Derek Lindberg

The artist formerly known as: "The Boss" and "Big D." Now goes by Derek Lindberg or "Big Papa." English student at UW-Green Bay. Amateur writer of poetry and soon novels and short stories.

Love and Young Love

Love comes in fury making one feel dreary
In attempting to understand love’s tempting
As the endeavor’s rival is eccentricity’s arrival
With wondrous warmth as love comes forth
A guest in a happy heart’s wholesome start.

Delicate days decline to solitary star shine
Stars don’t let us miss the longing loneliness
Casts upon a vacant heart not complacent
When its last guest gasps at altering grasps
That takes part in a coming-of-age heart.

Love lost is depressing but better than repressing
Our live’s youthful yearning for love’s learning
To relieve an alienated soul of teenage droll
But there is something satisfying in the eyeing
Of the splitting of ‘one’ heart for love’s queer art.

The love I once knew has turned into a shrew
But a ‘no’ on my chest’s solemn vacancy crest
Keeps my heart beating all the while fleeting
With fondness as I reminisce of the ridiculous
That once cradled my heart in a cobbled cart.

I remember the feeling of love and the stealing
Of another’s affection as it’s my only direction
But my soul is now wiser than any one miser
So the affection it seeks is its own that peaks
For one whose heart it could never be apart.

Love cannot be defined but it is the most divine
And scariest feeling from which we need healing
But if it wasn’t hard we wouldn’t dive into disregard
As it would not share the glory of its many stories
And we’d remain in fetter as we’d never try to better.

Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted—to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself….It felt damned peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost.

—Edmund in Act 4 of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night

Valentine’s Day

Concern for my fair neighbor besieged my Valentine thoughts
For she had enrolled physical love to fill her heart’s vacancy
With hope that this would quench the desire of meaning in
The love she has lost.  

If only the detestable mirage that fouls her view of herself
Was foiled so that she could see the beauty that I see in her
And could understand why I wish to be the one to instill in her
The love she has lost. 

One day, whether you
are 14,
or 65

you will stumble upon
someone who will start
a fire in you that cannot die.

However, the saddest,
most awful truth
you will ever come to find––

is they are not always
with whom we spend our lives.

Beau Taplin, "The Awful Truth" {Hunting Season – 28 copies left} (via afadthatlastsforever)

Unfortunately, this is all too true. 

(via stilldayhurricane)

We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.

—Guildenstern in Tom Stoppard’s “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead”

Never met a wise man, if so it’s a woman.

—Kurt Cobain “Territorial Pissings”


What is it that makes a woman a true beauty
Which makes a man feel he is finally alive?
As they thought that definition was their duty
Their mold of women men did cheekily contrive.

Should it be men that are in charge of defining
All the inner-workings that make women “proper”?
We should allow women to do some refining
Because we’ve built a nonexistent heart-stopper. 

Is it beneficial that women love who they are
Or is it enough for women to fit a male ideal?
We should love their imperfections no hold bar
And love their true ambitions as these make them real. 


You see everyone’s breath,As you walk down the street,And everyone’s footprints In snow and in sleet.Look at your own breath.Look at your own feet.Then think of the peopleYou have yet to meet.And send some warm thoughtsTo each stranger you greet.


You see everyone’s breath,
As you walk down the street,
And everyone’s footprints 
In snow and in sleet.
Look at your own breath.
Look at your own feet.
Then think of the people
You have yet to meet.
And send some warm thoughts
To each stranger you greet.

The Most Common Mistake

Comforting was the simple innocence of a distant field
All was clear and warmest memories were the yield 
While within a head covered by youth’s unkempt hay
Were delusions of years swept up in the winds of May.

Sounds of the field are lively like the time of the scene
Uplifting being the result of this laughing choir’s sheen
Yet all kept a foolish yearning to be in a different place
They could not know that their friends they would erase.

Closing in on field’s edge a temptatious forest looms
Rising from the earth like a thousand wooden tombs
Holding the remnants of the liveliness our hearts lost
A soon to be memorial to the field which had not a cost.

So field falls away around the shrill tone of a bell chime
While we waste our waning innocence counting the time 
Never thinking twice about the bliss that we are leaving 
We throw ourselves into a wood blackened with grieving.

Within this forest we live forever toiling in pools of labor 
Only to achieve fortune by exiting the woods with sabre
Instead we cast away the last semblance of our free life
Severing the branches that had pushed away any strife.

Lakes of wealth begin as appealing to everyone’s eyes
Soon we see ugliness with the washing away of the dyes
We push each other aside for access to increased gain
Violence so prevalent we can’t be certain we’re still sane.

There is one lake that rather being of wealth is of regret
This lake reveals that with youth ugliness was not beset
As youths we made promises now questioned in epiphany
Have we now become everything we swore we’d never be?



Hance Alligood (ex-Woe, Is Me) wrote a blog about too many bands wanting to skip the local band phase and go straight to touring. You can read it below.

Read More