
               F U C K E D  U P  C O L L E G E  K I D S
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                - t h e  p o e t r y  v e n t u r e -
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	poets are often souls of the tortured variety.
	the tortured soul is in touch with pieces of
	himself that most people are not even aware of
	until they read that one line or phrase that
	reminds them of the dark places that they seek
	to hide or ignore. often, the poet is a loner,
	or only seeks the company of others similarly
	tortured - an irony, for much of the genius in
	poetry lies in the universality of the human
	experience.

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        PURSUING MOODS
        To Tracey Hilkey
        
        i hear footsteps following
        me
        or maybe i'm following them
        but in the early morning,
        when everything is
        
        quiet
        and it seems no one is around,
        there's enough aroused to scare
        me
        into believing it's afternoon
        and i should be
        
        somewhere else, doing things
        normal
        people would do in the later
        stages of a day, but instead
        i find myself keeping watch
        on a world that won't sleep
        
        alone
        because in the flickering
        night sky, this planet makes
        love
        with various massive bodies
        that float in its atmosphere
        and still, and still i
        
        listen
        for those footsteps to remind
        me
        that i cannot escape
        from being followed
        and i cannot stop following
        
        someone
        although i do not see anyone
        there's no touch, no voice
        and there's just a sound
        trying to tell me something
        about this path i take, about
        
        myself
        and how it cannot be sane
        to wander blindly behind
        invisible footsteps or realize
        footsteps
        are walking hand in hand
        with my tracks, with my
        
        frustration
        that swells in my feet,
        that lingers in my face,
        that travels through my
        tunnels
        to seek that shimmering light
        but i cannot
        
        cut
        myself to let blood force
        out my indelible hatred,
        to taste an inner freedom
        that gropes for an opportunity
        to feel like a normal shadow
        
        walking
        in front of the pack, not behind
        where footsteps rattle the staircase
        and i am confident, in rare form, to
        shout
        for someone to step forward,
        
        reveal
        that he is that constant in my life,
        this imaginary friends i've spoken with
        since i was seven, since i
        fell
        into desperate hallways inside
        school buildings that helped trap
        
        myself
        within my invisible cosmos,
        where words on paper gave me
        shelter
        gave me something to savor
        when underestimated forces
        
        swallowed
        me whole, to digest me inside
        their stomach tract where i found
        myself
        surrounded by people without faces,
        without voices, without any markings to
        distinguish
        one person's fears from another's
        but we felt safe, we could share
        
        feelings
        with just words written down
        and when we finish this digestive
        process
        we can, i can again hear footsteps
        made by an imaginary friend
        or some wingless guardian
        
        angel
        that can comfort only through
        telepathic means, that motivates
        through photosynthesis, needing
        nothing
        but someone to believe in them
        and i believe in footsteps that guide
        
        me
        to somewhere that i can feel
        secure with my voice, my face
        and with those scars only
        i
        can see on the membranes inside
        and i'll secure faith in what
        
        spirituality
        rests, or works, in my poems
        because that's where my happiness
        waits
        for me to take control and forget
        about footsteps that lead, footsteps
        that follow me endless journey
        
        nowhere
        because the best footsteps
        are those i strategically,
        those i confidently place for
        others
        to examine how i paced myself
        in trying to deal with everyone's
        
        footsteps
        
        
        Indiana Poet    April 2, 1998



        tears run down my face,
        but now even that is just a fantasy,
        made callused from the inside,
        my own stupidity burns my soul.
        
        outside the skin is still tender,
        but I forget and put it too close to the blade,
        getting cut again, but nothing like my inner scars,
        and the skin becomes harder.
        
        now even immortal gods and love can't make me feel,
        no one hurts me but me,
        no one makes me happy but me,
        no one loves me but me.
        
        with all this callousness I can finally get closer to what i want, 
        I can be who I am not, but who they want me to be,
        my soul can finally be sold,
        now being ripped from my body, causing no pain.
        
        happiness from about,
        others making me happy, finally friends,
        finally hope,
        maybe some day even love.
        
        an offhand comment, a slip this hollow shell shouldn't make,
        the others see what makes the blood pump through my veins,
        they see past all the callused skin,
        they see into what is left of my soul.
        
        they all cringe in hatred, not understanding what they are seeing,
        I try to explain, to help them understand,
        but how can they when I don't either,
        all I know is that it is real, and it is me.
        
        they run, all it took was a second,
        left standing alone again,
        they crack in my skin leaving an open wound,
        must wait, only time, before it will heal.
        
        I stare at the wound, hurting me as much as it hurts them,
        none will accept it, my blood too red,
        from the crack comes what I hadn't felt for so long,
        the tears finally run down my face.
        
              Dactrius
        
        

         meaning in art
        
         static depression, the start.
                                  my brush of anguish
              resounding splendor manifests before me
          
                 the cry of hope amidst the repressed
        
                    shackles of fury cage their power
          
                       null hope, a wondering glimpse
                    taste the sight or smell the aura
         square one, am I done?
        
         mea culpa      12-16-97



        Childs Eyes
        
        Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
        can you see the innocence?
        the desire to live
        
        Look again into the child's eyes 
        once reality sinks in...
        
        Do you ever wonder
        where it all went?
        The stained glass illusions.
        The dreams of catching rainbows.
        
        A strong harsh wind 
        had silenced his internal flame
        forever 
        Vengeance and fear thrives deep 
        beneath the scars he bears
        
        All hope vanquished
        powerless, frightened eyes
        pleading for your mercy
        
        The longer his gaze lingered,
        The more rivers flowed, 
         reaching the ocean of your soul,
        The harder the impact 
        of your callous blows.
         
        Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
        and wonder........
        When the angelic blue turned icy?
        
        Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
        and wonder..............
        Can I ever be forgiven?
        
        Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
        and wonder.............
        Will he really pull the trigger?
        Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
        
        and wonder.
        
        Bluerose
        


        Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
         my surveillance of you has turned too caring,
         with permission may I move forward and hold you,
         a melting memoir relaxed for eternity,
         discreet in passion you take me behind shadows,
         a harmless secret of tempting desire.
                         
        Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
         my moment with you has turned too erotic,
         now delicacy demands we part for a while,
         to cryptic realms we share the darkness,
         your echo of desire is drawing me closer,
         alone we are to emit are emotions.
                 
        Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
         my time with you has turned to love,
         rowing through oceans of stormy emotions,
         I forever feel your breathe upon my body,
         inside of me you are I confess this love,
         together forever I will please your lust.
        
        
        
        Puncture
        
        Defy the manner in which all is known
        Not knowing the history, nor asking.
        Future of the present is here now.
        
        Deem who to be worth of such,
         and all shatters at your touch.
        Not knowing does such.
        
        Capture the memories, black and white
         single snapshot in a mind gone blank.
        Past is no longer in search of the present.
        
        Torture your memory to remember,
         such things should have been long forgotten.
        Leave now, to only reach the "to be".
        
        Toss away all hopes and dreams,
         do not claim to be a god.
        The power is gone, and the sight is lost.
        
        -Kamira                         March 20, 1998
        

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        E D I T O R S:   jericho@dim.com   &   demonika@dim.com
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        (c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.     
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        F O U N D E D:                         October 30, 1997

