sorrow

Clipped wings

When from my eyes flow bitter tears,

And when my heart grows full of fears,

You alone ask if I am ok,

And tell me that you want me to stay.

I thank you now for all your words,

That let me soar, just like the birds.

Though soon, again, I fall to the ground,

And know that I shall never be forever unbound.

A Fever

Folder: 
Voodoo

Brilliant warm reds

caress the darkening sky

A fever pitch of

colored emotion

I am not at all

at peace

Pieces come un glu ed

with blue blurred

lines and a hopscotch

of memories


Spinning and spinning

Eyes upward, heart heartward, feet floating

 

I can swim but sometimes drowning scares

the hell out of me

Inside. I stay there often; too often.

Too often, time is reduced to

tentative and fleeting moments.

Brilliant warm reds

caress the darkening sky

A fevered pitch of

colored emotion

I am not at all at peace

Pieces come un glu ed

Though, sometimes-

the glow of sunshine

defrosts my thoughts

and devastates my

structured palace

The walls, they tumble down

And, in the span of two small breaths

I step outside

to not just watch

but to become.

Two small breaths

-Laughter

Two small breaths

-Joy

Two small breaths

-Surrender

Two small breaths

-Drowning


Spinning and spinning

Eyes upward, heart heaving, feet frantic

 

The heavy drum of heartache

beats beats beats

I can swim

but only

if I stay inside

Only, inside.

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last light

Folder: 
open door's

The instruments of darkness filed her heart. Soul was foul as death. No light could shine threw. Anon calls out in whispers. Drum's and trumpets are playing in her wounded heart but she hears the call Anon,the unclear mystery. Doubtful it stood to her,it sounded sweet and she let it in. She opens her heart and let's the light in only to realizes the unclear whisper which called out Anon was he the devil and he took the last bit of light in her and left her for dead.

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tags:

The Abused

 

He was born in a rodent-infested hut, amid the broken screams of an abused woman and the furious shouts of a drunken man; those sounds never faded.

He had been there all his life.

He watched the generations pass by; he lived his life in each stage, under the watchful eyes of the same spirits that have always lurked there.

 

 

He is unwelcome-he interferes in the dull monotony of their lives

But he doesn’t, really-he never ventures into their existence-

Never shatters their perfect routine,

He merely peeps in from a distance, like a tourist at a zoo.

 

 

As the house burned, bright orange and red flames licking the night sky,

A boy of eight watched, a gash running down the side of his head.

That is a scar he will forever have to bear.

Holding that candle to the drapes and then quietly walking out, he wouldn’t regret

He was a murderer.

 

He walked out of what they called the kids’ dungeon, his gash now a pink scar,

Jagged and crooked, adorning the side of his face.

As other boys threw insults at him, he stole a brown hat with a large brim.

 

 

His painfully ordinary hat hides his cold eyes, as they observe and calculate

He is tall, but he slouches; his trusty cane always clenched tight between his white knuckles;

Some people make us instantly warm up to them, some make us shiver uncomfortably.

He is the latter.

 

He watched with pained eyes as his wife walked away.

The little boy on her shoulder reached back for him, crying too much to be coherent.

The people glared at him cruelly, telling him he was his own father.

He learned to shut his eyes and ears.

 

 

He is there, seemingly everywhere at once, as soon as the smiling sun makes his way up the sky;

He watches carefully as the village crawls to life,

The small shacks opening their worn down, unpolished doors, as curious, wary heads peek out at him,

Each of them turning away as he turns in their direction.

 

 

He watched in the mirror as his once youthful face grew old, like creases on thin paper;

He looked out of his window. An old lady smiled at him with sympathy.

She was the only one who had done that in a long time.

 

 

They talk about him-the women gossip during knitting sessions,

And the men make crude jokes about him as they labour in the fields.

Happy new parents warn their children fearfully, to steer clear of his mysterious figure.

That is why they scuttle away when he watches them-the same way he does everyone else.

 

 

He stared at the official document.

The old lady had died.

She left him her life’s savings.

 

 

They do not know how he survives-how he makes his living,

How he gets his food and drink,

Or is he some strange entity that does not require any mortal means of survival?

They do not know, yet, or maybe “thus”, he is the story young boys tell around the campfire,

As they shine torchlight in their faces, making sound effects to ensure their friends will wake up screaming in the still, quiet dead of night.

 

 

He signed at the bottom of the page;

He hoped someone would find it.

He gave his house and property to his son.

 

 

When his spirit fades away like morning stars, in the middle of December, his bed as cold as his eyes once were,

No one knows.

His body rots, as the family of rats, who call his house their home, 

Eagerly feast on the pale carcass.

 

Things come full circle.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It's been years since I've penned a poem, but here it is anyway..

Forever Unbound

Finally resolved to be rid of fate,
A solution to agony wrought of steel,
Ravenous pain, a way to sate,
And end a life that doesn't want to feel.
To break free of dark chains of hate,
To realize wounds time can not heal.
A way, through loss, to transcend,
A way, through loss, to ascend.
Cut through the physical with a knife.
A body breaking so the soul can mend.
Eyes closing in the last bit of life.
So as to enter the void of death.
To be free the flesh must rend.
So to finally be free with a final breath.
 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

I know it is depressing, do not tell me this. Constructive criticism is appreciated though.

