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

self-sabotage

equal

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 about.me/swozniak and is a great read for those who have returned from the grave.