Finding Myself Again, poem by Drem

I’ve been trying to put this together for two weeks now. I’ve been going through a lot.

Truly I feel like a failure.

The one thing that has kept me fulfilled is this and it’s been hard to get my head straight enough to put something of use together.

I REALLY HATE THIS POEM. It took FOREVER it edit. And fix it again. And add more stuff. And take away other stuff. Edit, edit, edit. And, I’m still not pleased.


Anyway, here we go.

Let me know what you think.

Let me know if you find it interesting.

Let me know someone is listen.

Finding Myself Again, a poem by Drem

2012 & rewritten January 2016

“Tugging me down

the road.

Envelope is in my hand.

Traveling to put it in the mailbox.

It’s addressed to


because in my mirror

I’m not there.

And I occasionally miss

that someone I used to know.

Used to see

in passing.

Who I’d have casual conversations with

about my favorite Starbucks coffee

and narcotic of the month.

But it’s going nowhere.

I’m going nowhere.

No one can read anything


Nothing more than a few sentences,


A herd

takes shape

within my arm’s length.

Fidgeting, twitching,

on the pavement,

on our way we go.

Now we’re all

not even

on some stimulant,

as we’re spazzing out,

trying to write back to ourselves.

We’re just overly


by the latest graphic cards

of the real word.

We don’t get out


We’re all the same


All shadows of us

on the way

to find ourselves again.

Who we are, again.

I still try.


Facing seagulls

on the island

in my mind.

On the island

I live on

that’s polluted from toxic fumes

and torn up

by aluminum cans.

Kicking them.

We kick them.

Darting our eyes on the silver reflection

from one gleaming dent

to another.

Mind occupied-


Keep going-

almost there.

We’re still searching

for the faint breath.

Our surroundings

are anti-bacterialized

for our see-through selves.

Our bodies-

void of bones and veins and tendons

and flesh

can’t get sick

soaked in pinesole.

Gliding over

drenched flat cement

with that letter

to our former selves,

we look a little pretty.

Pretty drifters.

Silvery, slim, lifeless,

eyeless beings.

We tried speaking out loud

to get the point across

to make this pointless trek


But, it didn’t work.


Lack of true action.

We don’t actually use our vocal chords

because we don’t have them.

My memory’s full of topics

that don’t help

as I try to not step on the cracks,

hopping over each one.


I’m keeping occupied.

I’m full of useful subject matter

that I consumed

when sleep was a mere dream.

Out of reach.

It’s always out of reach.

I’m out of reach

to the mess of my memories.





to places I’ll never go again

and phone numbers

of people I haven’t seen

in too many years to count.

So many years

have passed

that I can’t remember

their faces,

their smiles,

fake smiles

and lies.

It doesn’t matter.

I miss them.

I miss them.

I miss me.

The road just gets longer now

as I reminisce.

Most others fall off,

drift away in the direction of the light wind.

They let it push them.

I don’t.

I don’t let it push me.

I’m tugged forward.

Even as the envelope

falls from my fingerless hands

I go on

to find me.

I must be somewhere.

I couldn’t have just disappeared…”

(c) Drem 2016


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