That Which Gets in the Way

By A. M. Langston

That Which Gets in the Way is the second poetry collection from American writer A.M. Langston and his third literary release. These poems were born out of a period in which the author faced deep depression. It is a dark, no holds barred confessional that takes the reader along on a ride to rock bottom and back. There are four parts to this collection, each one a milestone in the emotional journey. Part one reflects a struggle between depression, motivation, and inspiration. Part two showcases the beginning of progress up out of the pits of Langston's soul. Parts three and four are full steam poetry and haikus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. M. Langston
• Release date: Oct 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781522087939

A. M. Langston

A. M. Langston is a restless millennial searching for meaning inside the wires and waves that make up the technology surrounding us during our every waking minute. Born in Illinois in 1988 and raised across the United States, he has called New Mexico home since 2004. "Couch to Couch, Never Leaving the House", Langston's first poetry collection, was published on June 21st, 2017.

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That Which Gets in the Way

A. M. Langston

To triumph over thought

Copyright © 2017 by Alex Langston

Cover art © 2017 by Alex Langston and Andrew Linville

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

www.amlangston.com

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition, 2017

Part One

one.pm

who all walks with thee on foreign land,

oh, holy one?

none of us.

our hands and heads ache

we dare not leave our lives behind

because we fear mortal men, unlike you.

i trample not on road nor grass in europe.

not with thee.

two.pm

words play no part in aiding

but they, the tallest ones, bind them

and mount them on tower walls

under the rifle i used.

three.pm

once you get to a certain point down the tunnel

there's a physical manifestation of your emotion

the spirits knotted a rope around the back

of my eyes

and pull them through my spine

the rope constantly gives and takes down

the back of my neck

for me

the pain is missing expected landmarks

how i'll never get to say goodbye

as they do in fiction.

there will be no madrid

i think most of us don't get to say goodbye, though.

four.pm

there is no getting it out

it does not come out

you can open small windows

across the globe

but nothing gets to leave

the room.

five.pm

i should have proposed

deep in a glowing sea foam forest.

someplace where sunlight shines

through leaves

but doesn't breach completely.

there should have been running water nearby

and flowers

but i proposed in our loft near downtown

albuquerque.

a course was plotted and i deviated.

it makes me weak to think of all

the special things i've taken away from her

because of my weak will.

this is my doing

but some part of her also yanks on the

thick rope out the back of my skull.

my tears are stolen by that rope

trickle down it

wet her hands

they slip

my soul drops off a cliff to its death

in a vast brown garbage dump

six.pm

what would be empty spaces between

rotting trash

icebergs in the gray slush

I am being pulled deeper into

ice bergs I smack and gash

the crown of my head on

between those horrific chunks

in what should be empty space

where i could draw breath

is instead a greasy, drying tar

so thick it fills my mouth

the pull of my lungs

gasping for air in death

can't pull that tar deeper down my throat.

i chew it

because what else is there to do

as the goo

in which i float

expands my cheeks

pins my tongue

of course I vomit

of