The Poetry of J. S. Klein

In what world will death find me

lying in the cold ground buried six feet under—gravel spitting worms and maggots in the face of my decaying soul?

Underneath the lies that you still tell—underneath the poems that you still write, 

still clinging to the hope that one day you will be saved from a fatal curse known as shame, 

you shed lying tears of nurture. 

Lying, lying, lying, that’s all we do.

Both of our corpses rot. At least mine will grow flowers.

You’re lifeless, just as much as I—soulless. Even the all-loving lord above excludes you from his utopia. Fear not, you don’t need it. You live in your own.  

And forgive me when I say I don’t need you anymore. For my breath is halted—I am careless, I am breathless, and I will cry no more.

Nevertheless, down here, the soil stays moist—

Moist with the composting milk of my self-righteous morality, feeding the egotistical hysteria to which I cling, so that all that may remain shall be my clean bony carcass who never apologized. I acknowledge that now… in my state of liminality.

How is life, living with no regret? 

I sure wonder—I never strived for perfection as you did. Do you miss me, the way I made you feel content?

When I say I miss you, please forgive me, as I’m sure you don’t believe it.

I know I am to blame. Your tender heart could not benefit.

Memento mori, you will not live forever. 

Before long, I will fertilize the roses I never gave you. 

Come to my grave—embrace the fantasy that I was flawless. Whiff my violent bloodied flower of forgiveness and reconcile me with the depth of your appreciation. 

Lie here with me—the only dystopia I have been in is the one in which I reside. 

Both of our corpses will rot. But yours will grow flowers too.

J. S. Klein

Faith in my ego

Flaws branch—roots of a tree

I am nobody

And

Loved ones I hurt

They resent

They neglect

But

They are not perfect

Not even I

A promise forgone (A promised refrained)

So

I feel disdain

Sins remain

Faith in my ego

I am not forgiven.

J. S. Klein

The cicadas stalked the grass as its wistful green melted my sclera.  

Your flowers; blooming in the corner.  

I remember how you called my name.  

The bitter leaves rustled in the trees,  

Following your pitiful song; your lilt turned dull.

He was away, but you were still there—or were you?  

Have you ever been?  

Are you surprised the vibrant mosaic of dreams taught me more than you,  

Besides “please” and “thank you”?

We had a dog, and she was my mother.  

She loved more than you ever could—

Or maybe you did. I’m beginning to forget.  

Still, she’s dead now, buried out back with your sour vegetable garden.

They hated me because of you.  

It was a life undeserving of the care it takes to keep a child alive.  

I was your shadow—cast aside, with only the sun to speak to.

And too often, dark clouds covered its sweetness. It made me invisible.

Our little neighborhood is all that’s left of the time we shared; the town’s not so little anymore. I’ve left, and you have long since gone—

Gone like the wind,

Gone like the little boy’s childhood that never was.  

The salty waters were always too far away.

Do you remember?

We spoke the other day.  

And I love you.  

My heart is savory, drowned in endearment.  

Oh, how I miss our broken home,  

Forty-five miles south of Boston.

J. S. Klein

The boiling blood in a man’s veins erases all sensibility. 

Lock him in a room so that he may scream

cries of hate. He hates the world which does not hesitate to blame all problems on 

him, believing he has no part to play. He is but one man, 

but he is no man.

No man asks for sympathy. A man has his own problems—

a plentiful lot, yet he is not keen on asking for pity. 

Do not pity him, 

let him be strong. A strong man is a man of reflection. He does not lash out at the world for his problems. He instead finds a way to transform them into fuel for his burning flame. He is but one man, 

but he is a man.

It is his duty as a man to persevere, to conquer, to ask for forgiveness—

not allowance. Do not tempt a man’s simple soul with anything 

but his duty and desires. 

Shroud him in a blanket of comfort, so that he may break free. 

Take away his voice, so that he may rebel. 

Lock him in a box for his irrationality, so that 

he may find true meaning within himself. 

A man is born with all of the tools he requires;

And what is more respectable than one being with the ability to triumph 

over himself and all of the obstacles he ought to face? 

There is nothing else.

When he hears his last song, a man will accept his fate; 

he will know his time has come to become 

one with life. His burial is not the end, 

but the start of something new. The stories of his resolve and wisdom will be shared until the end of days. If he is not remembered, 

what has a man accomplished? 

In the name of fear, he will claw 

and he will fight. A man will stop at nothing for what he believes in. 

Do not blame a man for following his destiny; society’s antagonization will not suffice.

Men are brave.

J. S. Klein