Free, a poem by Adam White, poet

I reach for that which is long out of reach.
I pray to my past, please catapult me
Beyond this humdrum, quiet life of peace,
To a place a bit more, bit less noisy.
Let me take my trappings off on the ride;
My love, my light, my music and comfort.
Give me a place where I can sleep inside,
Far from the bitter cold, the night and wet.
My adventure should be a place like here.
The warmth of a home and a double bed,
Where she treats my nightmares and salves my fears,
Places cool hands on my warm, waking head.
I reach for that which is long out of reach.
I pray to my past, please catapult me
Back to a time where I wasn't at peace,
Wasn't as happy and wasn't as free.

Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

All You Did For (To) Me, a poem by Adam White, poet

A child, I'd sit in the surf of black and white days,
Being tossed about by the foreign hands of love.
My one goal, I'd say, to make other people laugh,
Because from their enjoyment, I would find my bliss.
What a sign. To look back and see such depression
Reflected in the words of such a flailing mind
Reaching out to my friends, much longer unknown now
Than I had ever known them in my growing days.

Remember the rushing pace of British Bulldogs?
The accidental collision with small Michelle.
She cried, and all outrage fell on my small shoulders,
Too heavy a cross for a ten year old to bear.
Clumsy child with a recently gained broken leg,
"Hits girl" the headlines around the school cruelly said.
Michelle, kind soul, gave me a hug. I felt better.
The entire event was swiftly forgotten.

Another time I reached to raise a fallen friend.
Ostracised again. This time I was labelled gay.
The trend continued for eight years. I was a good kid.
Adam, little clown to be laughed at, never with.
I could break every one of them, my face painted,
Smile cracked at the edges of the driven mad lips.
I pummelled by way through black two-thousand-and-two.
The feeling never faded. I truly hate you.


Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

Nomad, a poem by Adam White, poet

Time to express a little paranoia I feel. Feel free to crawl around inside my brain.

I think I've outstayed my warming welcome.
The creeping claw won't leave my worried mind.
I'm scared to stand before accusing eyes,
And choose to hide inside my darkened hole.
Incredulous, I think on hours passed,
The reassurances that all is well,
That time was meaningless within the swell
Of caring arms, of dice already cast.
But for chance and misinformation thrown
In flitting words misheard, missaid, misknown,
I lay in limbo broken on the beach,
Eyeing safety that sits just out of reach.
Such is the nomad, the unwanted guest,
Presented freezing, mournful and undressed.

I am fully aware that missaid and misknown are not words. I decided they should be, because I am like that.

Hey there guys,
For the next few weeks, I'll be raising money for ALS in preparation for a sponsored walk. Any donation you can make would be greatly appreciated.

HOW YOUR DONATION HELPS

Your donation helps in two very critical ways :

First off, the money will go towards supporting direct services for people with ALS and their families – educational information, referrals to local health care and community services, equipment assistance and coordination of peer support groups.

Secondly, a guaranteed 40% of funds raised during the Walk support breakthrough research to treat and cure ALS.

Please go to my page by clicking the link below. Give as little or as much as you can. You know how the old saying goes. "Every little helps." *Tap Tap*


http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?registrationID=1238171#.TlaQG_X_vPw.facebook


Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

The Mist, The Haze, a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam White, poet

It gathers itself on a misted mountaintop.
The quiver. The shiver and the shake of the limbs.
It has no knowable name. It looks just the same.

Beckoning, drawn in by artful, curled fingertips.
Chasm yawns. To fall endlessly and be reborn.
To dive to either side in to the freezing tide

Would be the better choice than the rain of echoes
That lead on. Will and freedom failed and done as one.
Sweet gracefulness to tread the footsteps of the dead.

The whites of it's eyes visible out in the fog.
Distant light. The lighthouse turns even in bleakest night.
Voice remembered still. The cruel truth, the hardest kill.

Gone, evaporated like a buried, loved pet
Soon replaced. Only the air and black sea on the face
And the whisper of new day. Turn and walk away.


Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

Scratch, a poem by Adam White, poet

I scratch dark missives,
Like I know what suff'rin' means.
Look inside my draws.
My thoughts are insensible
And my unders ain't so clean.

Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet