.

I want you to know who I am; ask me and we'll reminisce.
If I'm lying, I'm sorry, but there's good in me; it exists.

          DannYetman

http://www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

Kentville

Kentville, even I
walked your cobble streets;
even I saw your jaded face.
When I looked to you years before,
you danced with me in the streets.


Your boulevards told a story;
I didn't think I would ever leave.
There I was dancing in Kentville,
so often I looked for you;
I thought that I would never leave.

Once again I walk the streets,
searching for your face alone.
My body has aged 100 years,
you have left me years before;
I walk your streets-I walk alone.
        DannYetman
http://www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

Steel

Your steel fingers dance across my skin,
they remind me, my life is in your hands.
Five steel fingers cut my skin,
they beat me, they break me;
they show me what it is to live.
Your fingers whisper to me,
they tell me what is right.
My skin swells in front of you-
What have you done to me?
The scent of vomit and unworldly passion
floats silently though the air,
my words are caught bubbling in my throat,
I want so badly to get them out.
I'm choking on my own words,
won't you help me get them out?
        DannYetman
http://www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

Your Life

Don't forget the honesty

that was once surrounding.

You were once beautiful to me;

today your seen in deaths eye.

You are honesty in a sea of panic;

a candle's flame in the midst of dark.

Every word makes you panic;

your own words, drive you to terror.

Don't Forget that you're alive;

if you stop breathing you will die.

Don't forget to survive;

you'll be missed when you are gone.

          DannYetman

http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/ 

Simply

And so you call yourself an artist,
meddling upon perfection,
just to lose grasp,
of what is perfection.
And so you leave,
with your memories shattered;
with your body broken.
A smile rests upon your face,
surely it is not joy,
but a simple disregard for sanity;
simply.
And so you call yourself an artist,
but life is deeper then paintings,
surely you're deeper then paintings.
DannYetman
http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

The Philospher

Recollection the prophet seeks,

To spill his mind and,

Live his speech.

Upon his walls the writing glows,

A life to save,

Oh this he knows.

In his mind he knows what's right,

To live in vain,

And forget to fight.

Selfless beyond what is known,

He dies himself,

And leaves the throne.

Memories flying without a mind

And now he's dead,

To march the line.

Recollection the prophet seeked,

But instead he died,

With words to teach.

            DannYetman

 http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/ 

The Cat

I passed a black cat,
he passed me by;
he looked at me,
I looked into his eye.
Nothing was said by the cat;
nothing was said by me.
On his way went the cat,
myself walked right on by.
He had no concern for me,
nor I for his blue-green eye.
Goodbye whispered the cat,
goodbye he said to me.

            DannYetman