It may be the end of the world as I have known it.

 It was the Best of Times, it was the worst of times, it was like another collection of some cliched words that rhyme. 
It was like song lyrics that made no sense to anyone who wasn't singing them, full of silliness and shouted with zest and phlegm!
It was the end of the most unlucky year in recent history.

If you don't believe me- just see how many people didn't get married. It was like being 13 is something to be feared. Good thing the end of the world has neared. We gathered around a great big lighted ball and drop it while everyone cheered.

 We were just getting close to finding each other as our lives spiraled and slid out of view. I might have found the time to find someone just like you.
The Winter closes around my restless ghost and I look out into the coming night and know that it is for somebody like you I would miss the most. 

 As the world goes to hell around me and the chaos reigns supreme, I close my eyes and wonder if I will still see you when I make the pretense to dream.

I run out of smarter things to write and fall back on my favorite, screaming.

It works for me since I find that all is not worthy of redeeming in my life. I will look into the post apocalyptic world soon to come. Like the fading promises of the last days now lost to all but the stubborn some.

Had I found the words to use here at the end of this bleak December. I would remark on all of those brighter moments

I should remember.

As it is or as it was, I here on the edge of time, at the very border. As I look into the abyss of the unknown, I realize how much of my life has become-  

read the picture.
Now, I know what you are going to probably say.
Mike, it's not the end of the world, the sun is going to set and then it will just be New Year's Day.

Sherlock gets it. No argument here

I say wit and eye rolling aside

It's still over there and I stand at the bleak

and utterly unknownness of this 

vast Divide.

Feeling the Fool

This is the house that Jack built
before he went uphill for some water,
he probably never even realized that
he ever had a crown before Jill
went up there with him, before she
pushed him down.

This is the grave filled with guilt
where Jack did lie before the truth
came out about his trysts with
Jane. Jill will never be the same
Jill will never look the same
as she is now somewhat
insane.

Jill will never look at the well
quite the same way twice
Just another level of irony
from thinking that you should
have been made with something
more than just sugar
and spice.

Saying what we mean to say
takes something more than
foolishness or the just being
brave, some things aren't black
or white, sometimes it's easier
to stay angry and blame it
all on the knave.

It is so tragic, it's almost a crime

It's December 9th and I wonder if I should try to remember
where I was or should have been. I sometimes wish that what
I heard and what was seen would no longer be preserved
in my memory.
There were words spoken, promises that were broken
tears amidst the shouting, crying amidst the fighting
there may never be peace, no way of righting the
wrongs over the years.
It was raining almost always raining, the weather was draining
what little happiness there could have between us
remaining. I said, she said, I did, She did little before
the conversation went dead.
Why does it rain more on Mondays than any other day
why is it so bleak in so many little ways
today it's like there's more water falling down on me
than there are droplets flung up into the sky by the
humorless sea?

How can my life unravel in under an hour
how can anyone given such a dreadful power
so that my heart and hope and fear are in your
hands, I look to the west, the way the Sun went
out of my reach far away from my demands

Are you going to leave me after all this time
are our lives just subject to the verse and rhyme
it is so tragic, it's almost a crime
that the irony of all I have written
is like the missing happiness I thought
I had turned out to be sublime

The Sweet side of Melancholia

Some things cannot be forgotten, no matter your intentions, no matter how hard
you try to ignore or pretend that the feelings are gone, the feelings remain.
I woke into a morning that was just two shades brighter than the sadness
that I felt within. Why? I wanted to ask- to scream, why do I feel such
misery when the sky is clear? why do I feel a pain that can't be erased
with a pill, with a drink, with suffocation as if holding the pillow in place
will erase the tracks of the tears that I would have cried if the
persistent state of grief now that I feel that I am alone again as I have
always been. From birth until death, the moments that come with
seconds of joy ever surrounded by the crippling fear that the
love that holds off the darkness will not last long enough for me to
believe, ever to have believed that there would be a state that would not
be filled with regret that I said too little, that I had said too much, that I had
been too honest, that I had not lied enough, that I tried too hard,
that I had left here alone too often.
Some things are only remembered when the failure of what you can
accept becomes a reality that is more than anyone can take or even
want to makeup since you somehow feel that your pain is not valid
enough for anyone else's pity even your own. That life has not dealt
you a fair enough hand; that dramatic irony was meant only for you
as a reminder that you were too blind to see that she was right there
in front of you, that her betrayal of what you thought most important
was not as important as getting in one more I love but exhaustion
overtook you and the sleep that followed promised relief but gave you
nothing but dreams that were not as good as you would have hoped
and you wake to the silence of the empty bed and empty sheets that
strike you all at once as shallow and cliched as knowing that you weren't
the first to feel them...
When does it occur that this is what you had wanted when you turned
away from the light, were the shadows going to welcome you back to
the comfort of despair, did she deserve that lack of trust- did you not
want the happiness that you thought you deserved or was there
something more than then the melancholy that still persists every
time you close your eyes.
I still close mine.

Throwing Stones

Obviously I don't know what I am talking about because
my mind was made up before I opened my mouth and 
your objections, hell your opinion- took backseat to my ego
while I droned on and on, and then having made my point
I slammed the door in your face.
Feelings?
What do I care for your feelings if they aren't the ones
I want you to have because it's not about what you think
I said that was so offensive but rather what I think I meant
and no, your tears are little more than a distraction from me making my point before I crush what little hope you had for us being friends.
Throwing Stones?
No, I don't think that I have heard that phrase...enough lately.
Obviously I never just throw stones. I like to think that I am completely fair in judging you since your opinion stinks and the fact that you need to be kind is just a thinly veiled act of weakness that I want no part of because sticks and stones do break bones, but words are far better weapons if you want to crush someone's soul.
I am rubber and you're glue, whatever matters bounces off my ego and sticks, like a rusty knife, in you. 
One day those stones are going to hurt those of you who threw them more than your targets who you have bruised black and blue.
One day those stones will bite back and your words will fall on deafened ears who will not stand by while you assassinate anyone who disagrees with you.
if you doubt what I say, go ahead and prove me untrue.

It's December and Advent has begun.

I am thinking about how much poetry I am going to try to write this month.

I am going to do another A Poem a Day in May next year. Which was harsh.

My favorite youtube singer/songwriter is back and I am pumped to compose like mad.

I wanted to post her most recent. This one is a good starter if you haven't heard her before

She's got an Indiegogo Campaign for her debut album. I signed up for the 8 disc signed perk.

I am a nut. She's a muse, my muse.

Danna Richards Debut Album

Go taken a listen.

But I digress. 

So if depression doesn't get the better of me, my relatives don't have to commit me to spare their own lives when I decide it would be better if I had been an orphan with no family, THEN

I will be writing more poetry.

I almost wish I had done this for Advent, I am late by 2 days already (The PADIM was also late).

I am just not a very Christmas Jolly old soul.

Still a plan for next year.

This year I am resolving to write more poetry in December.

I guess we will have to see how it goes.

Thanks for coming here to read my work.

I hope it has helped all of you as it helps me each day.

If you just stumbled in and are confused. This is Poetry According to Mike.

I am Mike.

Welcome.

Links to prior works on your right.

I also have a odd menagerie of other blogs over there.