Month: February 2016

The Cycle Onward

ChainsawPenguin

image

Ending then,
Ending when?
Another day to memory send.
There you see, the path that winds,
Guided slowly by the unkind.
So haste the day that I may find,
A place to rest this tired mind.
One more night and one more only,
Before the troubled and weary stone me;
That eyeless face by moonlight shown me,
I shouldn’t follow but no one told me.
How I got past is not your concern.
Some like to listen and some like to learn,
This is a thing that I have observed,
That there are others who watch the world burn.

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Pacified

ChainsawPenguin

image

In my city by the sea,
To wait for what twilight may bring.
The setting sun, the moonlight sings:
“Come, there are such lights to see.”
Each light hoping for the next,
In response to them I say:
“Is there for me another way?
Or must my waiting be my trek?”
I sit and wait, and stare, and know.
Should I stand and walk the paved?
Guided by light in which I bathe? Perhaps.
I’d much rather be pacified though.

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A Dance in the Wind

ChainsawPenguin

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A light inside her fading, dying.
It wasn’t for the times of trying.
A candle in the wind stands little chance,
Those that dance with death still dance.
To make the most of this, now she
Reveals something else others rarely see,
A lesson for us if we are to learn.
And not our time like paper burn.
This is what she would have wanted,
Not her own great life here flaunted.
But to share the joy that she has found,
Before she leaves for heavens ground.

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Pain We Keep

ChainsawPenguin

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In the light of those that were,
Something else is there inferred.
Evidence before us burned,
Dark secrets there interred.
I dreamt the secrets then, were ferried,
To the opposing shore were carried,
With spoken words not yet buried
In our foolishness we tarried,
With the crushing guilt of what remains.
In our silence nothing gained.
There was no joy or peace. Only pain.
Our souls that day saw naught but rain.
This is the bed in which we sleep.
No peaceful dreaming, restful, deep.
No turning tide, no faithful leap,
This is the pain that we must keep.

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As the Flowers so are We

ChainsawPenguin

Death_to_stock_photography_bonus_floral_1

Born unto the floral
Delicate, fragile, fleeting.
Beautiful for a moment.
The next, wilting.
When shall they fall to fire?
When shall they be cut,
And cease to be?
Thrown to the stock,
To feed the fates that bind them.
Powerless to resist.
As the flowers so are we,
Unable to alter the forces that damn us.
Is that so evil?
All must die.
In our finite life,
May quality increase,
Rather than quantity.

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Get it Right

This poem is especially close to home for me because I suffer from PTSD and at times like this when it weighs me down, its harder to breathe than it should be.

Mocking Bird Down

Some days, I spend the whole day
feeling like as I walk,
as I move,
I leave behind a slight heat signature.
A trace.

Evidence that I was there.
Like my mind is bleeding. Like
my dreams and the bad things in them
have found a way
to come

out.

I miss time. Time misses me.
Conversations in anticipation of conversations
that will likely never happen.
Confrontation
that I am prepared for.
Because I have practiced.
Again,

and again,

and again, while making coffee.

The clock that stopped four days ago says
it’s lunchtime. The computer says I should have eaten
hours ago.

The blackness says
I should keep practicing.
Someone may come.
I may need to
be awake.

I missed the signs before.
Must practice.

Must get it right.

Whatever it is.

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Mistaken.

So, I’m “full of shit, and always have been”
according to choice words spoken by Oblivion,
I am busied with “feeling sorry for myself”
“throwing pity parties”, and inviting no one else
Damn, I guess this distant man is onto me
he caught me playing him and gaining NOTHING
in a flash, my character is bashed with bitter words
reaction to dissatisfaction best made by the immature
and, it’s by now so obvious how he’s dangling a string
and never stood a chance of accepting my complexities
sadly, it’s not too unusual in my own experience
my need to heal myself becomes a Monkey Wrench
and next thing I know, I’m every name but a nice one
because he couldn’t get me to crawl under his thumb
I’m obliged, to notarize my name to the realm of reality
I already have enough to sift through out of the debris
it’s just another case of the flip of the ol’ light switch
I’m just trying to get by, and I’m suddenly “full of shit”
it’s fine, if it soothes your mind to warp things conveniently
we can agree on one sure thing: that you have mistaken me.