POETRY BY JEFF OLIVER

Jeff Oliver was born in Baltimore, Maryland on April 6th, 1982. A poet by passion and father of eight beautiful children, his dedication to his family and his craft is second to none. Currently residing in Western New York State, he is a writer of intense emotions, having started composing his dark poetry at just eleven years old. His gift for transforming darkness into words shone brightly from a young age. He likes to think that his poetry has an ethereal quality. When others may have been destroyed by such devastating darkness, he manages to weave lyrical justice into an otherwise unfair world.

His published works include Venomous Words, Strange Sounds, Poetic Fiction: Journals of Silent Screams, Scattered Thoughts: Volumes I, II, and III, New World Monsters, INKBLOTS: A Poet’s Perception, and Infinite Black: Tales from the Abyss.

CYCLE

Lost in translation.
Lost in myself.
Lost in procrastination.
Lost in my Hell.
I’m open-minded while confined.
It’s too late for me. 
I've already lost my mind.
I can’t figure out the days. 
There is no time.
There is no beginning or finish line.
Like a fine wine.
I age within the madness.
A feeling of sublime comes over me as I emerge from the ashes.
I’m crashing and burning.
New lessons come as I am learning. 
My soul is fucking churning…
I’m always fucking worried.
About my family.
About myself.
About what is to come. 
About what I have felt.
It’s all progress.
It’s all aces.
I love the ones that get me…
As for the ones that don’t?
I’ll always remember your faces.

And that my friends are the definition of pacing. 
Heart racing.
I scream without control. 
Hands shaking.
Eyes dilated.
It's all a part of the craziest masterpiece...
That I've been painting.
Off to the races. 
I'm determined to win.
I'm harboring monsters under my skin. 
Within.
On the surface.
I'm running full speed into my fucking purpose.
Some days I feel worthless.
Some days I feel powerful.
Some days I can't find my way through this foul nightmare.
I hear the screeching of the owl. 
I hear the slaughter of the cows.
I hear the singing of the Angels as I throw in the towel.
What now?
What gives?
I'm ready to fucking win.

The cycle repeats itself over and over again.

THE MADMAN

Choices determine one’s sanity. 
I have learned to fly without gravity.
I found my voice within the bleeding walls. 
I found my soul behind the tortured waterfalls. 
Every time the water hits the rocks I scream. 
A constant paranoia is taking place in me. 
Vigorous beatings. 
Relentless lashings. 
Bashing my head against the walls as I’m frantically laughing. 
It’s maddening.
It’s saddening.
My signature is written in crimson red. 
A reminder that I will never get out of this. 
They call me the madman.
They call me so weak. 
The photographs that I hold in my hands are animated by dreams. 
The paintings that are painted so hollow on the walls define just about everything.
They are useless if you can’t see them. 
They are keys to the doorway out. 
The illusions are laid on heavy so you can’t figure it out.
You’re secluded in doubt. 
You’re surrounded by invisible premonitions that keep you from the hallowed ground. 
They won’t let you out. 
They will dig deep into your psyche and plant parasites to burrow down. 
You’re now at the mercy of the microscopic hounds. 
You’re the madman remember? 
You figure it out. 

ONE DROP AT A TIME

There was never a time in my life when I haven’t lived in my truth. 
Each cycle of my life so far has come with a different version of abuse. 
My memories define me as they haunt me.
My passion reminds me of who I am while confining me. 
It reminds me of each time my body acquired a new bruise. 
Not even seven and confused. 
In my twenties and used. 
It created the illusion of rock bottom without a clue. 
I’m forty now and things have turned around.
That much is true too. 
I can’t seem to get the melodies all in the right tune. 
It’s not me it’s you. 
It’s not you, it's me. 
From seven different angles, these memories come at me. 
They slap me.
They trap me.
They hurt me as they love me. 
Mixing and screaming are all of those realities. 
From diapers to teens.
From divorced to married.
It all crashes down on me. 
It’s all a catastrophe.
It’s all a fucking masterpiece…
Shining down from the cosmos is every fucking part of me. 

Thoughts stir as I unwind. 
Everything’s always on the line. 
The hands keep ticking while I’m in this hourglass confined.
There is no Father Time! 
He is a liar.
Time is screaming at me from within the blood and tears of each line.
I’m wasting it.
I’m creating it. 
I’m facing this! 
One drop at a time. 
Opening my emotions creates a distraction for my mind. 
I’m fine. 
I’m not. 
I am so sorry that I forgot. 
I can’t remember much these days. 
My brain is full of those memories of rot. 
I’m dipping my pen into the fire. 
I’m running on the illusions of desire. 
The demons inside conspire to take me out.
Ink splattered on the walls. 
I’m still shouting into that void of doubt. 
I’ll be fine.
I’m writing out these nightmares…
One drop at a time.