Friday, March 13, 2015

Scott Wuzniak- Two Poems

- I Try, But... -

I don't remember anything
from before the age of ten.

Starting at eleven,
everything I do remember
stems from turmoil.

My father ran off with death,
when I was nine, so
 I chose to wipe
the memory of him
from existence.
I run from my feelings,
preferring to face
bottles of booze.

I make ill-advised choices.
Knowing what's not good for me
I sprint towards it.

I jerk off to cartoons.

I think that says something
about my disconnect to humans,
maybe it's about my love for art,
but I doubt it.

I drive open country sides
blaring punk rock music,
afraid of silence 
‘cause it leads to introspection.
I'm happiest alone,
longing for a connection.

I see your pain and empathize,
but would rather
scratch out my own eyes
than give you a hug,
‘cause that would imply
that I too hurt.
I drink from springs of knowledge,
then stick fingers down my throat,
afraid to digest the truth.

I love my mother for holding me down
when locked up,
but resent her for bringing me in a world
full of restrictions,
and for never keeping her promise
to take me out of this world
as easily as she brought me in it.

I have a feeling my spirit
would be much happier
on a plain less constrictive.

I hate societies trappings
but forget to rattle it's cage
when caught up in getting paid.
With my mind on my money
and my money on my mind
I do devious things.
I destroy relationships
before they ever have a chance
to get started.

Does knowing you
Knowledge of self??
If so, then
what's the use
of self help??

Maybe, I should just
pick up a meth habit
so I don't recognize myself
when looking in the mirror?

Then I could cultivate these feelings
of being unworthy, instead
of wearing looking glasses.

Sweeping dirt under the rug
is how I like to clean house.

I hold emotions hostage,
hog tied in my basement,
making sure they don't open
their fucking mouths,
’cause you never can be too careful
when hiding dirty secrets
and I can’t be havin’ no witnesses.

I could say that
this is all a product
of how I was raised, but
I can't remember my childhood,
I’ve wiped it from my memory.

-Waiting to Unravel -

Because you are my progeny,
an open-ended miracle
waiting to unravel,

I want you to
ecstatically run
through the valley
of burning dreams
with your head on fire.

I want you to
sear your name
on the granite wall
of history's future
with a branding iron
made of heart strings.

I want you to
ride invisible thermals
in wingless flight, unafraid
of jagged rocks
doubling as landing pads.

I want you to
spin bodies like tops
as you run across
our ancestor's graves
not caring if they roll over
from your actions.

I want you to
take kill shot aim
with golden arrowheads
attached to unicorn horns,
and jab life's arteries
like an insurgent soldier
determined to take over.

I want you to
keep nerves of steel
polished to perfection
as you fight
both tooth and nail
to subdue death blows
inflicted on your hopes.

I want you to
construct booby traps
of music and intellect
that surprisingly spring
and capture the impossible,
then make it your sustenance.

I want you to
pierce holes in twilight
with sharp tongued wit
forming new constellations
for the world to gaze on
in introspection and wonder.

I want you to
drink from cups overflowing
fountain of youth waters,
and fight against the clock
that taunts us by ticking,
then dismantle it's infernal gears.

Because you are my progeny,
an open-ended miracle
waiting to unravel.

Scott Wozniak is a poet and short story writer who has risen from the dead only to realize he must now come to terms with walking around a world full of zombies. He is proof that being one of the living dead is completely different from being a zombie. His chapbook, Bumrush the Fantasy, published by Flying Wrench Press, is available at and is a great read for those who have returned from the grave.

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