poem about despair

Tyler R. Martin

Cheap wine and cigarettes

Seem to hold some wisdom,

When a simple man can’t seem to bare

Life’s daily derision.

“to be pointless”

Tyler R. Martin

Woke up today thinking I’d probably die.
Poured coffee drank it down, coughed, then
Cracked a beer, lit a smoke, contemplated life;
Found it pointless, but, on the heels of that,
Contemplated that death is also pretty pointless,
So I cracked another beer scratched my gut
And said I’d try again tomorrow.

Never Much Better

Tyler R. Martin

Went to bed a babbling incoherent mess
And didn’t wake up much better.
I had been up the better portion of the night,
Carton of Indian reservation reds,
Bottle of Jack from the local liquor joint,
Reveling in some strange semblance of
An almost spiritual degree of thought.
Racing through my booze soaked brain were
Thoughts concerning this and that,
Contemplating the whiskey on my breath,
The smoke clouding my lungs,
Reviewing the various variables in relation to the value of my words.
Who would marvel at the malice inherent in me as I do?
Who would gaze upon the words issued from me upon the page
As if they exist with some degree of eloquence and tact?
Who would ever view me as more than a boozehound hack with nothing of substance to say?
I had awoke to an empty bottle and an angry hungover angel beside me,
Ashes assembled in neat concentric circles on my coffee table,
Window open, A/C on, blinds billowing in the breeze.
And I awoke sweating with my thoughts still damned,
Damned to the same degree as before, just now clearer, more coherent
And now coexisting with a pounding headache,
Still baffled just as much by potential of interest some might show my savage mindset,
Damned still to consider the frailty and meaninglessness of me.
I had went to bed a babbling incoherent mess
And didn’t wake up much better.

“Morning Ensues”

Tyler R. Martin

His dad’s ashes                 up on the mantle

Empty wine bottles            litter the rug

And there’s a mirror           above the dresser

For the poet to oggle         his own ulgy mug

A shiny Zippo                    he likes to flip up

Watching flames dance     up on the wall

And with just one flip         lights a cigarette

As his bottle makes him    ten feet tall

Old mellow music              hums in the background

Each puff of smoke            smothers the room

With each sip                     the wine’s less bitter

The sky is brighting and     morning ensues

“Every Fucking Day”

Tyler R. Martin

Ever wanna die so bad it hurts?
Ever wanna die so bad your tears
Become nothing but hot ash,
Charring your eyes with puffs of smoke
As your irises become clouded
In steam and stressed veins?
Ever burn inside so hotly you wanna run,
With screeching tires on unforgiving asphalt
Until they wear so thin they explode
And send you tumbling in crushed streel
And shattered glass?
You wanna die that way, sure, but know you won’t
And you bitterly dread the inevitable walk after,
Knowing you need to keep moving
Until your shoes are shredded and your
Feet blister and bleed?
Ever wanna die so bad this seems preferable
To living another day?
If yes, welcome to my world you dreary fuck…
… Pour yourself a drink, we’ll toast together…

“won’t come back”

Tyler R. Martin

I’m so alone and it’s deadly cold
In upper state New York
Surrounded by my friends by side
But they’re as frail as chalk
They melt away in the rain
And frown as the storm comes down
And in dark and thunder times
They fail to come around
Dark and drear in the lonely nights
The skies are cold and black
Dark and drear as its always here
I’ll leave and won’t come back
Leave and won’t come back

“The Ballad of the Punk Rock Star”

Tyler R. Martin

In a dank dive bar
Sat an old punk rocker,
Said he was a star back when,
At old CBs he played off key
And pissed on the crowd
As they shouted in glee.

This is the ballad of the punk rock star,
Now just a dour old drunk in an old dive bar.
But with stories to tell of his days of glory,
All different versions of the same old story.

In a dank dive bar
He sits and slowly sips his whiskey
And sings along to the jukebox,
Belting out “anarchy in the U.K!”
As he coughs out his lungs
Saying, “the tunes of my day!”

