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    That Which Gets in the Way
    That Which Gets in the Way
    That Which Gets in the Way
    Ebook97 pages47 minutes

    That Which Gets in the Way

    By A. M. Langston

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    About this ebook

    That Which Gets in the Way is the second poetry collection from American writer A.M. Langston and his third literary release. These poems were born out of a period in which the author faced deep depression. It is a dark, no holds barred confessional that takes the reader along on a ride to rock bottom and back. There are four parts to this collection, each one a milestone in the emotional journey. Part one reflects a struggle between depression, motivation, and inspiration. Part two showcases the beginning of progress up out of the pits of Langston's soul. Parts three and four are full steam poetry and haikus.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherA. M. Langston
    Release dateOct 13, 2017
    ISBN9781522087939
    That Which Gets in the Way
    Author

    A. M. Langston

    A. M. Langston is a restless millennial searching for meaning inside the wires and waves that make up the technology surrounding us during our every waking minute. Born in Illinois in 1988 and raised across the United States, he has called New Mexico home since 2004. "Couch to Couch, Never Leaving the House", Langston's first poetry collection, was published on June 21st, 2017.

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      Book preview

      That Which Gets in the Way - A. M. Langston

      That Which Gets in the Way

      A. M. Langston

      To triumph over thought

      Copyright © 2017 by Alex Langston

      Cover art © 2017 by Alex Langston and Andrew Linville

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

      www.amlangston.com

      Printed in the United States of America

      First Edition, 2017

      Part One

      one.pm

      who all walks with thee on foreign land,

      oh, holy one?

      none of us.

      our hands and heads ache

      we dare not leave our lives behind

      because we fear mortal men, unlike you.

      i trample not on road nor grass in europe.

      not with thee.

      two.pm

      words play no part in aiding

      but they, the tallest ones, bind them

      and mount them on tower walls

      under the rifle i used.

      three.pm

      once you get to a certain point down the tunnel

      there's a physical manifestation of your emotion

      the spirits knotted a rope around the back

      of my eyes

      and pull them through my spine

      the rope constantly gives and takes down

      the back of my neck

      for me

      the pain is missing expected landmarks

      how i'll never get to say goodbye

      as they do in fiction.

      there will be no madrid

      i think most of us don't get to say goodbye, though.

      four.pm

      there is no getting it out

      it does not come out

      you can open small windows

      across the globe

      but nothing gets to leave

      the room.

      five.pm

      i should have proposed

      deep in a glowing sea foam forest.

      someplace where sunlight shines

      through leaves

      but doesn't breach completely.

      there should have been running water nearby

      and flowers

      but i proposed in our loft near downtown

      albuquerque.

      a course was plotted and i deviated.

      it makes me weak to think of all

      the special things i've taken away from her

      because of my weak will.

      this is my doing

      but some part of her also yanks on the

      thick rope out the back of my skull.

      my tears are stolen by that rope

      trickle down it

      wet her hands

      they slip

      my soul drops off a cliff to its death

      in a vast brown garbage dump

      six.pm

      what would be empty spaces between

      rotting trash

      icebergs in the gray slush

      I am being pulled deeper into

      ice bergs I smack and gash

      the crown of my head on

      between those horrific chunks

      in what should be empty space

      where i could draw breath

      is instead a greasy, drying tar

      so thick it fills my mouth

      the pull of my lungs

      gasping for air in death

      can't pull that tar deeper down my throat.

      i chew it

      because what else is there to do

      as the goo

      in which i float

      expands my cheeks

      pins my tongue

      of course I vomit

      of

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