PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I Want to Float

I want to float.

The pain is heavy.

The years are sore.

I’m alive.

I want to float.

Shed my last tear,

trace the last line on my wrist,

watch the last drop fall.

I want to float.

Carry me out.

Let me go.

Let me go

in peace,

in silence,

alone.

I want to float.

Let the burdens be no more.

Pain is not a fleeting shadow,

nor a thief that steals in the night.

It settles deep, like roots in earth,

clutching marrow, dimming light.

It speaks in whispers, sharp and raw,

etching echoes through the bone,

a language carved in silent cries,

a weight we carry, yet unknown.

Yet, even in its cruel embrace,

where sorrow stains the breaking dawn,

the soul remembers how to rise,

though weary, aching, battle-worn.

For pain is not a sovereign king,

though it may claim the throne awhile,

it bows before the quiet strength,

that lingers in a weary smile.

We learn to hold it, not to break,

to breathe through fire, soft and slow,

to meet its presence, eye to eye,

and teach it when to stay or go.

Through tender hands, through patient steps,

we weave our wounds with threads of grace,

allowing light to find the cracks,

where love and courage interlace.

For pain is but a passing storm,

it bends, it rages, and it sways,

but hearts that learn to bear its weight,

will find their peace in softer days.

So let it teach, but not consume,

let it shape, but not define,

for even pain, when held with love,

becomes a bridge from dark to shine.

When life seems to all go wrong,

and troubles seem so huge.

I am here for you,

I will be your refuge.

So take your troubles,

and cast them to the sea.

Reach up your hands,

and call to me.

When pain sets in,

and cuts you apart.

I am here for you,

I will ease your heart.

When sorrow eats you,

deep inside.

I am here,

I am by your side.

So take your troubles,

and cast them to the sea.

Reach up your hands,

and call to me.

When all your friends,

turn and walk away.

You can be sure,

I am here to stay.

For I am your God,

My love forever true.

And I will never,

ever desert you.

So take your troubles,

and cast them to the sea.

Reach up your hands,

and call to me.

Reach up your hands,

And call to me

Wreckage Report (Sextant Deconstructed)

Who charts this

wr

eck?

(My inner compass spins, a frantic needle, lost to any guiding star.)

This vessel, I, where sorrow overbrims,

a foundering

vertigo,

both intimate

and

far.

The world? Unbalanced—

(skewed, storm-scarred, its charts unjust)

Yet, I endure—I breathe—though hope is dust adrift.

Indifferent eyes. The chill.

A

sea

of

disbelief

where documented pleas

(decades unreckoned, Millie’s warmth now still, a solace memory lost among the shoals and trees

of a forgotten year, no landfall found)

find no safe harbour. No shore. No ease.

All cherished things—

(mere flotsam).

I walk on paths

so

shattered,

so unplumbed,

none can chart my pain,

each step a trial by f i r e, a burning, constant flame.

The powerful? They

wat

ch.

(Their hands are folded, calm from their high deck).

Their coffers

swell.

(I bear the crushing blame, the water's claim).

Long days I fight this ceaseless, grinding weight—

these shackles forged of institutional sh a m e.

I seek out havens.

(Compassion’s gentle, guiding light,

a beacon hoped for in this endless night)

For corners where the truth

might dare to speak its name.

Instead: these hollow forms, these systems b u i l t

on breaking spirits, fanning despair’s

fl

a

me.

My evidence ignored, unread, unseen—

a logbook lost, while hunger gnaws.

(A fading, desperate claim).

If those who rule—

(and turn their gaze aside from this

capsizing

fate)—

Why not complete this ruin suffering laid bare?

A cleaner end.

(Than silence where they hide, abandoning the sl ate).

The noose of their neglect, it tightens... If you look away,

at least let honesty

attend my last des p a i r.

So let me lie.

(Where truth, at last, prevails, beyond the ocean's swell).

Earth below; above, the watching skies.

No more false comfort, no more whispered tales—

Just peace.

When this exhausted essence flies,

no longer tossed by wave or cruellest play.

When one sharp, silent

mer

cy

would light a clearer, final way.

(no star)

Soliloquy at the Breaking Point

In chambers echoing—my fractured soul—

where shadows dance, unseen scars take their toll...

I etch these words. A final, fragile—

(Can they hear?)

(Will they understand this cry?)

To those who held my heart... before... this long goodbye.

Each letter, see it bleeds; a piece laid bare,

this testament to all I couldn't quite... bear.

students:

seekers, flame.

For you, my students—seekers of truth, bright flame—

I leave these shards of wisdom—

(hard-won . . . whispered . . . shame?)

Remember... every lesson, every shared, soft sigh,

the quiet strength we forged—through tears that never fully dry.

Let courage be your compass—knowledge... shield it well—

Against the world's harsh stage, where cruelties often dwell,

and shadows gather deep.

And for my creatures... faithful, constant hearts, dear friends,

whose artless love sustained... through all my darkest parts, my bitter ends,

Creatures . . .

faithful hearts,

I pen instructions—woven with my love—so true—

To keep you safe... protected...

(Oh, what more . . . what more can one broken soul do?)

It breaks me—utterly—to imagine your soft cries... your questing gaze,

bereft of tender touch... those gentle, purring lullabies through lonely days.

