PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The shadows are calming

The light upon my face

To aide in covering

Impossible struggles

Heaviest fears

The minds desires 

The everlasting tears

Until I cross the line

Into the parallel universe

I will remain in this mad world

embracing the shadows

Who are you?

Silent in that dark booth,

Voyeur of my fantasies,

Aspirations, Tribulations,

What kind of statisfaction are you getting?

Clicking on my confessions,

Scrolling through my history,

Do I remind that you're beautiful?

Ugly?

Do I remind you of your former self?

Before you got old and dull?

Jaded by your own amaranthine?

Somehow my flirtations with death,

Convert you back to life,

My longing heart,

Sews a stitch in yours,

Drop another quarter in the slot,

Behind your privacy glass dear reader,

Like some dutch whore house,

2am on your exotic vacation,

You reek,

Like booze, cheap ones,

Your lips are peeling white, like icebergs slamming together,

You don't smoke but you bought a pack,

Your tie is so loose it might as well be wrapped around your forehead,

Eyes red skin green,

You barely staggered into this place,

Now you're cutting through the red lights and cigar smoke,

Trying to find that door you opened last time, aren't you?

I suppose I'll never know,

After all I'm the one on display,

And we both know why we're here,

Just sit back and relax,

Let me cut myself open,

For you,

Tell me how you like it,

When I bleed.

Poetry is a wormy landfill

We dump our deepest and darkest secrets

Into a grease pit of vengance and depression

We blow our lover's ashes into the eyes of every reader

And wipe our ideals on to emotional toilet paper

Then charge people to read it

But poetic landfills differ from real ones

Poetic landfills are often gazed upon and admired

People will listen to lunatics

Rage about society's injustices

They will listen to romantics

Repulsively thorn over their latest lover

And what do we do?

We clap and comiserate

Roaring like Romans in the coliseum

Because it is in this wasteland of poetry

That we dare to dream that the damned

Can be delightful

And that our worms

Our lurking, slithering worms

Deserve their own pair of butterfly's wings

What if I wasn't like you?

And I was just me, and Myself was true?

And if you did bad would it mean I would too? 

Would it mean if I did it, I'm exactly like you?

Would I be subject to your evil?

Would I be subject to your internal upheaval?

What if I am good in spirit,

And you might just rather not hear it

And if I did bad, does it mean I'm just like you?

Looking for an excuse for the culprit that causes blue?

Decisions left to baseless comparison

Myself gone from me, and origin

She tells me so, I'm just like him and her

Do you see my other qualities as just a blur?

Bring my poison, she admits me to it

Determines me as someone else and then she sits

Then, who am I?

A continuation of your deranged views, someone elses cry?

...

sometimes I can spend an hour 

rummaging through my mind,

trying to place the right word,

or phrase,

like finding the perfect picture 

for a certain room.

some days, the same words

reappear again and again,

and I don't know what I want more,

to know the answer why the same word keeps reappearing,

like an old flame that needs to put out,

or to finish the poem.

I have always loved a warm hearth,

so I usually always finish the poem.

...

Disenfranchised, discriminated, decapitalized

Disorganized, dominated, doomed,

The middle pushed to the margins,

The margins, influencing the middle.

The right is right, the left wrong,

A web woven of similar work,

Yet the fly does not see the web infront,

He is merely trapped in the web,

Oblivious.

But yet the web is his death.

He struggles to get out, but the web’s grip is too strong.

He waits to die, struggling to get out of the web, but as he struggles it continues to wrap around his body further.

He is now consumed.

He’s in the belly of the beast.

Dead, consumed. 

My darkness is consuming

It eats away at my core,

My heart, my head, my body, my thoughts,

Are consumed by the internal depths of a dim and rusted light.

Past, present and future clouded in the gloom of a mad scientist.

The pains of being an originalist,

The sorrows of being an exceptionalist.

My darkness is consuming,

It devours my past into pointlessness,

It demonizes my present into bleakness,

It develops my future into illness

Although my darkness guides my light,

My light can shine brighter than before when the curtains hadn’t closed.

I'm assured everything will be alright,

That I will indeed see a brighter light than before.

But while my darkness consumes me,

I see only the dark me.

I see the darkness of my reflection that taunts all of my thoughts, feelings and behaviors.

For right now, I am not me,

But a moment of myself,

That will inform the moments ahead on how precious things could be.

My darkness is my best friend,

Whom I would gladly murder,

But perhaps in another life,

Since my darkness is me and

He must heed to me eventually.

My heart hurts, my brain pounds, my blood boils,

The anxiety of my mind is unbearable,

But the frustration is, I must bare it, I have no option.

I am left to the vices of my brain.

A brain that tells me to suffer, rather than to enjoy.

It tells me I am useless, unaccomplished, inarticulate,

I believe I am worthless.

Although, I know my objective worth.

But knowing and feeling are two very different things,

A barrier that we all face, and at times, perhaps more intensely than other times.

Right now I write with a defective vocabulary, scrambling for words when I normally find too many,

I struggle through this simple entry, as I struggle through the simplest of things.

I am told my worth,

I remember my accomplishments,

I enact my uses and know many others,

Yet what is knowing?

For, feeling is dominating my very core.

My life is riddled with the complexities of feeling,

Where rather than living, I feel.

I feel through this moment of my life,

When I had never had to feel to such an extent before.

I pray for this pain to end,

I pray for my hope to return,

I pray I will be able to apply what I know,

But I know prayers are no use.

They have no function to an atheist.

But yet I pray in a way that really mimics hope.

I hope my hope returns,

I hope my pain subsides,

I hope I can further apply what I know.

Although I know this pain is just a moment in my life,

The pain is real.

I am looking forward to the light.