ARTISHA: Lonely Letters

By Anthony James Day

ARTISHA - Lonely Letters is the second book of poetry published by Anthony James Day. Released 15 years after Anthony's death due to suicide, the themes include love, hate, hope and commercialisation. Many of the poems are written as letters to past lovers and friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony James Day
• Release date: Jun 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463967874

Anthony James Day

Anthony James Day is a freelance poet born in Brisbane in 1971. Anthony featured in a documentary titled "The Vagabond Poet", showcasing the poetry scene of Brisbane in the 1990's. Later Anthony gained notoriety for dancing in the mall outside Sanity Music in the Hobart mall (Tasmania), affectionately known as the Hobart Dancing Man.Anthony wrote six volumes of poetry during his lifetime, which was sadly cut short due to suicide in 2003.His poetry and legacy continue to be shared through the efforts of his friends and family.

Book preview

.ARTISHA.

CLOUD NINE.

Just want to spend a little time,

floating on cloud nine.

Want to escape to the outer space.

Get off this planet.

Get off my face.

I need to get beyond this cloud eight.

Go further than just feeling great.

I see the world drift away.

And get smaller and smaller.

No visitor, no midnight caller.

My bean stalk grows taller and taller.

Get higher and higher.

I've got my wings now.

I'm a real high flyer.

Circling on a thermal,

spinning on a thought.

It must be this stuff I bought,

that's got me feeling fine.

I'm on cloud nine.

G.L.S.

It's all over.

The party's over for the green leaf soldier.

Two days before she again is sober.

She can't believe what you told her.

She lets her hair dance in the wind.

She lets her hair down.

Hits the wild side of this little country town.

Show the world that she is a real mean girl,

as the head does whirl.

Now she's spinning.

No chance of winning,

this battle with pain.

Cause she will have to,

come back down to earth again.

She feels crook and that's how she does look.

Week after week,

same page,

same book.

She can't handle the flame and the candle.

She feels ashamed,

she feels as if she is to blame.

Wishes she could remember,

wishes she could forget.

But she will be back fighting...

the internal conflict once more.

Because the war has not been won quite yet.

The music in her head has stopped

and now the party's over for the green leaf soldier.

TIME WASTED.

If I can't say what is on my mind.

I am wasting my time.

Am I wasting my time?

We have known each other long enough...

to be honest to each other.

I told you from the start,

you will only be a good friend.

But you can never be my lover.

But now you are implying that more is expected from me.

And when I told you...

the way I want and will only let it be.

You start yelling at and cursing me.

If I can't speak my mind without you losing your cool.

It's time to leave this thing behind.

Please don't waste my time.

AS FAR AWAY.

Nothing seems as far away as you. It's hard to think of our love as once true. I feel closer to the most distant star, when we're at the points, at which we now are. I'm sure you are on the dark side of the moon. Even though you too are in this very room. But silence and gloom fills this space. Distance consumes this place. I can't reach you, no matter what I try, anyway. From each other we're too far away. And what makes all this so much worse, is that you await my arrival to your side of the universe. You sit patiently watching the sky for me to arrive in your galaxy. But I'm afraid you're at a destination that is not for me. You're on a planet that will never be my place to be. Nothing seems as far away as you.

MEANINGLESS POEM.

Here's another meaningless poem.

Words conveying thoughtless ideas,

useless thought.

Stupidity of sorts.

Why do I try to convey things...

not worth me putting the effort into saying.

Drawing pictures of the unknown...

artist and artform.

I put all my energy into telling the world what `I' feel.

But they reply

You're crazy. This emotion is not valid or real.

But this poem isn't meaningless.

Because it has meaning to me.

It enables me to set my frustration free.

It validates my existence as a human,

with associated traits.

I use it as an expression of my loves and hates.

So no this is not another meaningless poem,

one more lot of works of the self prisoner of war.

There are many reason,

all of which you will never understand,

why I write these poems for.

A LETTER FROM A FELLOW DREAM POET.

I cried when I read your poem. I could only think of the many times, I felt the same or similar. I was inspired to show my friends my poems, not that they could ever say what you said so well. Not that they are any good anyway. But like you once did say, you can be too critical of your own work, sometimes.

My friends have encouraged me to... get some of my works published. So I write to let you know that the local University has... published my first in print poem. It is not much but it's a start. Better to start even if you don't finish. At least you've given it a try, I reckon. Thanks for the encouragement, the inspiration and for being one of the few people, who are true to themself. Keep writing, keep dreaming, keep being you. Artistic Love... a dream poet like yourself.

THE GRAVE SLAVE.

Dig your own grave.

Be your own slave.

Put your will in an envelope,

mark it NO HOPE.

Lick your stamp.

Send your thoughts to the mental boot camp.

Return your ghost via the post.

Write letters to yourself twenty years from now.

Express what you don't feel,

if you know how.

Just to see where you really have got from here.

Or maybe you will still be digging your own grave,

being your own slave.

T.Y.O.M.

Tentacles of your mantles, wrapping around my heart, squeezing it from it's shell. Suck-tap, suck-tap goes your sucktion cap grip. Trying to rip my soul from my body. But they are now one? You'll have to take all not some. Consume all of my being, or let me be. If you can't stomach it throw me back into the sea...

R.T.H.

Tearing my every thing through my chest. Use me to line your nest. Reaping the harvest. Hold myself above to show the world I love? you. And that I am your harvested yield. When before you, I kneeled asking not be treated so cruel. But the owner of the produce makes every rule. And you only want to be reaping the harvest. Not caring about... what happens to the remaining bits and pieces of the fruitage. And who has to put the puzzle back together. Or if it remains unsolved forever. You don't care, as long as you get... what you want.

SOFT AND BROKEN.

Her words are soft and broken, before the first is finished the next is spoken. She is shy and scared, never before has some cared, for her. Her words are soft and broken, I find it hard to completely understand, why she doesn't trust me. Her frail heart does crush me. If I get a hold of her love. It will have to be held forever. Cause I could harm her, never. Her words are soft and broken, on my lustful thoughts my mind is choking. I move closer to hear, better, trying to hold myself together. She flinches, moves away a few inches, then smiles and says, please hold me close for a while. I hold, touch and hug her, give her kisses that drug her. She is now mine, but this must be for all time. Her words are soft and broken. She says Please leave me now, if you were lying or joking about loving me. I see a flood of tears dam up behind her light green eyes. I know that her advise to leave would be wise, if I planned to walk away unscarred. But how could I leave her soul burnt and charred. I took her unpicked flower, placed it in the vase, on the table, in the room of fondness. We both caressed, got dressed. Then just talked for another hour. Gave her my real phone number on a yellow card. And had a shower. She gave me a hearty breakfast, then kissed me.