PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

His past remains a mystery
Wrapped in imperfect symmetry.
Summer days spent with childhood friends,
Trying to pretend.
Playing games in backyards believing
Nothing that is now.
Life summed up in joys, toys and jubilation.
Saturday morning cartoons
Carrying juvenile smiles.
Kindergarten and childhood pardons
Make his parents proud.
Natural highs come from
Sugar prescribed snacks, handed out
On after school kitchen stools,
And the only tears spilled
Come from fears of quiet times
In corners.
The only pain from boo-boos
And stomach aches rather than strain
And heartbreaks.
These were times for running in rain,
Playing video games,
Getting hooked on comic books,
Not caring about the way you looked.
Coloring in the lines was such easy times then.
Those black borders kept him in order
Like a fortress wall containing the gaining stress of it all.

The present patience for the now
Is like a sleeping lion, nestled
Up in furies knee high grass.
Waiting for the moment to pounce
On the chasm of decay
That suffocates his days.
There seems to be so many ways
To divert the focus point of the future,
That he must nurture his tedious giant.
This uninvited mind client
Has divided his skin
Into pigment parallels.
The collage that is college
Chafes his nimble neck.
Making it tilt with no barriers,
Softly making an inferior
Soul only half whole.
Filling the latter with
Procrastinations and parasites,
Sucking these blood highways
With by ways to drug produced deductions.
Reducing his euphoric hallucinations
To perfect premonitions of choices
That were left without voices.
His solitary story was conformed
And preformed on his public stage
To wage war on the soars
That eat away the persons before.
Only to become a shell-less pearl
Hurtled into and ocean of sharks
Sharing similar thoughts.
Making plans of this and that on how
To drown this lethargic cat.

This past, present and future
Belongs to one who is shunned
By his own grief.
His beliefs fade to black as he builds
Hurdles on this endless track.
One by one under the silent sun,
He pleads for a pun
That will make this nonsense none.
If only he had won.
If only he had faith
To test his disturbed rest.
To not detest the mess he himself
Created, self masturbated, and traded
For some high times with friendly foes
To sow these rejection woes.
But time plays tricks for a mind craving a fix.
Hours slow down to tiny ticks,
And in the mix he finds purity in maturity.
Like a newborn his eyes blinded
By divine decencies of fellow men and women,
Side searching for that self inflicted
Zen of personal creation.
Those building blocks of revelation
Kept sturdy by love of what is his own.
His collection of affection for others
Slows these reality blows
To form unhealthy attachments
To fragments of a life fleeting from view.

How can he start anew
With all that OC he blew?
How can he be free when uncertainty
Seems to be the finality of his failure?
How can his abandonment of what he was,
Be the catalyst to exist
In his world of narcissistic characteristics?
Why is he so meticulous in his
Ridiculous suicidal fantasies.
These tendencies bring chills like a cool breeze,
Yet unease the daily routine
Of wishing for something serene.
One bullet in the head
And he'd be good as dead.
Something in the newspapers read,
Will be his legacy.
But he will not succumb
To these dumb decisions,
but rather push forward to mental freedom,
Bringing him toward times that have not yet come,
Stories not yet been spun.