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Hullo fellows. I decided I'm gonna post some of my poetry. IF it seems dark and depressing, or emoshit, sorry, I probably wrote it when I had depression. I hope you enjoy. Do leave some comments.
Self-Loathing
I hate those
Who speak behind my back
Who slander and sputter
And spit and hate
I hate those
Who smile in my pain
I hate those
Who look down on me
As if I were their servant
I hate those
Who look up to me
As if I were their lord
But most of all
I hate that.
You see
The one I hate
Is me
Ennui II
It's such a
Bitch
Being always
Rich
Originality
If I'm not me,
Then who am I?
Am I the man in the corner
Tears running down his face?
Or the one in the party
With the tears only in his heart?
Am I still the loser
Who wishes for death?
Or would I ignore the problems
As if I were deaf?
If I'm not me,
Then who am I?
At Fate's End
As I sit in the dark,
Staring at the world,
I see a road.
It winds and winds,
Signs passing me by.
Occasionally, I see another driver.
We acknowledge each other,
But soon, fade away,
Back into the darkness.
Alone.
After all, it is only my life
That I steer.
My breath is heavy,
My heart beats still.
Yet, it yearns for no one.
My eyes stare,
And my thoughts run,
Stopping not even for rest.
As I see the rocks,
The cliff's edge,
I think of the impact.
The bottom.
Relief, it screams.
And I say,
Persevere, my friend.
And God stays silent.
But I can feel Him.
His beckoning tone.
Watching, in silence.
At His art, His child.
In this moment of despair.
I hear the laughs
Of all I've met.
The love they had
Echoing in my mind.
I wonder where they are
On this dark desert road.
Do they ride together,
Or alone like me?
I hear the drums
Of heaven beating.
The Western Wind
Calling for my soul.
I hear the voices of angels,
Crying through the night.
My engine roars,
The only sound in my ears.
Besides the wind,
Tearing at my capsule.
The walls around me
Stretch and turn.
My heart,
It wretches in my chest.
I feel alone.
God is silent.
Where were they when I needed them most?
Have I been forsaken?
Left at the door.
Sitting in the fog,
As they walk away.
The party goes on,
Yet I sit alone.
Staring at the dark.
When I drink, I drink alone.
For it is not for fun I do.
It is to get through everyday life.
Not for those people too.
This cup in hand,
Rotted juice.
Some form of being "cool".
I see the tears,
Mixing in.
The sadness falls on deaf ears.
I'm on that road again,
Alone,
Despite the crowds.
I steer alone.
No passengers.
No cargo.
Just me and my clothes.
And so, shall I ride.
Until the day,
My fuel ends.
And the road
Must stop.
The Sculpture
I see the sculpture.
The work of art,
So beautiful.
Her marble skin,
Shining in the florescent light.
Smooth, white.
Pure.
Perfection.
At least the only kind
That humans could obtain.
The Fated Day
I can only hope and wish
That the day I die,
It is not alone in a hospital bed.
Or from some selfish act.
But one of love, the one I never show.
A sacrifice, but for the life of another.
Fire and Brimstone
I see the crowds;
Shuffling,
Sheeping,
Schlopping.
I hear the cries;
Echoes,
Faint roar
In the cold moonlight.
Where is our friends
When we need them most?
Where were our leaders?
Our kings and lords,
But suckling on the fat tit of
The hard work of us.
Yet no one notices.
Am I alone
In this horrid observation?
Why?
Can't do much of anything right,
So why do anything at all?
When every action results in failure,
Or worse:
Lack of progress.
I see no progression,
No advance,
No gain.
Pain, I see,
Suffering, I watch every day.
Lying, hating,
Dishonestly, people live,
Slanderous action after
Miserly exploit.
Why?
Whispering Behind My Back
I hear their sniveling voices,
Scritching and scratching in the back of my mind.
I hear every slander, every insult,
Like a punch to eye.
A sucker punch.
Why won't they say it to my face?
I've grown used to the looks.
Parents stare at me as if I am Lucifer,
Here to lead their child to Hell.
Yet the children laugh.
I do not know why,
Nor do I know what they see in me.
All I see is blackened sludge.
The experiences of my life
Have cooled my heart to obsidian.
But the laughs of children
Do warm it so.
Unappreciated
I always feel unappreciated.
As if all I do,
Every helping action, every bit of charity
Goes unnoticed.
I feel like all I do
To impress, to show my love
Is ignored.
No one cares, why should I?
Traveling
Step by step,
Walking one mile by another,
I travel.
The sounds of nature
Soothe my soul.
Life goes on.
Observing, souring,
Knowing it all.
Assuming, alerting,
Sowing it all.
The coffee's ready,
The skillet is hot.
The fruit is fresh,
But I am not.
Breakfast is here,
Served by a fat woman,
Midwestern, matriarchal.
She pours me another mug,
As I glance into the kitchen
It's funny to think that
My entire life is
In that pack
At my feet.
