A Poem: This Thing

This Thing

My words that disappear
Into a thousand faces,
Faces of myself and of you,
Are a mere pith
In the corner of my eye.
The way I live and write -
Waiting to die and to breathe
That intolerable pain of being,
That wretched wrestle to continue,
I realized
I have created very little.

A Much Needed Update!! - A Poem

The Barren
By Jenna Reimer

In the end you are weary of this abandoned world.
Among your fetishes in a weak and soulless flame
That fume a sky of clouded doubt and unknown,
Where a fury of scarred electric stars and blazing moons
Exist in a furnace of cobalt and crimson hollows,
You tremble in a league admit a blinded fleet.
Drifting ashes brush the faces of preset men
Wanting to walk home and simply retire.
Yet, you launch into a solemn slumber,
Aloft the drift of deep delirium in an exiled sleep;
Dying in a tamed and watchful sorrow.

F*ck It Friday... A Poem

The Lattice
By Jenna Reimer

Unable to escape the lattice;
A net that remains a barricade
From all that is out of reach.
I peer through the mesh
Where crisscrossed shadows
Paint the floor of the other side;
Bleak Figures lurking amongst
This grounded darkness
Dash like a running hare
Leaving no trace of its presence.
Time running like the muddied waters
Of a February river
I cannot see through the murk.
The lattice is far too high to climb,
Too long to trek, too deep to dig.
To have these hands, these feet,
These eyes, this tongue
Are fruitless amid such uncertainty.
If I have learned anything in this life
It will be that there is no lucid light,
No clear shadow,
And an endless knowledge of doubt.

Serene Saturday... Sort of...

For the past two weeks I have neglected to post anything for “Serene Saturday/Sunday.” Perhaps my uncertainty is due to my mind lacking any sort of “serene” sentiments. School is coming to an end and I am finding myself falling into that utterly depressive phase of “where am I going in life?” Ultimately, I do know what I want but my lack of motivation and inept social graces appear to be halting me from any sort of progress. Why must my passion within an industry that involves social networking?! Last time I checked most writers and poets are introverts, or at least have a few loose screws in their head that make them uncomfortably outlandish. How the hell do I get myself out there when conversations with my bedroom walls are all the communal interaction I get?!

I suppose you’re wanting a poem from me now, a poem exuding some sort of tragic isolation I experience in which I am unable to come to terms with my desires in relation to the harshness of our contemporary world. *Sigh*… unfortunately I have nothing for you; this period of emotional ambiguity has taken a toll on my attempts to find inspiration in the natural world. I can’t help but wonder if this is it? Is this life? Waiting for tomorrow, as if it’s going to be better than today, as if tomorrow will be a significantly profound period in which the modern world no longer burdens us, rather, it relieves us of the issues we experience in the past. I think the notions of a “tomorrow” instill false hope where we succumb to an anticipation that our lives may become something extraordinary when really it will only ever be a meaningless existence. That is all.

Face of a Fate

In the midst of a Chinook wind,
A dire reminder of a Northern January,
A gentleman strolls
down an exhausted street.
Drawing his cold hands
To his bristled head,
Combing the brittle hair
Through wheat thin fingers,
He then stops.
Glancing at clod on the sidewalk,
Appearing to be his unshed tears,
He takes a deep, veiled breath.
Keeping his distance from a place
Where all is too real, too human;
A land that assigns morality
By his own position in dreary time.
Once again, staring ahead down the road
The concrete softens with the heather sky.
Walking this clotted road
Whose cracks and wrinkles
Resembles the hope of his firmament
Makes him forget,
So he continues.

Madam’s Organ Blues Bar

A tired place; the walls are riddled
with photos of visitors whose toothless grins
reflect their false hope and forgotten dreams.
This bar, I visit often to watch and listen.
Tonight, two men were laughing violently
and I realized I am becoming apart of them,
apart of their laughter
with every inhale and short gasp.
Their breath disappears into their dark,
smoke incrusted throats,
their bruised lungs and forsaken hearts.
Our breath allied into a band of shit.
For a brief moment,
these men and I are together
within a world of thought;
where our false laughter and reusable relationships
become disgustingly real.
Where you give champagne to your lovers
and the shame of pain to your enemies.
Where Saturday nights
always end in a numb arm
from leaning on the back of a chair for too long
just trying to get hits with a pretty girl.
No one comes in here without baggage,
wanting to spill onto anyone who will listen;
I’ve heard it all.