And after a few it’s always the same:
“The songs of today are a total shame!
And a disgrace the singers way back when
I played old CBs with all my friends!”

In a dank dive bar
Sits the old punk rocker,
He sips at his whiskey and orders a beer,
Slamming them down till he’s too drunk to stand
And mumbles the lyrics
To songs he sang in his band.

In the dank dive bar
No one cared too much for
The punk rock star and his time in the sun,
Never paying much attention to any of his tales
Of blood and the piss
While the feedback it wailed.

Now the old punk rocker went home one night,
Loaded up a needle held it up to the light,
Said, “missed you old friend, been too many years.
Just one little prick and it’s away with my fears.”
And with one rubber band, his bicep he bound,
Waiting and waiting till a fresh vein he found
Then the punk rock star shot it on home
Took his final breath in his room all alone.

This is the ballad of the punk rock star,
Was just a dour old drunk in an old dive bar.
But his stories to tell of his days of glory,
Were just different versions of the same old story.

“Attack the Day”

Tyler R. Martin

I am subsisting on Belgian beer and red cabbage as of late.
Certainly not a bad breakfast,
Apparently both are very good for gut health
And gut health is very important.
My father would tell me that you’re fucked if your digestion is outta wack and, with this diet,
My digestion is very good.
I wake up,pop a handful of various pills,
Crack a beer and take an incredible shit;
Hangover gone, a bit high, feeling ten pounds lighter
And ready to face the world.

“Burn The Polack at the Stake!”

Tyler R. Martin

When has poetry become political?
And poets devoid of emotional depth?
Why has color or creed or cock you suck or don’t
Become more about the syllables and structure and sentiment?
Does minority status a poet make? Or degree of social justice theme imbue a poem with worth?
Do you care about my sexual orientation when you read this poem?
Do you scoff at my lack of melanin?
From here I can hear you thinking
“How could Ty ever be a poet? Ty is white and white is wrong and I betcha he’s never sucked a cock,
he’s got to suck at least 50 cocks before he gets published, and some of those cocks better be black!
Hell! He’s nothing but a miserable, white, drunk! He doesn’t even take political stances! And if he did they’d likely be incorrect, his social justice score is in the tank!
Holy fuck, he might even be a natural blond!
Forget the thought of publishing, Ty, you Nazi fuck, you alcoholic, misogynistic piece of shit,
Your intolerance is intolerable!
Burn the Polack at the stake!”

“The Ballad of the Punk Rock Star”

Tyler R. Martin

In a dank dive bar
Sat an old punk rocker,
Said he was a star back when,
At old CBs he played off key
And pissed on the crowd
As they shouted in glee.

This is the ballad of the punk rock star,
Now just a dour old drunk in an old dive bar.
But with stories to tell of his days of glory,
All different versions of the same old story.

In a dank dive bar
He sits and slowly sips his whiskey
And sings along to the jukebox,
Belting out “anarchy in the U.K!”
As he coughs out his lungs
Saying, “the tunes of my day!”

And after a few it’s always the same:
“The songs of today are a total shame!
And a disgrace the singers way back when
I played old CBs with all my friends!”

In a dank dive bar
Sits the old punk rocker,
He sips at his whiskey and orders a beer,
Slamming them down till he’s too drunk to stand
And mumbles the lyrics
To songs he sang in his band.

In the dank dive bar
No one cared too much for
The punk rock star and his time in the sun,
Never paying much attention to any of his tales
Of blood and the piss
While the feedback it wailed.

Now the old punk rocker went home one night,
Loaded up a needle held it up to the light,
Said, “missed you old friend, been too many years.
Just one little prick and it’s away with my fears.”
And with one rubber band, his bicep he bound,
Waiting and waiting till a fresh vein he found
Then the punk rock star shot it on home
Took his final breath in his room all alone.

This is the ballad of the punk rock star,
Was just a dour old drunk in an old dive bar.
But his stories to tell of his days of glory,
Were just different versions of the same old story.