But, hey, that's
How it goes.
The food is warm,
Nourishing,
It'll carry me to the next city,
I say to myself.
Just another mile of road,
Then I'll return.
Treadmill
The light sound of motorized hum,
The duldrums of a normal life,
Repeat after repeat.
Event after event.
Does anything ever change?
I see myself on a treadmill,
Never changing my distance.
Never catching that tempting
Carrot that hangs in front of my face.
Oh, how her beauty outshines the distance.
How my love makes it so painful.
How the distance never changes.
Whether emotional, physical, spiritual.
Life...
Goes on.
I am tired.
The goal unachievable.
It is about time
I get off.
Metaphorical
I am the wind.
I am bullshit.
Vodka
Vomit
Hate
Love
Hunger
Music
Life
Death
Us
Them
Red
Blue
Green
Red again
Theory
Proof
Fixing
Can superglue mend broken hearts?
Can duck tape stop a leaky soul?
Can I spot weld my life together,
Before I grow old?
Los Angeles
The smell of acacias & eucalyptus, Cayenne, sizzling meat...
Somewhat gunshots, the heartbeat of
Traffic. Rush, report, a tiny world consisting
Of all races, Latino & Chicano, (all Mexican to some White men),
Viet & Korean,(wonder what their fathers were doing in the wars), countless and Africans. The -oids. Negroids, Cauca–
With truth and justice for all. Is it
Truth or shameless opportunity? And, I return to that bench where I was overwhelmed by
That old grey smell, a tree of some sort
Its leaves in shambles around me.
Once again, I am romanticized by
The smell of acacias & eucalyptus.
Scratches
Thirty five thousand feet above,
Incapsulated betwixt aluminum,
Plastic, and a certain sense of uncertainty,
I look upon a dream scape,
Thirty five thousand feet below,
At the deep scars in the skin of our Mother,
The wrinkles in Her forehead,
Scratches from previous abuse.
This case of domesticity, a violent
Act by her love, Time, our Father.
Time.
Thirty five thousand feet above,
I wait for a destination,
A touch on the
Dreamscape
Thirty five thousand feet below.
Clouds
I write this with an aspect of apprehension
For those little fluffballs are always a muse
For the many lost writers.
However, at this time,
I watch them
In their
Natural
Arrangement,
Their comfortable home.
Where they are with friends
Soft
The man sat sipping his café au laît casually at the glass table. Waiters and waitresses casually took orders and dishes, and placed coffees and blends, teas and desserts. The soft sound of the French beach calmed his shaken nerves, and the hard sound of feet on cobblestone and voices of pedestrians and workers made him relaxed, a sense of community with complete strangers.
He was in France on a business trip: his recent outburst in a meeting with the Board—the all-powerful Board of directors, whose decisions were the basis of his life—had led the Company to believe that it was time for an extended vacation for one of their best and brightest, which had perfectly coincided with the reminder of the extended absence of one Chief of Foreign Affairs(FR); the transfer was quick and painless for the young, family-less man. His status as an extended bachelor eased his extended move.
Returning to his excursion at the café, he took in a deep breath and calmly garnered the attention of one of the waitresses. A petite, young girl with curls of lovely, light brown hair, she spoke very eloquent French with the slight lisp that the businessman had associated with the region. He quickly, softly, inconspicuously ordered a refill of his drink, as well as an additional order of sugary, fruit-filled beignets.
Despite the stress of a breakdown, transcontinental moving, relocation, abandonment, he was strangely calm. His ability in the Company had ensured his continued occupation in the Company, and he considered this a minor hindering in his rise up the Corporate Ladder, a vacation from the chaos of New York. The Company had barely any French assets, and that branch was simply made as an avenue for the pampered children of one of the higher employees—after all, even those at the top were employees to the Board of Directors—for sexual excursions and hedonistic binges.
His calm divulgence into his mind was suddenly interrupted by the introduction of another young French maid. She wasn't especially notice, by her special beauty had caught his sight, a naïve foal into the snare of a hunter. Locks of golden brown hair gently bounced with her gait, her smile was relaxed, friendly, as her lips weaved a ribbon of beautifully choreographed words. Her hands swung haphazardly, her legs following a moment behind. She laughed at the joke of one of her companions, the sound echoed in the heart of the businessman, melted his core, drowned his mind in thoughts of beauty. A casual search from her eyes caught the businessman's, and she smiled even more. However, she turned, following her friends, and disappeared around a corner.
The businessman sat there, awestruck, his mouth slightly ajar. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his latte. The hot, milky liquid flowed into his mouth, and, with that, his mind became sane again, and, although an entirely pleasant memory, the businessman turned his thoughts from the beautiful Frenchwoman, to business, and his triumphant return to New York.
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Escape will make me God.
Last edited by DaCrum on Thu Nov 01, 2012 3:56 am, edited 4 times in total.
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