TRISTAN YOUNG - POEMS

Tristan Young lives in Tucson, AZ and aside from writing he manages his family's car wash business. His prose piece "Lost in Transition" was recently accepted by Scars Publication, and is forthcoming in Down in the Dirt Magazine's June 2020 issue.  
​instagram.com/@tristan7young 

"From the Depths"


I was struggling to come up with an idea for a painting. I take great pride in creating something unique the world has never seen before (whether or not it is admirable is another story). Surely I cover topics or scenes even thoughts that were not originally my own. But the end result is just that, something original.
   I sat in silence as I envisioned a painting complete yet ever changing. At the center was the back of a man's head and upper shoulders. To the left stood an angel whispering in his ear. She had a worried look on her face becuase the man was tuning her out and thus muffling her voice. On his right a demon grinned as she yelled her loudest. I wasn't sure what to paint him looking at but felt it best to paint the background a fading color mystery. And then the memory of Donald Duck and other cartoons came rushing in. I had instantly lost much of my interest in the idea. I don't have anything against Donald Duck but considering my paintings are abstract, I wasn't fond of the idea that it might too closely resemble a cartoon. Still I felt it was interesting and worth exploring.
 Admittedly I have yet to paint this image. But have still found reason to name it. I thought to myself, What could be more different? Naming a painting with a poem describing it. Now I don't know that it hasn't been done before, but I do know that I have never seen it.
   From the depths where evil temps us, in the shadows of our minds, I hear the angels calling, like whispers deep inside.

"Hanging On My Shoulders"

My heart aches with pain that's reborn in slumber. Mind, body, and soul in strain. I can feel a heavy pressure hanging on my shoulders. I used to think it was the weight of the world, but I can't hide from my demons. Memories are bothered, pain found life through us, from sins of our fathers. Choice is chance toward the ever changing morrow. What comes next? I pray for glory. But in the end, without change, it's the same old story.

I was inspired to write "Hanging on My Shoulders" after watching "The Place Beyond the Pines" a movie from 2012. Some of my favorite stories are those that surprise you with originality. "A Place Beyond the Pines" did this for me twice. Spoiler Alert, when the main character is killed, and his assassin immediately becomes the new lead. And yet again when we see how the lives of these men's children are directly affected by their fathers actions. "From sins of our fathers".

​"Not for Me"

It's only you that cares about your own self consciousness,
affecting in a manner, we would really rather not,
but for those who so forgot, my heart pines for naught,
the world is twisted, but i'm trying, we're only living because we're dying.

So lost in vein, so lost I forgot to maintain, and keep it all in balance,
I know all I pretend to hide,but i'm so lost, broken and lame,
while you moved on, I stayed the same.

Complex and simple, I can make a mountain from
a molehill, get back up, and go uphill.

Continually I continue the continuity of my ambiguity.

We all sow, and so we sow what we reap,  
pride doth go before the fall, but what if when I die, I die standing tall?

Heartache and sorrow, the pain fills up holes that are hollow.

I feel grown but apart, like I've gotten colder at heart.

We strain and then we tax on, dreams come true or just be gone,
she played you well, you played a sad song,
discern for disdain, do you really think the world is just a mind game?

Pity those who beg, not borrow,
today there was pain, but maybe not tomorrow.

So much is still uncertain, will you walk  in the dark,
or pull back the curtain?

I often argue with myself, and in my mind, I wrestle with the devil,
but I still can't see, how it is, that you could ever settle,
with all that you got, through hard times or not,
when you know just what you want.

It breaks my heart the way you look at me,
I see in you all that I need, and even though I have a plan,
 like everyone else, you only see me as I am.

I can feel i'm at a loss, and as I wander, i'm not so sure that I am lost,
but I cant say i'm found, and honestly, i'm not where I thought i'd be,
but I won't accept, that this is supposed to be.

That's fine for you, just not for me.

​

"What's the Meaning of My Life"

I so want to be the man you see in me, but my fear of knowing who I am, and to what I believe i'm capable, hindering on my actions, it doesn't add up at least for now. I look for reason and answers, for understanding and guidance to cope with my humility, flesh and bone, and thoughts of cancer. Depressed to know the lowest low, in falling I rise to know the highest high. Whats the meaning of my life? What's the meaning of my strife? And how did it make me stronger? Why does time fly by? But when you're young life feels so much longer. My hunger unable to appease, you do or you dont. I'm so misunderstood, but i'm hoping you'll understand. I can see hate in your eyes, but our own fate we decide, yet tragic filled, the sun still continues to rise.
Ambitions fade at days pass, I ran the race but finished last, in need of an extension, and yet I press the pension, lessons learned in succession. If only we cared then for what we lost today, I drop to my knees and pray, but when I look up, the world's still on my shoulders, and i'm still lost, it doesn't matter what I need, i'm too broke to pay the cost, without money you starve, go hungry, i'm hoping for help, but i'm stuck hating myself, for not finding answers, I'm cancer, infecting all of me and others, winter, summer, another year has passed, time doesnt slow down it moves past, on the side of the road and my car needs gas, perspectives range, dreams seem further and strange, but i'll take the abuse because I refuse for my motives to change.
Therein lies pain in my heart, unable to express the stress of true art, despite the smile across my face my eyes bleed tears and insecure fears have surfaced, I curse my cursed life, the way i'm living, makes it hard to find meaning. Overbearing, unchanging, max pressure gauging, my eyes are closed, while my mind's open hallucinating. Lose all sense of reality, the scale leans lacking harmony, in our uncertain life the only certain thing is our life's a casuality, born to live, I live to die, you who waste your time, tragedy.

​

"Robert Frost's Personal Rejection Letter"

Dear Robert Frost,
Thank you very much for your submission to our journal. Although there were no visible changes regarding your submission status, and despite the doubled expected response time, we must pass on your poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". While we enjoyed your submission, we tend to view rhyming as a redundant art form. No poem or lyric could possibly offer any true coherent meaning worthy of recollection. The rhyme is for the child, done solely for the pretty sound is makes. We hope that you pay to submit again and please order a subscription to our journal, where you can read pretty sounding prose.
We wish you the best of luck in placing this anywhere else, unless it happens to win some literary award our magazine could have taken credit for.
Best Regards,
Many Modern Literary Journals  
M.M.L.J.
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The last submitted piece is a hypothetical rejection letter written to Robert Frost, if he were a young poet today. While rhyming poetry was once considered standard it has become far less common. Even listed as a negative aspect in many literary magazine submission guidelines. And yet across every genre of music rhyming lyrics remain as popular as ever.