Upon Turning 21

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Upon Turning 21

No stairway, no ladder plumbs this deep crevasse
Shear sides fade from sight to absolute darkness
As I slide then tumble free fall descent
Panic recedes, numbness slowly envelops
Burning anger too hot to touch
What pain I could name has no sense being spoken here
Too sunk in earth I cannot toil
Nor send shoots into bedrock
How long must I lay still, weeping heart
Tearing apart my limbs unable to support
A body wrecked by blind ignorance
Hate denying me who I am
Lover boy, lover man
Know me, see me, take my hand
Quiet the nightmare of self hate

Air, I need air
Sun, I need sun
Time, I need time

Is there enough air, enough sun, enough time
To rekindle hope for
Claiming my self same self
Man lover
Man knower of man
Giver of true self to love who I am
Harness a lifeline
Lift me from this pit
Carry me to some oasis
Dip figs in milk, drip honey on my tongue
Revive my gentle love of touch
While I still live

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Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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milesobryan’s Poems (3)

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