PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Oh, my life, I came to you with blessed intentions,

You led me out and brought to me just what I retreated from

I strayed away from

I go to such a dark place anymore.

hands held me down

tongues spoke to me,

and laughed.

I’ve been poked and prodded

Beaten and Broken

Carved up like a pumpkin

In an attempt to make teeth

Pulp and seeds are unneeded things

O pioneer, left pining. Feeling the guilt that inaction brings

It’s hard to carry a fire when the light has already been turned on by a million other people in the room

And even now I say I carry the fire. That flame reduced to a lighter in my back pocket that

Gets no other use then when I lend out to others who have a need for it.



I have been repossessed at night unable to remember myself.

Maybe if the world would stop stalking me, stop looking at me with those pressing eyes because I see them in my dreams. I see how they look, what they feel like, and then when they notice me returning their glare they disappear and I am left alone again. I have gone too far and seen too much to let a disappearing act be my curtain call. There’s no great vanishing rapture and there can only be room for one in the great solitude of survival.



I’m being followed by a doomed shadow. Doomed Shadow, Doomed shadow.

creeping and stopping off a Doomed Shadow, Doomed Shadow, Doomed shadow

Cast upon the walls that demand attention. I never trusted shadows, the way they expand and obscure shape and symmetry beyond the sight-lines cloaking something real and repeating it again off and to the left. Off and to the left. That’s why I trust the light, for the truth will burn the fat lye off of our souls and make us pure like the sunshine’s allies. And If I ever rekindle that old flame, the eternal western dream that signals my belonging, I will be ridden like a horse that had died and was beaten into its haunches, ready to be released at the rodeo bucking and braying with smoke shot nostrils and wild eyed rockings. One last show for the ages, how many seconds will I still be on top of the world?



You see there comes a point when we’ve been carrying each one of our crosses for so long, that some us make the deal and plant it in the sand, climb up it, and then crucify ourselves.

I make my own way, through fire and shadow

And yet all I ever get is:

Blood for being my own man