Howdy! Want to experience growing up with me? Back in the day, when I was in a mood, I wrote poetry. Here are some of the better ones. Note! Better does not mean less cringe. Enjoy.
What Never Was
Wrenched from peace by blare and whine!
Oh what has gone, for such I’ll pine.
Desires, from which I’d best fly,
made vivid by the brush of mind’s eye.
Should not sting, much as it does—
the ache of losing what never was.
Smell as Sweet?
A name is just a name,
and therefore, not to blame.
But if of a title less terribly dull,
would I not be a rarer soul?
I wonder, when dubbed with the mundane,
how can I be, but plain?
Is that my curse, to fade from mind—
a face of fog, memories shan't find?
Perhaps of a title less oft told,
I too should be unique, even bold.
What a rotten lot, sharing this title, famed.
If only 't'were another, might'n't I be untamed?
A Day in the Life
Held by the grid,
beneath the iron lid.
Oppressed by the tedium,
the stress of each day,
pushing in from every way.
Meaningless in motivation,
obligations a cage,
with naught to engage.
Accompanied by the boredom,
the only true escape within,
apart from the impenetrable din.
Reach inside to tear away.
Safe through the ever temporary
creation of one’s sanctuary.
The only real defense,
so that one may retain what’s sane,
lives in fantasies of the mundane.
oh, to one’s self, deceive.
Of such wavering lies beware—
for without’s substitute is despair.
Harmful truths, they burn away,
at this bliss gained, what cannot stay.
Clinging to a gilded shine,
grazed by life beyond the line.
Last below, above, between,
As bit by bit, drained by blurred scene.
Fantasies no longer brushed aside,
washed away with the sterling tide.
Ravenous for affection,
in my silence, calling out for attention—
Do you hear me?
Wishing I was of superior selection,
or at least of uncommon convention—
Do you see me?
My pump, this course opposes suspension,
creeping through the bars of desperate detention—
Do you feel me?
In snapshots, seeking direction,
honing this self to your every correction—
And still, you do not want me?
Did you know this would be?
Bleeding in and out of reach—
couldn’t you spare me the speech?
Not going to “lead me on,”
then why is it that you’ve not gone?
Sandpaper words rub at me raw—
is this the path that you foresaw?
As you fear while I believe—
do you really want me to leave?
Yes, You do. I see that now,
but have I left the strength for how?
Struck with the blight of all you say,
I'm forced to ask, “Why do I stay?”
Was I created wrong,
left to fester in the murk too long?
I see my stark reflection,
unholy cast in your expression.
Am I so low in your eyes?
Such disdain, you don’t disguise,
as you race to ginger care,
veils unset, matching my stare.
If ever you valued me at all,
you’d have slowed, softened my fall.
Now I read your true detest—
fresh pangs at jabs past thrown in jest,
every comment and reproachful glance—
self doubt a deftly sharpened lance.
I let you in as none before—
who but you has seen my core?
You saw my day and somber night,
you saw all and thus chose flight.
Not to be lost in sable shame,
you fled instead to one oft tame.
Can you be blamed for choosing sane,
clasping simplicity over pain?
What was I, but naught to you?
What am I, but self-made rue?
Piercing through sinew and bone,
cleaving self, I did atone.
And so you slunk quietly away,
eyes shut to my grisly sway,
inching past each sliver, piece—
warmly masked in ginger fleece.
Holding a fresh bloom to your nose,
she bade you breathe not blood, but rose.
As you fled beyond this bleak frame,
into the glare of the sun’s knowing aim—
bringing her mouth to yours, she said,
“Let us speak not of the dying, the dead.”
Adding, “Allow what wretched shards to rot.
They were never what you sought.”
Hold me down and catch my breath,
stand immune as I'm bereft.
Cracks splinter, fall from my shell,
still unchecked, you spy no hell.
A void, searing heart and mind—
what did you expect to find?
False struck claims of solitude,
lay you in her interlude—
Nuzzling her muzzle, no fuss,
as I dream of you, we, us.
Would you hurt were you alone—
uncoddled, would you atone?
Striding forth, away, away,
subtly burned to shades of grey,
far from each and every blade,
tearing out the piercing spade,
leaving crimson in my wake,
losing less each step I take,
escaping images long tortured,
forcing this gaze ever forward.
Only the gail to hold me close—
a numbness spreads,
killing your ghost.
