Consequences

Consequences

It is the façade that wakes her up and,

Leaves her covered in sweat on a cold night.

This wall of protection,

The consequence of spite.

 

It is the illusion of freedom, which propels her forward,

Leaving many paths and people upturned in her wake.

This wall of fading protection,

The consequence of what is at stake.

 

It is her coping mechanisms which hold her back,

The yearning of men to want her, a need to be alluring.

This broken wall of protection,

The consequence of having an esteem which needs reassuring.

 

It is the distraction from what causes her pain,

That is the real thorn in her side.

The lack of protection,

The consequence of becoming too old to run and hide.

 

Her act is getting old, already one has not believed it,

One has questioned it, and one has praised it, yet others can still be fooled.

This rebuilds and reforms her protection,

The consequence of moving to many “new” schools.

 

The long, sleepless nights have returned,

Broken only by the cusp of dawn,

When her questioning and doubt return themselves to their abyss,

In the dark corners of her mind.

This rips and tears her ephemeral protection.

The consequence of being observant, yet wishing to be blind.


The façade is to protect herself and others,

From what she will and could do.

The necessity no longer protection,

The consequence of discovering yourself, and learning a thing or two.

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was the very first poem I wrote. It always give me a nostaligic sense of how far (I believe) that I've travelled. 

Seasons of Life!

Folder: 
Life and Choices

Yeah because I would not be the person I am today if not for those trials I endured.  Im' not ashamed of my past just some of the choices I made.    I wrote a poem about that.

 

Seasons of Life

 

The Winds of Change have come and gone, 

Like Seasons in our Life.

As life goes on..we Live and Learn; and Lose some things at times.

Some precious as a child we've raised, or even Gold so fine.

Like crystal from the hourglass, whose sands run free with time.

We live and learn so many things, so valuable given time.

We look towards our creator, to guide us through at times.

But Life inevitably passes, never knowing where it might lead.

Never looking back on the past. Never really seeing the need.

And sometimes it's not just us, whose Life must take a turn.

Sometimes it is a Loved One..

whose presence becomes missed and yearned.

So choose your paths very wisely, 

for these choices you make are your own.

They're there with you for the rest of your Life.

Like a stone cutter cuts in a stone.

Written & Composed By: Denise Hall-Campbell

Proverbs 16.9 We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.

PSALM 24:4 Show me the right path, O Lord, point out the road for me to follow.

Proverbs 16:33 We may throw the dice, but the Lord Determines how they fall. 

 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this at a very difficult time in my life.  The separation from my son, the emotional separation affecting me deeply, inspired this poem and the prose I chose to put those very emotions and deep insights into words.  It is a shame that we can't go back and do a do-over, and know then what we know now.  But then again for everything there is a purpose and reason that we do not understand.  Only God knows what the big picture is, how he works evetually towards our good and future whether we know it or not.  I am thanking him  now and each and everyday that I can have the opportunity to make a better life a better future for my son, for our son Wyatt.  We Love you Baby Boy and have missed you so so much and are so Happy to make a better future for you in any way we can. 

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Cleanse & Closure Inc.

He'd shattered where he landed,
his composure very fleeting like
the pieces he had scattered when
he'd found a proper valve to release.
His descent was a whistling one.
Plummetting like bombs in warring skies;
his explosion went mostly unheard and unseen,
and nobody called us until just now.
Complaints of all the crying dust
and this denseness to the air where he'd
flattened against the squarish stones
were all we'd had to signal us
to where he'd hit and stayed and gone.
And now that we've addressed the lot,
people will shove aside, as if
we're just here to inconvenience them,
and not to find the pieces of what once had been a man.

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Consequences of Complacence

I come from a land ravaged by suburbia

and pillaged by consumerism.

Savage businessmen wielding briefcases bursting with misery—

documents and papers detailing the death of society,

the rise of tyranny and bureaucracy,
the reign of money.

The fame of capitalism reeks of concrete and iron,
chemical cleansers and emporiums of oil drums.

Industrial war guns beat the rhythm of the new society,
give the view of this despondency,
this chaotic wreck of a failed experiment
somehow managing
to perpetuate itself,

still able to infiltrate ourselves and be absorbed

by that impetuous sponge,
that inherently bilious,
developed ambitious
mass of empiricism,
reasoning imperialism as logical and somehow making capitalism

suitable,

dressing the able in suits,
putting the apes in cages for entertainment on weekends when their boss says,
“Take the day off.”

The suits rip their identity asunder and indulge at their pillaged lands as a vacation

just to go back on Monday and repeat the process.

An assemblage of machine gears and levers automate the system,

driven by goals and future-mindedness,

unconscious sustainment of egoism,
despite the conflict,

regardless of intuitive compulsion reasoned as abhorrent by specialized experts.

I without me is revolt.

‘Tis the purity gleaming through prisms producing vast vibrancy—

breathtaking beauty leaves me lightheaded,
discordant with this SHIT propagated by elected leaders,
collective breeders of ideas and identities,
destroyers of loving societies.

An intoxicating smog fills our lungs with stable satisfaction,
or at least adequate apathy to leave us complacent,

but carrying the catarrh,

coughing up blood and tar,
emitting exhaust like a diesel truck.

Poisoned by our own action, a different course must discernibly be followed,
perhaps no course at all, but the presence of just one essence:
Love

-Ryan K. Fuller

Author's Notes/Comments: 

No comment

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The price of immortality

Folder: 
Poems

As my withered body burns.
My blood filled stomach churns.
Sanguine tears fall to the ground.
My soul is lost, never to be found.
I feel my limbs grow colder.
For immortality I fear I've sold her.

The blood boils and tears.
Through her hollow eyes she stares.
Into my hollow soul unsound
Now I sit down by the river bed.
Regret flowing through my head.
But to the night, I am wed.
My body blistered burns instead.
To plight of the ever piercing sunlight.

I long for her even though she's gone.
Still watching me from her cold stone grave.
Her voice, faintly whispers like a song.
However she is free, and not a slave.
To this torturous world of the darkened day.
Now my life is nothing but a bloody cry.
Sometimes I wish I could join her and die.
But my soul is lost and left unsound.
If I was to truly die and placed beneath the ground.
Never again would my weary soul come around..

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was wrote a long time ago. Everyone thinks of the benefits of not dying, but what about the impending consequences, because every decision has them..

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