Author Information
Boy In Cage Of Reality
Folder:
Teardrop of Coloured Soul
The boy was silent, thinking that he blended
Into the turbulence of mangled continuity.
He stayed silent, not a soul befriended.
Diverse emotions raging, so not free
To truly understand the kindness of
Lashing laughter that became his manner
Of hiding behind self-inflicted fences.
His weary eyes belied innocence pretended.
Young in age, old in scorned indifference.
Despite the hairless body, childhood ended.
For he was well aware of how to be tense
In sterilized situations of lengthening despair.
The internal bleeding was ever flowing
In his gathered depths of wasted anger.
Voices that should have been of comfort
Were instead knives piercing his heart.
In perfection they circled him like a shirt
Of mangled wolves ever ready to start
The game of destruction of his perceptions.
Ah, they would not let the boy surmise
The potential merit of his future daze.
Such propped up limbs of uncertainty
Had become his manner of survival.
In glances of fear, his trembling trees
Shook with passions of hateful denial.
And though he hoped for love of self,
He was in truth, and in manner of life,
accustomed to resentment provided.
Small surprise that as he grew older
He buried reality in cages of disbelief.
Like a pearl, he wrapped himself colder
Visions of how he might obtain release.
The boy would age in terms of years
having learned to submit to disapproval.
Such would be the chains he adopted.
MASTER PIECE IS A WEAK WORD MONSIEUR
OUAHHHHHHHHHH, that is such an amzing poem, i hope i won`t offend anyone, this is the poem i read on this blog, which, i completly fall over, it is surperbe, the imagery is stricking and disturbing in some strange erotic ways. cest merveilleux monsieur, j adore ce poem, my favorite number 1 poem, i findon this blog!!!, there is so much in it, lost, erotic, sensual, denial, i could go on for ever, this piece of writing deserve to be publish as soon as possible.what more can i say, i don`t love this poem, je l aime, his words make love to me on the first reading, outstanding , vous vener de m arracher les pieds de la terre et un seul poet avant avait reussit cela: BaudelAIRE.
Visual poet/ Libertine lost in a labyrinth of complexities, methaphors, searching for the essence/ Ink of life/ death to spell my syphilistic words on the page/ screen.
Excellent writing.
Excellent writing.
Vive le Quebec libre!