INVISIBLE MAN

Please don’t look for me. I will not be there.
If my spirit lingers, it’s out of fear
of leaving this place unattended.
My worn and ravaged heart has been mended,
      but the scars are much to much to bear.

In the shadows I stay, lurking here where
I remain covered and concealed there.
My heart torn actions have been defended.
      Please don’t look for me…

You fail to see me, and you do not care
that I had given all I had. But dare
I ask for its return it would end
terribly. You can see nothing, my friend;
there’s blankness in your eyes, that distant stare –
      Please don’t look for me…

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2019

THE MASK WE WEAR

“Well we all have a face that we hide away forever
And we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone” ~ Billy Joel

We think we know who we are,
molded into this “someone”
we would like others to see.
But it is we who are duped
into thinking that hiding behind
the person we aspire to be,
will keep us from becoming
this parody of who we are.

“To thine own self” falls by the wayside
and we hide the flaws and imperfections
for the protection of our egos. Feelings
will be hurt no matter, be glad in who
you are at the moment. Embrace
the face in the mirror, and hear the cries
of non-deceiving eyes. In all fairness,
keep your awareness focused,

the joke is on you.
Acceptance comes from within,
it is a sin to think otherwise.
Remove the masquerade and parade
yourself in your finery. The Emperor
may be naked, but there is no mistaking
he hides nothing from the world.
Midnight strikes and the ruse is over. Unmask!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

“Object” Poem

IN SPACE NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU DREAM

The void is deep and expansive,
and I sit in a pensive mood.
No good can come out of
wild fantasy and schisms,
mystic midnight visions
that play with my psyche.
It might be that when I drift,
floating by my tin can, I am
Major Tom. Slightly clueless:
a mess with little control
of my faculties, or my course.
I cry out, but no one hears,
and my fears of irrelevance
though unfounded, are drowned out
by the silence of the heavens;
a cosmos that deafens.

Written to fit the POETIC ASIDES “vacuum” prompt and WE WRITE POEMS #104 – “Loneliness” prompt!

DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

(A found poem)

I’ve been mad for fucking years;
been over the edge working me buns off…
I know, I’ve been mad like most of us
(even if you’re not mad…)

All you touch and all you see,
a race toward an early grave
is all your life will ever be.
Waiting for someone

or something to show you the way.
You are young; life is long.
There is time to kill today,
plans that either come to naught,

or are half a page of scribbled lines.
Hanging on in quiet desperation,
it came as a heavy blow,
yelling and screaming and telling him

“Grab that cash with both hands”.
It is the root of all evil,
but we sorted the matter out.
I was really drunk at the time!

“Listen son, don’t give me that do goody good
bullshit”, said the man with the gun,
God only knows it’s not what we choose,
but which is which and who is who?

There’s room for you inside;
only a difference of opinion.
Good manners don’t cost nothin, eh?
Got to keep the loonies on the path

And if with dark forebodings
your head explodes, raise the blade.
Make the change. Lock the door and
throw away the key. The old man died.

All you hate,
all you distrust,
all that you deal
beg, borrow or steal…

There is no dark side of the moon!
It’s really a matter of fact it’s all dark.

***The poem was culled from the lyrics of the songs on the Pink Floyd album by the same name.

WORTH OVER BETRAYAL

All during the interview, she remained one of the cool customers,
keeping her thoughts private. Confidential.
The memories of that moment were a blur, but clarity
unmercifully came to lift her fog. Emotions washed over her
in waves; once again she felt violated, ransacked –
leaving her again to feel broken and isolated.
She sits weeping inconsolably, his hideous face revisits
her with all the charms of a tire iron to her purity.
Wishing she could trade that visage for a vision
of one more caring and compassionate, offering
a healing touch, a sensitive ear; a glue to mend her fractured self.
She felt the fool to think there was a man whose love could make her feel
whole and clean and mended. But there she was, cinched by his caring
arms wrapped around her heart like a belt holding up her psyche.
It made her feel brand new, like a sticker declaring her “Improved!”
Love heals all!

 

 

Written for The Sunday Whirl – Wordle #43

WHISTLING

Whistling past the graveyard
only darkness lurks within.
Whistling past the graveyard,

yet I hear those sounds again.
The creaks of barren branches,
only evil lurks within.

Still, I take my chances
I find the noise unnerving.
The creaks of barren branches

has left my tune unswerving,
A frantic blow through nervous lips,
I find the noise unnerving.

Then suddenly the walkway dips,
a shadow figure beckons.
A frantic blow through nervous lips

would save my soul, I reckon.
Whistling past the graveyard,
a shadow figure beckons.
Whistling past the graveyard.

NOT SO SWEET SUCCESS

Fragrances waft, a gentle meander, floral or woodsy in nature. It soothes the nose and masks unsavory things. But stench stumbles in like an inebriate drunkard who had soiled himself and his reputation; a sad mutation of the upstanding bastard he once claimed to be. Sullied was the air when the seal had been broken. No words were spoken with hands clamped across nasal passages and the message purveyed was one they had seen on more occasions then they cared to account. The numbers mount while teams sans smiles and enthusiasm teem in. Within the home left abandoned and presumed vacant when the owner, Mrs. Beedle was lowered to her rest. The best attempts to contact any family proved to be a futile exercise.

A wise man would have considered the case closed, but their noses were reticent to relinquish the odiferous lingering. Gloved hands carefully fingering along the blood stained walls. The silence was interrupted by the calls from the group investigating the back rooms of this devoid domicile. Confident men and women strode toward the sounds, but found themselves reeling in disgust and horror. They were unprepared. Seasoned veterans stood and stared at the heap of former humanity foisted into the plush rocking chair.

There sat the problem. The decayed remains of a woman slumped clumsily into the furniture. The lavender tatter that was draped across her shoulder disintegrated into powdery residue. The scent was a clue. There was a hint of bouquet the closer the Detectives came to the undone body. Hard and callus men were starting To lose composure. The closure sought for this decrepit soul seemed a long time coming.

And then, the humming.

An almost cheerful tune from the direction of the cellar door. What’s more, the accompanying footsteps fell in syncopation on the creaky boards. Guns drawn and a warning shouted. “Come out with your hands showing!” the cliché came. Another unnamed face peeked through to grace the room. A mid-age gentleman, fifty-ish, stepped forward from the doorway. “Aunt Ginny? You have visitors?” he creepily questioned the lifeless chair dweller. The man from the cellar, hands raised; a surrender unsure, came to stand next to the shell of the woman. His Aunt Ginny. Genevieve Beedle.

“How rude, Auntie”, he leered, “You didn’t offer your guests a spot of tea? Allow me.” Soiled hands clutched for the knob on the old stove, amidst protests and commands to desist. Erwin Beedle couldn’t resist being the “congenial” host. At most, he wasn’t going down alone. The range did not ignite as such. It was much more like an explosion.

New teams were dispatched to investigate the scene. The first thing they noticed was the smell. Fragrances waft, a gentle meander floral or woodsy in nature. It soothes the nose and masks unsavory things. But stench of dead and burnt flesh stumbles in like a demented and feeble minded “caregiver”. The surviving officers shiver when the subject is breeched. Erwin finally reached his pinnacle, of course. The cynical brute took half the force with him.