No Man Is:A Failure
Who Has Friends

My life,

And how it relates to yours.
| know not what is real,

In this world we live in.

How can | say what | feel?
This mask that | wear is all too
comfortable,

And yet it is wearing thin.

The blinding white light

Ils beginning to crack
through.

| do not want to blow you
away,

But the fragments of the inner
me,

They burst forth from the
cage.

_Tney say that every life af-
fects so many other lives,
And yet | feel unwanted.
Can | relate to you in a way
that will work?

_ Will | destroy myself through
twisted self expression?

Why can these things not be
simple?

| can smile,

| can talk,

And | think that | can feel,
But | am not alive.

This inner cavity consumes
the soul,

The spirit is in bondage
And the shine is covered in
the confusion.

| can remember my thoughts
of yesterday:

The peacefulness and the
sounds,

The smiles and the faces...
Why did we have to grow
up?

The children at the play-
ground

Are those who | admire,
Their giggles and their laugh-
ter ring out with joy.

Now the textbooks deliver
their burden

And the steel is in our faces.

The snow settles in the fields,
The wooden fencepost rots
with decay.

| worship the mildew on the
post,

It clings for life,

It sucks dry the marrow

Like a parasite on the bone.

Letting go is the most painful
experience that we have yet
shared;

The liberation comes too
slowly

- For the bones in my closet.
My scars are the wounds
That remind me of my char-
acter,

Remind me of patterns un-
checked,

Remind me of the cycles un-
broken.

Like a tattoo on the soul,

An ink that drains blackness
from my heart.

How can we possibly create
something special,

When we’re both so fucked
up?

Like a blind man shopping for
Qa pair of glasses,

There is no use in this mad-
man’s campaign.

Maybe one day it could work,
And we could hold hands
And tell stories.

Maybe one day, we could
leave the new damage be-
hind

And begin again. .
Maybe...maybe not.

| don't know why I’m trying to
do this,

Maybe it’s because you're alll
that I've got.

With nothing else to lose,
Sometimes the pain feels like
Q gift;

A gift to the senses of the mal-
nourished,

Like a beggar given a
bottlecap-

Anything small and metal
could be a coin. ©

The palms of my hands.are
baking inthe sun, —

My hands have been
stretched out so long.

The wrinkles on the skin are
the only lasting testament,
The only sign that shows the
time

That has not been kind.
Left me on my knees,
Hungry and alone.

This ever-unfolding drama,
with characters in shadow,
Can't you see that the audi-
ence has left the building?
It’s time to draw the curtains
on this,

My final act.

But before | slip away,

| would like to thank my sup-
porting cast:

The non-believers and the
critics,

The friends and family who

‘didn’t believe in me’

When | didn’t believe in my-
self,

To you | can say thank-you
As | blow out the candles.

by Alastair Wood

Bye RR Seba aitaies ©

| sit and watch you smoke
And it seems at this point
The calculated, self-damag-
ing act

Of aman betrayed.

The iron clad warrior

| imagined in my youth

_ Sits ashen and disillusioned

Before me.

My emotions swell and sub-
side

Within me.

A myriad of hollow words
Spring to mind, and are at
Once...

Discarded.

There’s a silver lining in every...
Well, you know.

| contemplate the thick to-
bacco fog around me

And despsair.

With every difficult breath you

draw
Tears swell, | cannot speak.
The rules will not let me.

| feel that | will burst.
| leave with a smile and firm

handshake.

| live and regret this silence.

by Michael Doyle

The Dream Of
The Ordinary Prince

the ordinary princess,
while buttering

her toast, -

dreamt the dream

of the ordinary prince,

who wasn't very ordinary
and
neither

is she.

Karen Campbell