Poems about forgotten

Here I am again, this black hole all too familiar,
Eluding my being, the gnawing at my gut resembles a lion and his prey.
Ripped apart at the seams, I lay lifeless on this empty floor.
Sacrificing my body for one I adore; my sweet lion...
But love is a filthy whore.
Tangled emotions, mixed scents staining various bed sheets,
Lingering while I soak my shirt with your never ending lies, broken promises,
Pain shooting through my eyes.
A thousand hearts to shatter and you choose mine.
Love is blind, oh, love is blind? No.
Love is all seeing, the most clear visioned element, and I saw you.
Until this heartache, all-consuming, drags me under.
Losing sight, blinded only now, stomach turning like heavy wrenches pulling at old bolts.
Coming undone finally, world spinning, blood loss, love loss, life loss, done.

Run little Polish boy
Run in your field
Learn of your great land
And what it may yield
Learn little polish boy
Learn how to fight
Soon you will grow up
And protect what is right
Know little polish man
Know about freedom
Go to the foreign land
And do what must be done
Fight now you polish man
Fight for the cause
Even if you might die
They have freedom in their jaws

You fight for America
Right on freedom's side
You fight for what you believe in
As you risk your hide
You make friend with founding fathers
As you fight for their home
You construct an army fortress
To protect them as you roam
When the war is over
They give you riches when you go
But you spend it on freedom
That you've come to know
You give it to a founding father
To give up all his slaves
Then you get on the boat
And face Atlantic waves

Fight now you polish man
Fight for where you where born
Fight hard polish man
Charge at the bleeding horns
You die now old polish man
You can not fight no more
Dead is the polish man
With freedom in his core

This is a Tribute to Tadeusz Kouzico a polish war hero who fought in the American revolution

I say goodbye,
And I know you already forgotten about me.

Because you know prettier girls,
Than I could ever be.

And I keep going back to you,
Like the fruit on a poisonous tree.

The guy went crackers in the war
Now he sells daffodils down the old grave road
Sings songs about the dead
His daily bread
The kids throw stones
Shout out names
It's a shame
Who can you blame
One day the kids were playing in the river
Tommy got into trouble, panic ensued
They ran to him in tears
He ran back with them, diving straight in
Tommy felt the strong arms lift him above the water
His friends pulled him onto the grass
I'll go back for the rest he shouted
It was only Tommy
No, there's always more
He swam out till lost from view
They talked about him for awhile
The usual words always came back
He went crackers in the war.

I saw you today
Inside my drawer
Forgotten,
But not really
I touched you today
Ran my finger
Down you today
But then I threw you away
It'll never be worth it

There is nothing better than silence
Where thoughts can be sorted
Categorized
Labeled
Discarded
Or dwelled upon

This (functional) anxiety
Takes a free ride
Over-burdening my back

The weight strains every muscle
I stretch to compensate
But my bones split and crack
Quietly anticipating true paralyzation
Like a patient waiting
For a root canal

Peer inside
Observe the chaos
Adequate distraction
Making sleep achievable
The master of redirection
My fumbling hands reach for
One more drink

Second guess
Everything

Maybe it was better
When nothing mattered
Nothing
At all

Show me the way
Back to that place
Where giving a shit
Was a lost art

Picture me this: not the arched brow
But the body when night, curves like a moon
Accruing more weight.

Develop me this: not the body when curved like a moon
But the white stucco of it,
Assuming its form.

Fold me like this: not the white stucco of it,
But the space it takes for need,
The occupancy it wastes for want.
In this manner is how you will

And lay me flat against the river:
Not your memory of walls with fleur-de-lis,
But with lilies. If this day were leaf when turned
From the night when I took this collapse,
Let your hands be pedicle. My inflorescence you have
Mistaken as displacement yet not drown – meet this canopy

At the end of this river that is your river – your static grace that
Is the music of your passing.

When met, disintegrate: not the lilies – they are anchors you have forgotten,
Not this day if it were a leaf, but the day dried from a washline
Of clouds. Let my inflorescence be a blunder of your recall.
When you meet this canopy, pack all of its mileage,
Exact it in this distance. Take photographs of. Do not keep.