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The Feelings Left In Life

I'm Still Holding On
But I'm Breaking Inside Into Pieces
I Feel Like I'm Going No Where In Life
Thats Why I'm Still Praying
But I Don't Know What Else To Do
I Don't Know What Else To Say

 

I'm Not Even Sure I Can Even Smile
Cause In A Entire Life Time Worth Of Happiness
I Don't Have The Slightest Memory
Of Any Of What I Could Have In A Life Time

 

All That I'm After I Just A Happiness Moment Of Laughter
All That Matters Seems To Fade Away
Its Not In Sight, It's Not In Grasp
But I Feel Like I've Lost Something More Than My Mind

 

More Than I Could Have Ever Wanted In My Life
Cause It Feels Like It Drifted Away
I Used To Want More Than Smiles
But Feels Like It Aint Worth Anymore
It Was All Wandering In My Dreams
Even Though Its The Past Life
I Can't Even Find The Words Left To Say

Too Young to Die

Folder: 
Stories

                 This next man I'm rather proud of. He has been battling cancer for several years now. His end innevitable and yet, through all of his struggle, he has kept a glimmer of hope in his eye. Truly Remarkable. To stare Me in the face and say, "I will beat you," as many did before, and yet they all failed. Some I decided to give a second chance, but I still visited them later on... However, that is beside the point, for right now it is his time. This would be a lot easier if his family weren't here, because then I could come in, visit him, and leave with relatively no guilt. But his mother, father, sister and brother are here and thankfully I won't have to visit any of them anytime soon... Sad, normally when I visit twenty-six year olds it's usually because they are doing something stupid, whether it be drinking and driving or over-dosing on drugs. Anyway, his clock is running out of time. I can see the sands trickling down his hour glass and finally he sees me, and that blasted machine is starting to bother me. "Beep... Beep.. Beeeeeeeeeeeep."... Just once I would like the family to understand, but as usual they start panicking. The terror on their faces, the shouts, the cries, the tears... It really makes me hate my job.... Well, on my merry way, I suppose.~ Where to next? Oh joy, a package deal...~

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Hey all! I'm back in school so that probably means I'll be posting regularly again. Added another monologue from Death again, hoping all of you enjoy these stories and I'm not wasting space on the internet. Not that that is a problem... Anyway, some things about this peice; I read somewhere that adding a "~" at the end of a sentence makes it sarcastic so I thought I should try to use it a little. And I'm not sure if I should right more in depth about things that I mention or if I should keep it nice and short? I don't know, but comment on anything you like, any and all criticism is welcome.

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Who Am I?

I am a shadow, long gone
I am forgotten, disappointments spawn
I am the weeping, in nights silent hour
From society, who savors the sour
I am the dark, stuck within my fears
I am denied, to them and all who hears
I was a dreamer, now hiding within my sleep
From the all of the promises that I can not keep
I am a shadow, long gone

I loved, and I loved you well.
Even after you challenge me hell
I remember, she parted us, you and I
She kissed your cracks, promising you lies
She left you broken, by the dead
But me, I wanted you by my side, to cherish instead




Author's Notes/Comments: 

An old class assignment I digged up.

It was supposed to be more simple and straightforward.

But I remember, I couldn't help myself from twisting it up

 

Which results with this

 

Puppy Love

Folder: 
Stories

                 Back to work, my list has led me to this man. His name is Thomas Dauchsand and ironically he hates the wretched creatures. He preferes loyal Golden Retrievers, like his Milly. Sadly, thats all he has now. You see, Thomas is a war veteran, and because of the country's economy, he has lost all possessions he ever had. Except for Milly, she has been with Thomas ever since he found her, as a pup, behind a trash bin outside of a restaurant. And she has stayed by his side till his last day, 13 years later. Thomas is an old man, now. not in age, but with the malnutrition and lack of sleep, Thomas has the appearance of a shriveled up, old, dying man. It's getting harder for him to breathe, as he lays in his makeshift appartment made out of cardboard. He hears scratching at his "door" and struggles to open it with his last ounce of strength to find Milly with a half full bottle of water. Unfortunately, Thomas has wheezed his last breath. Milly, being the loyal hound of a once great warrior, sets the water bottle down and nudges his hand with her snout. No response. She then cuddles up to him under his arm, and there she stays until its her time to go. How depressing... I came here for one, but I got two deaths instead.... Duty calls, off to the next.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I'm back, for now! I haven't posted in a while because I've been a bit busy lately!!! Oh who am I kidding? I've been lazy, that's why I haven't posted anything... But that's not important right now! So I haven't written any poetry lately, but I still have my stories I need to post and this is the second in that little series thing. Again it's in the persona of Death and I got this story in my mind when I heard of how some soldiers would be homeless when they returned from overseas and I figured I would expand on that idea. Any criticisim is welcome and appreciated! I'll post if I can motivate myself to do so!

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