Labatt Blues.

I wished into the night. 

I wished you would come back. 

I’m still sorry, you’re still beautiful. 


I wished into my glass of liquid happiness. 

I wished you’d come back.  

I picked our song on the jukebox. 


I wished I was sober as my happiness forced it’s way onto my bathroom floor. 

I wished I could go to sleep. 

Spinning around in the mess of another night without you. 


I wished I was in bed when you woke me on the cold tile floor. 

I wished the smell of Rum and Labatts would leave my apartment. 

You rubbed my back and told me everything would be fine.


I wished you were her and not my friend Colin.  

I wished you could have thought of something different to cheer me up. 

Three year relationship gone and one boys night out won’t help. 

But its worth another try. 

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You're Five Times Better Than I'll Ever Be

She's in her lonesome unity,

Then the feeling looms just like a tree.

Look in her mind; it says "listen to me"

"They're so much better than I'll ever be

They're so much better than I'll ever be

They're five times better than I'll ever be."

The two of you, you look so free.

You're everything that I wanna be.

Look in her eyes and then you'll see;

"You're so much better than I'll ever be

You're so much better than I'll ever be

You're five times better than I'll ever be."

She wants your love, not your pity.

She'd balance her laptop on her knee.

She's sure she's thinking foolishly;

"You're five times better than I'll ever be

You're five times better than I'll ever be

You're so much better than I'll ever be."

She uses up her mind and draws it.

She thinks it is her only asset.

Her value is what she'll produce;

Without her skills, she is no use,

And lacking words, she is no use.

She's suffered but her mind's abuse.


She wants to see the light,

But she gives up before the fight.


Collapsed within its irony,

(Her states swim alternatingly)

So that she really does believe


You're so much better than she'll ever be

You're so much better than she'll ever be

You're so much better than she'll ever be.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just a vent.

View anretsuhn's Full Portfolio

Nothing feels right

I always wish I had a very dull life

I think anyone else would

When things are not right

All of it drawn on your face

That has become shallow and tight

Mostly your eyes staring at space

Becoming black holes of the night


Darkness in their eyes shows

How hollow they are

No one cares, anyone knows

Everyone has gone too far

And all you really would want

Is some sleep tonight

And for once feel your life

Is not always a race


I would believe anyone

Would want a much easier simpler life

Things it always seems, even your dreams

Just are not right

And I know I am not the only one

Wishing for a better life

So I won’t ever be angry

And the only person I hurt

Will be myself again tonight

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The Abused


He was born in a rodent-infested hut, amid the broken screams of an abused woman and the furious shouts of a drunken man; those sounds never faded.

He had been there all his life.

He watched the generations pass by; he lived his life in each stage, under the watchful eyes of the same spirits that have always lurked there.



He is unwelcome-he interferes in the dull monotony of their lives

But he doesn’t, really-he never ventures into their existence-

Never shatters their perfect routine,

He merely peeps in from a distance, like a tourist at a zoo.



As the house burned, bright orange and red flames licking the night sky,

A boy of eight watched, a gash running down the side of his head.

That is a scar he will forever have to bear.

Holding that candle to the drapes and then quietly walking out, he wouldn’t regret

He was a murderer.


He walked out of what they called the kids’ dungeon, his gash now a pink scar,

Jagged and crooked, adorning the side of his face.

As other boys threw insults at him, he stole a brown hat with a large brim.



His painfully ordinary hat hides his cold eyes, as they observe and calculate

He is tall, but he slouches; his trusty cane always clenched tight between his white knuckles;

Some people make us instantly warm up to them, some make us shiver uncomfortably.

He is the latter.


He watched with pained eyes as his wife walked away.

The little boy on her shoulder reached back for him, crying too much to be coherent.

The people glared at him cruelly, telling him he was his own father.

He learned to shut his eyes and ears.



He is there, seemingly everywhere at once, as soon as the smiling sun makes his way up the sky;

He watches carefully as the village crawls to life,

The small shacks opening their worn down, unpolished doors, as curious, wary heads peek out at him,

Each of them turning away as he turns in their direction.



He watched in the mirror as his once youthful face grew old, like creases on thin paper;

He looked out of his window. An old lady smiled at him with sympathy.

She was the only one who had done that in a long time.



They talk about him-the women gossip during knitting sessions,

And the men make crude jokes about him as they labour in the fields.

