The Real Passage

So I finished reading “Nocturnal” by Scott Sigler. Next I will be reading “The Passage” by Justin Cronin. Scott is young and looking at the photo on the jacket of “The Passage”, Justin is even younger. Both are best-selling, acclaimed, yadayadayada. Jealousy, bitterness, and a ton of regret darken my emotions. Much of that reget is bound with thinking/knowing I haven’t put enough effort into my own creative output to justify the jealous and bitter part… in any event, I typically cope with such emotions by writing about it… The poem below is one such abouts…


Everyone so young
and I so old.

How did twilight come so fast?

Was I asleep?
Was I drunk?
Maybe I was born DOA.

I see babies
building skyscrapers
having visions
serving miracles with tea.

My shockshelled body feels empty
as a promise.

I see me
climbing stairs
with cataracts
blurring empirical debris.

My rockscissored soul feels thin
as papal paper.

Can I wake up?
Can I get sober?
Maybe I was bourne N/A.

When did dawn come and go?

Every ladder rung so
short of the goal.