Two decades lengthy limb,
or fetus on the headstone's rim?
Mute and deaf to all but pain,
crimson pool of the newly slain,
congealing naught in overflow,
wounds expanding as I sew,
paranoid gatherings but true—
weaving an image of her and you.
Lightning sounds at thunder's crack—
you drip deception, mildewed black.
Trekking through asbestos smoke,
spreading poison, do you choke?
Clawing my neck, gasping for air,
shedding clumps of skin and hair—
was it worth all that I bled
to have her with you in my stead?
Loose The Arrow
clear of life’s debris.
Cleaned of all of me—
Blank slate, fuck fate.
Loose the arrow,
Empty me, flood me dry.
Purify and petrify,
each weeping shame—
Wedded of dark?
Wet my spark.
Rid me one beseeching glare.
Take away this aching stare.
Primer over shambles said,
please finally still
this fumbling head.
to say or see,
Then who or how,
would I then be?
Tentative joy and hesitant lust—
what have I learned, if not to trust?
Only through such falsehoods gained—
what happiness have I, if not strained?
Clinging to love’s warped reflection,
this I’ve earned—sterling affection?
And yet to stare in truth’s cold eyes,
to watch them fall, my wall of lies—
piece by piece, I too should crumble.
Within, for not without, I stumble.
Denying the obvious,
prolonging cruelty’s return,
Choking on each syllable,
“Why does his love burn?”
Encase my limbs in sheets of ice,
ease the tundra across my form.
Shield me from longing’s vice,
chilling through to inner storm.
Freeze what foolish turmoil
was born of another’s warm lies.
Sleet run lengths of resilient coil,
from my pooling eyes.
Closer, more tightly than any fabric, wrap—
suffocate the unrelenting part.
Slow passions every thunder clap,
in the cooling of my misguided heart—
Until it quits, beating just one last,
submitting finally, to winter’s stoic hold,
cleansing me of what fiery past,
in this release from affections, told.
Woolen covers, coarse but warm,
enveloped kindly your slumbering form.
Woven thick of varied hue,
hand stitched patterns cradled you;
every knot laced thrice with care,
and despite the fraying of disrepair,
was proven durable, dependable,
or as you’ve shown—expendable.
Tossed aside like a stained aged rag,
into a rubbish strewn black bag—
I see your bed cloaked in luxury,
scarlet silk replacing the rudimentary,
glossy, thin, embellished so delicately,
beauty outweighing practicality.
Sleep you now beneath rouge splendor,
wrapped in frailty, do you shiver?
Bent low, worn thin, and of ailing leaves, shorn,
flesh browned with age—of what value is sage?
The supple sunward lean cast me splintered, brittle,
barren both of dreams and dewy lies,
while my stem cracks with every whispered blow,
awaiting the final strike of sharpened steel—
I see the flashing glare now, reminiscent
of his warm gaze a season past,
when the sun belonged to me.
A pleasurable sting teasing the strongest muscle,
passing inward warmly, gently below,
slipping, sliding, seeking a crevice to nestle—
then, aghast, a tickle to a tremble, threatens to blow.
The rising heat climbs with needled fingers,
blades piercing, marking the narrow path,
etching sharply, leaving a message that lingers—
to drink merlot is to face its burning wrath.
Samwise whines at the croak of dawn,
and yes, I mean croak, not crack—
In response I moan, I yawn,
my voice half cough, half hack.
I love my boy, I really do,
and I know he needs to pee—
But I wake unrested, drenched in rue,
called from dreams, unhappily.
So I rise, sighing, flinch, and go,
collaring, leashing little Sam—
Only then turning to rouse my doe,
Sonmi would rather count each lamb.
But with one up, best wake the other,
lead them until they've self relieved—
then drag them home, past dogs, man, bother,
distracting, playacting; they must be deceived.
Should they witness that which moves
(bird, squirrel, cat, dog, man, or child),
they’ll bark and strain, thus it behooves
me to call them, prevent the onset of wild.
So he wakes me, I deal, and we walk,
side by side, me with my puppies, two.
In time we head home, though they balk.
By then I'm up, while they've rest to pursue.
Home, Sam and Sonmi clamber into bed.
Curling up, they burrow, beneath blankets entwine—
and I begin my day half dead,
nodding at memes of mothers drinking wine.
Figured I'd end on a lighter note! Well there you have it. Many lines of peak angst. Thanks for stopping by! Toodles!