Happy new parents warn their children fearfully, to steer clear of his mysterious figure.

That is why they scuttle away when he watches them-the same way he does everyone else.



He stared at the official document.

The old lady had died.

She left him her life’s savings.



They do not know how he survives-how he makes his living,

How he gets his food and drink,

Or is he some strange entity that does not require any mortal means of survival?

They do not know, yet, or maybe “thus”, he is the story young boys tell around the campfire,

As they shine torchlight in their faces, making sound effects to ensure their friends will wake up screaming in the still, quiet dead of night.



He signed at the bottom of the page;

He hoped someone would find it.

He gave his house and property to his son.



When his spirit fades away like morning stars, in the middle of December, his bed as cold as his eyes once were,

No one knows.

His body rots, as the family of rats, who call his house their home, 

Eagerly feast on the pale carcass.


Things come full circle.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It's been years since I've penned a poem, but here it is anyway..

Anxiety pill

Clocks slow to a crawl time creeps it's deceit 

Some days lack ambition no spring in my seat

Pounding heart sure to cave won't endure it's fatigued

Need mighty endowment strength stability proceed


This pen hits the paper racing heart slowly calms

I believe in my words the sweat dries from my palms

Trembling hands quieten be sturdy as steel

I take a deep breath... Now to enjoy how I feel

Shane Aaron

Dec 7 2013


[Read at a fast tempo]

Hands shaking, Anxiety growing,
Voice trembling, Your fear is showing,
Purse your lips, Try to stay strong,
It won't last for much too long.

Take in the words, Don't show your hurt,
It couldn't possibly be any worse.
Anger rising, Racing through your veins,
You'll let them become aware, of all your pains.

In the faint light, The metallic shines,
The red streaming down your arm,
Is beauty in your eyes.

It begins to puddle, at your feet,
The smell,the taste, all too sweet,
The dizziness astounding,
The darkness, surrounding.

A last chuckle, filled with craze,
As your memories begin to fade,
A deep sigh, a sound of relief,
As all the hurt, is finally released.

No note to explain, the reasons why,
Because in their own minds, they will find,
The pain they've caused, the life they destroyed,
Your heart that they emptied,
Leaving it black and void,

Of any emotion, of any life,
No energy to try, No energy to fight,
No faith, no prayers, no God,
The one thing, you thought,
Would end it, would make it stop.

No prayer helped, no begging or tears,
No, instead of faith, you were filled with fears,
Hidden, isolated, slowly losing your mind,
After years of contemplating,
It was finally time.

They try to stop you, but it's too late,
Take the knife to your throat,
And accept your fate.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Note: This poem is meant to be read fast, and out loud. Pausing only momentarily at the commas. As you read it you will notice you will feel slightly short of breath, as the character in this poem was feeling, at that moment.

Inspiration: Ah, only mere feelings, thoughts, and ideas that seem to cloud and claw at my mind daily. Though I have attempted in the past, I have learned to cope with my depression/Anxiety, ect. Through poems. I enjoy writing them, and they seem to ease my mind quite a bit.


Another dagger.
What number now?
Knives, not steel but ice
spreading slow venom
that numbs-- almost.
It leaves lingering pain
followed by eventual,
cold death of my heart.

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A Hole: Pain Through The Brain


I waked up,

In the mirror I had my closeup.

There was a hole in my throat,

Fastly I slipped into my coat.


I went to the hospital,

I was worried I recall.

I gave the fault to Abra,

Who was able to the macabre.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A dream I had.

who am i?


when all confidence has left you,

and you feel bereft of love,

forsaken by those who claimed they cared,

that's when i'll fit you like a glove.


i'll wait behind your neediness,

and use arrogance, he's my friend,

i'll have you projecting all of me 

onto children, women, and men.


that's when i do my finest work,

and all of me i'll bring,

when others up and leave you,

i'll infect you, and do my thing.


my presence will be cunning,

my manipulation sly,

i'll have you wrapped around me,

you won't even ask yourself why.


the more of you i can consume,

the larger we become,

to contaminate all is what i want,

'cause YOUR pain, to me, is FUN!


a fiendish scowling wimp, you see,

a psychopath, my dear,

enjoying all your suffering,

your kidnapper...i'm fear.





10:07 AM 6/22/2013 ©

Author's Notes/Comments: 

the only thing to ever fear, is fear itself. ~franklin d. roosevelt~


and that's the truth.