Control: Lovers Gone

So my dead friends need to be remembered, and I couldn’t think of a better way to remember them than to write a book of poetry. I have written for a very long time, and I finally publish my work now, and these are fifteen years of poems. I know; you have lives, and poetry is hard. It’s not easy, or simple, and there don’t seem to be action sequences. There’s plenty of romance, though, and characters, and themes, and story. It’s just a little harder to find and digest. Another thing — maybe it should be difficult. Maybe writing shouldn’t be easy. You want easy? Well, I don’t care. I want to build an audience. I want someone to notice that I, Dalton Lewis, have published a book of poetry, and it’s not bad. I want you to tell others about it. I want you to recommend it. What’s it about, exactly?

I wrote 50 free verse poems about life, romance, heartbreak, death, and the like. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Aaron Furness died, and I didn’t want to forget that, no matter how he died, he lived well. I wrote about Rylan Hooke, who died a similar death and did well in life too, affecting everyone around him.

Here’s a poem that I wrote:

4. Strangers

I’m a stranger to every girl, everyone in the world.

Stranger passing around, didn’t shave, showered yesterday.

Old clothes, don’t wear them too many days,

Wander into Starbucks, drink tea, only tea,

Go to the computer, son, sit all day, sit all day

Cramps from video games, playing, losing, losing.

Losing so many games, I died in so many ways.

I died when I attacked with my units right away

I died when I attacked very late

I especially died when I didn’t attack at all

I died and lived and yet I died every single day.

Everyone trashes me, I die inside of gentle jealousy

Life sucks, life sucks, life sucks, I die.

I will never live again, never in the far future,

I have the most intolerable life of all.

Now after it all, I sit in a room, staring at a screen,

In the middle of this garden of junk and whatever.

What do you think? I tried to reflect how fucked up and stupid life is and at the same time reflect that, at the core of life itself, we Americans are a bit pampered and have some creature comforts that we can enjoy. It’s easy to feel miserable when one can mope all day without having to work. It’s easy to be depressed when toys and video games are littered all over your room. Despite this dichotomy I persist in writing poems about life, the universe, and everything. I hate life when I fail, and I fail lots, but this isn’t one of those times. I wrote the hell out of this book of poetry, and I want someone to notice.

I wanted to write a book of poetry which reflected who I am, and I am fairly certain that I succeeded. I made something worth reading, and I want you to read it. I don’t know if you will; I don’t know if anyone will. I sit in my room in my parents’ house, at thirty-nine, waiting to make it. I want to succeed in life. I want to sell copies and make money and be able to say, I am a success. I want that and everything great in life. I don’t know if I can make it. I need to try. Why not continue to try in life? I want to persist and consider writing a regular, full-time job with regular hours and regular product. I want that to become a reality, and I will work towards that goal.

Thanks, and take care, friends.