Poetry

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Dreams out weigh my harsh reality
From my visions,
I wish you could see me in my sleep
So why would I want to wake up
To the ugliness of this world, fuck.
I’d rather stay under my rock
and keep delivering you this art hop.
“Cold World, High Hopes”
My definition, my motto.
I don’t always think before I talk,
But I surely think before I write,
Pen, Pencil, or Chalk
Learning my goals, morals,
and ethical virtue as I draw words
that form into my walks.
Words never come empty though
Some come with pure emotions,
Causing my bipolar expressions,
Irony is this shit keeps me stable
When people try to tear me down
When people try to turn my existence
into a fable,
I reverse the power to my persona
and remain able to keep dreaming.

2015 Copyright @ H.M. Gautsch

 

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I’m trying to sit in the dark,
Late at night, staring out at the stars,
While sorting out my thoughts to write another poem.
Yeah, it might sound like the same old song,
But the pen and pad are the only things I can depend on.
It’s hard to have family and friends
Who can’t see or understand any of my social problems.
Some days I’m quietly awkward,
Other days I’m rudely obnoxious.
Maybe I’m a good actor,
Or maybe, I just don’t know how to act.
I am sure people think I am just playin’
To get money from the government,
But if I was doing that,
I’d apply for other assistance,
Along with food stamps.
I don’t want any of that,
I just want to live peacefully before I’m dead.
If I was faking my problems,
I wouldn’t have prolonged my issues from 2009,
Or even longer, like…

…my whole life…

…I wouldn’t still be walking that fragile line.
People just rather be blind,
To the facts of my short term memory distortion,
My insomnia, and the voices in my conscience,
That transfers through my body, to my fingers,
To the pen to form these words on this notepad.
In my eyes, I don’t see insecurity with my vulnerability.
If that was the case, I wouldn’t have the courage to share my story.
So what if I am a bit sensitive or even a bit pensive,
My depression and anxiety has always been repetitive,
I’ve accepted these anti-socializing traits,
The best of this world’s artists can relate.
I am sure other kids can to, but too scared to navigate,
And get lost deep inside their heart,
Emotions, and words to collate, in return create this art.
So if you’re afraid, just turn to my unique poetic philosophy, Descartes.
I wish people would stop being concern about how the world looks at me,
I’ll be the executive producer of my decisions and consequence,
Revealing the tattoos and scars that live deep down in my heart.
It’s my skin. It’s my ill mind. It’s my life.

So I’ll keep dishing these poems like my pen is a spoon or fork,
Because it seems it’s the only therapy that truly works.
So if you think I am writing to ask for help,
I’m not. By the time this poem ends, I’ll be my better self.
I just want to thank you for reading and listening,
To my rhymes, my provocative conditioning.

2014 ©H.M. Gautsch

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If not joy, it shall be of annoyance,

With the circular notion of this life.

Like at a world’s end on a voyage,

I’ll die without the title of one’s wife.

But I rather have fortune through trials,

Rather than fake value grown on trees.

I’ve walked in these shoes, a million miles.

I’ve come too far to return the old me.

If not annoyance, it shall be of joy,

With the addition of motivation.

When I look back at every girl and boy,

That I’ve influenced out of temptation.

So I’ll continue to polish and shine,

I refuse to give up on confinement.

©H.M. Gautsch

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It’s that time again.
Another banger, another rhyme,
Another lesson in this poetic mind.
With that hip-hop vibe.
I’m focused a hundred percent,
Like I’m popping in that Ritalin.
No, really, I’m popping that Ritalin.
To tame my A.D.D. habits.
Because God forbid if I ever get side tracked
Once again.
This is my calling.
To empower my weaknesses with my strengths.
I’m focused.
This is my moment.
I’m focused.
This is your only notice.
Artists respect this.
Because I know how to keep it trill,
Respectful and true.
I speak what’s on my mind,
But first, I listen, comprehend,
And understand other walk of lives before I stand.
Before I speak my views and experiences.
This is my business.
If I haven’t walked in your shoes,
I keep it hush; I don’t act like I know.
Because I don’t need to act a fool,
To fit in with any kind of crew.
I’m focused.
This is my moment.
I’m focused.
This is your only notice.
I keep it positive, I shine my own light.
I stay focused in my own fight.
I’m ready for the final round,
I’ll return to use my mixed martial arts exercise.
To squash those who want to criticize.
Because I am too focused.
To allow anyone to try to tell me how to live my life.
I am too focused to live any kind of lie.
It’s time to turn up the levels,
It’s time to maximize.
You can call me a pesticide.
I’m focused.
This is my moment.
I’m focused.
This is your only notice.
2014©H.M. Gautsch

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Day to day, I keep questioning myself…
How do I express my feelings without offending you?
I guess you should have thought twice,
Before you put me through what you put me through.
How would you feel if I revealed the truth,
The real roots of my PTSD and the rest of my mental issues?
Still today, I’d rather be back at the front lines of war,
Then be on the home front, being repeatedly reminded of my childhood nightmares.
The noisy citizenry is now wondering where, what, why?
Do I dare to even open that door?
The door to my closet, where skeletons lay all over the floor.
Piling up as if I am just a professional hoarder,
My closet is a mess; it’s all out of order with the door half-broken.
I am almost thirty, and I still fear of having children.
The fact I fear the most is being like my parents.
Do I dare explain it on my end?
My emotions have hit rock bottom.
I don’t know any other way to release them without the bottle.
Personally, that’s my problem. Once an angel, now fallen.
I got to try to find a way for my heart to blossom,
before it hardens and becomes rotten.
I am almost thirty, and I still fear of permanent commitment.
My father expressed it with his actions, through his heartless abandonment.
I was never taught properly how women should be treated by men.
I mean, where was he when ma found out I was being molested?
So when a good man is found, I just find a way to end it.
I act as if I have a lack of confidence, but really I am just full of my conscience.
People stress to me that I should let my past go,
Easy for you to say considering you never been in my shoes.
Behind closed doors was a whole different show that was played for the views.
Til this day, I still get the abrupt end of verbal abuse.
Til this day, I’m trying to find a way to heal the scars and massage the bruises,
Without necessary making accuses with my distancing excuses.
So the only way I’ll be able to let it go is if I talk about it.
It’s unfortunate that I never got the professional help I needed as a kid.
I guess my writing and my spoken words are a reaction for what should have been.
Before blame is put on me, look in the mirror and think of the things you did.
This poem reveals that my rage and my resentment, is still alive and kicking’
But instead of beating around the bush with the little white lies, I’m only being honest.
Isn’t that what you wanted? Even if it’s written, although I am feeling a bit smitten?
Is it a crime that I’ve given you a sneak peak into my flaw-filled closet?
My pain through a rear-view mirror, just a bunch of ugly roots.
This was just a preview of a chapter that is to be continued….

2014©H.M.Gautsch