Definition

Let these words set me free—and sever

The bonds of human emotion I am stuck

Within—I fit tightly within this box

Of unfeasible expectations I’ve wrote.

Life may exist for no other reason

Than to allow the search for happiness—

And since my soul is not enraptured

By a heavenly joy that consumes

The entirety of my being, I must

Leave the place I call home

To relearn what it means to be alive.

Because the days seem to blend together,

And passion is constantly amiss—

I’m on the cusps of constant contentment.

I will abandon all I’ve held dear,

To empty my heart of vacuous thoughts.

I will pack the treasures and tokens

I have collected into my suitcase,

In order to bottle the essence of human life.

I seek forgiveness for myself—to disregard

The flaws of my physical form and bury

The hate that I have never been able to shake—

To accept the weakness I possess and move forward

With a clear vision and empty horizon.

I seek appreciation for all I have been given

And to rid myself of my innately selfish desire.

I want to find a definitive purpose for my life

And a definition of love which I may withhold

For the remainder of my life. 

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Amiss

The passion amiss, a passing scene—

This is life! The disappointment,

And routine… This is life, the simplicity

Of breathing, and being held half asleep.

Love is buried beneath the visions,

The illusions that cannot be proved—

The warmth of our blood, tenderness.

Strings of faith are tethered and

Knotted—we are entirely empty,

And entities of repugnant vices.

One day we will wake, old and grey

And our lives will have lasted

No more than a few fluttering

Heartbeats; the future nears.

We are still children at heart,

And perhaps that is the cause of fright—

What if life will never be more

Than a series of dilemmas?

A piece of us burned in the flames,

The fire scorched our sobriety

And left us cold at heart.

      DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Too Much Thinking

Too much thinking is bad for my brain—

It is a disease that consumes me, the bane

To my being—the cause of the bashfulness

I am feeling. Thoughts and reasons,

Rumination and erring is what I am deeming

The ill will that airs to me—takes hold

In the dark and speaks in a tongue I cannot

Comprehend—surely it must mean my

Mind is too tiny to understand the pitiful

Paradigms which must be so… I am so

Afraid to step, I tend to omit the opulent

Aching which starts as a chill and meanders

Down past my toes—Woe for wisdom,

As it is the worst of luck—too many ideas

Are bad for my health, they swim in my

Head and never seem to get let out. 

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com

Curious Feeling

It is a curious feeling, a feathered

Falling that is—for a lack of words—

Damned to be dreary, and ironically bold.

But it is the most desirable of reasons,

To dive into madness and become a fool.

A compassionate wish that waits

For no man, and always seems…

A little incomplete. But perhaps, it is just I,

Who ponders upon the preconceived

Notion that such a feeling, such being,

Should be sought… For I believe,

It should be avoided as avidly as can be.

Surely—such a dream is the sweetest

Plague, that paints itself in a lullaby-like

Light that tricks those with the weakest

Hearts—those who are easiest, most likely

To be led astray—the gentle and the giddy,

The bashful and the beautiful.

It is the most unlikely combination,

Of overwhelming—complete—wanting and

The deepest depression I’ve ever felt.

It is happiness and hopelessness,

Tragedy and romance—the consequence

Of a lifetime of restless nights

And regret, that I never learned to dance.

     DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

The Precautious Script

I awoke with heavy breath, perplexed

By the sweven revealed to me—

And sauntered into my utterly vexed

Mind—my visage reflected the rare

Turmoil I horded, only half aware.

The empty bed was beneath my gaze,

But I blinked back the beckoning

As I arose, shaking apart the haze—

The fearful, fervent desire, to dive

Into the drawers of my quixotic hive.

I stood silently, before the jesting,

The rhythmic pacing as I pondered…

The methodology of manifesting

A smile—the precautious scripts,

Needed to place it upon her lips.

I was caressed beneath the sheets

By the benign burden I carried,

And baleful knowing of the feat,

The secret sewing I had veiled—

Hope, to the smile she had jailed.
      DannYetman
www.DanielYetman.com

Thievery

There is frivolity in my being,

The excited state, ever seeming

To hold my heart, and lead me blind,

The evil which has not aligned.

It is the succubus within my soul,

The selfish being in control

That steals the man within…

And slips into my skin.

Bound, betwixt and between,

I have fallen to an awkward scene.

Pushed by the fluent guise

Which whispers secrets—lies—

The coveted feeling has awoken,

Even though I have not spoken.

There are eyes guided by angelic wings,

That pluck on hearted strings—

Searching and calling, in belief

The heart is the greatest thief. 

DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com

The Flower

For it seems, I did not steal a passing glance

To keep with me through summer’s trance—

I let my line of sight caress the bricks’ history,

The bloodied tale that I sought to create—

The unravelled cover of a shrouded mystery.

I did not waver, upon my callous endeavour,

Hopeful the image held would last forever—

For perhaps, during the moment, I was akin

To a kindly sort, two hundred years my senior—

Who also denied the courtyard’s grin.

And the chickadees cuddled within the wings

Of a flowered tree surely built for kings.

Perhaps the wistfulness I felt was from doubt,

Etched into the stones beneath my feet,

And the unbudded lilies which would come about.

From Gargoyled creatures came a moaning,

Of all the secrets held, the pensive droning

Poised to be added to the storybook—

A staple of melancholic attitude adhered to

Beneath brevity and a breathless look.

Adjacent to the brick, I have become the lore,

Among the nameless who have walked before.

I did not break my eyes from the unfledged tower,

For I could not bear to brood upon the serenity,

Of the garden’s one and only flower.

    DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com 

Restless Thoughts

On the first night, dawn would not be sparked,
For I was bound by my own turmoil
And drenched in sweat from an inner fight.
For my tongue was slit and my hands marked—
Eyes grew weary with a heavy heart,
And still there was no end in sight.

On the second night, I prayed—for bliss
With my head and pillow entangling
In the way that lovers do—to be caught
In an embrace—to feel my blanket’s kiss.
But my ragged dream was foregone
To a mind that would not cease its thought.

By the third night I was a walking ghost,
And as I paced the room back and forth—
Long past the afterglow of a crystal ball—
Long past hope of finding rest—most
The apparitions that haunted me
Followed, as we stepped through the halls.

On the fourth night I sold my faith
To elixirs promised to give relief—
But still I could not relight
The ease of finding peace—the wraith
Of extraneous desire would not cease—
So I left my home in a desperate flight

On the fifth night I conversed in jumbles
With the phantoms that sat with me—
We spoke of tales we write and aspire
To come to life—their mumbles
Seemed to comfort me but even they
Grew weary long before my retire.

By the sixth night my eyes were shadows,
Cheeks sunken and gaze misaligned—
I remained awake, bound to distress
And cursed aspirations that follow.
I slunk about from the window—sure—
In sleep, I would not find success.

DannYetmanwww.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com