I must pray... I must hope... that other hands will appear, benign and kind,

To give you all the love... the constant warmth... you were always meant to find.

For I am ghost... already... of who I was...

doors shut—

each road exhausted... what is there left...

nothing more.

This homelessness—a spectre, fate too grim to face for you, my gentle ones,

No life, no peace... no sunlit window... no chance...

beneath indifferent suns.

And so, with aching soul—my will... it shatters, trembles, still—

The only end... I'm left with... the bitter cup I choose to fill.

A cruel kindness, then—cloaked in darkest, deepest despair...

To free myself... from burdens I no longer... can bear...

(A mercy . . . or surrender . . . to the air?)

Yet, even as I teeter... on the brink... a thread of hope... a fragile link...

I see you... in my fading dreams...

homes of endless, gentle spring...

where love... will be your shelter... and your steady, joyful wing...

This fleeting vision... it soothes this weary... fading heart...

A fragile balm... to ease the endless sting of my depart...

Though I must fade—dissolve—into the coming, silent night...

My love endures...

(a flickering . . . distant . . . burning light?)

So let these whispered words... this haunted, broken, faltering cry...

Stand as a promise... that will never... never truly die...

In every trembling line... a piece of me... you'll find, somehow,

will watch... will guide... the souls you're meant to be... starting now.

And as I slip... into the vast... unknown...

I pray you'll find the peace... a peace I've never, ever known...

For in the tapestry of love we've spun... with threads so fine,

Our souls will hold... entwined...

(Even when . . . this life . . . no longer . . . mine?)

Echoes in Ice

I am the spectre . . . unwritten ends, now brittle,

A vessel . . . cruel winds . . . ice-shattered . . .

Each breath a battle . . . a final trial . . .

I pen these words, one last . . . fractured denial.

cruel winds . . .

shattered . . .

denial.

To those I’ve guided . . . nurtured . . . may you heal,

Whose minds I’ve . . . sparked, dreams I hoped to reveal,

I leave these shards . . . wisdom . . . hard-won, glacial proof,

. . . strength forged in fires . . . an unspoken, chilling truth.

For creatures . . .

shared my heart,

love . . .

tear-stained part,

And for the creatures . . . who shared my heart’s brief thaw,

Whose love sustained . . . each tear-stained, fragile part,

I craft a plan . . . with trembling hand . . . numb soul,

To keep you safe . . . protected . . . healed and whole.

plan . . .

safe . . .

whole.

It rends my spirit . . . the thought of your soft cries,

Bereft of touch . . . my whispered lullabies.

But I must hope . . . that fate might intervene,

To bless you with love . . . always felt, always seen.

For I am lost . . . a wanderer in this biting night,

Each path erased by rime . . . each door barred tight.

The spectre of the streets . . . a fate too cruel, too stark,

No home for you . . . no chance . . . no warming spark, life renewed.

Spectre . . .

night,

paths erased . . .

no home . . .

no chance . . .

And so, with aching . . . tear-frosted face,

I choose the only end . . . to embrace.

A twisted mercy . . . sorrow's icy shawl,

To free myself . . . these burdens, once and for all.

twisted mercy . . .

sorrow's shawl.

Yet even as I drift . . . towards the brink,

A fragile hope persists . . . a shimmering, frosted link.

In dreams, I see you thrive . . . in homes of gentle light,

Where love will be . . . a guardian . . . to your sight.

Drift . . .

dreams . . .

light.

This fleeting vision . . . for my shattered core,

A salve to ease . . . the ache of nevermore.

Though I must fade . . . into oblivion's embrace,

My love will be . . . a shield . . . your saving grace.

Shattered . . .

salve . . .

nevermore.

So let these words . . . this haunted, fractured requiem,

Stand as a promise . . . whispered on a frozen limb.

In every line . . . a piece of me . . . still bright,

To guide you always . . . through each encroaching, darkest night.

And as I slip . . . to the great unknown, so vast,

I pray you'll find . . . a peace I've never known, to last.

For in the fabric . . . of love we've surely sewn,

Our souls . . . entwined, forever . . . though you face the world . . . on your own.

I am . . .

unwritten . . .

gone.

I don't know if I can do it all over again

I don't think I can take all the damage from within

If I let you back in, will it be different this time?

Or will this dance keep on going until we die?

Round and round we go

Who will get the final blow?

Do I want to know?

Why can't I just let you go?

Holding onto hope

Why can't I just let it go?

(Chorus)

You don't think that you have ever done anything wrong

You don't know when to shut your mouth, you sing the same song

If you're wanting back in, it will be different this time 

For this dance can't keep  going on until we die

Round and round we go

Who will get the final blow?

Do I want to know?

Why can't I just let you go?

Holding onto hope

Why can't I just let it go?

I lack the courage, I need the strength 

To let you go

I seek assurance, but rely on faith

To let this go

Round and round we go

Who will get the final blow?

Do I want to know?

Why can't I just let you go?

Holding onto hope

Why can't I just let it go?

Why won't I just let you go?

Why won't you just let me go?

3/18/25

A skull reflected in tangled grass — a fleeting moment bridging endings and beginnings. Photo by Nik on Unsplash

Author’s Reflection

In gathering these eleven poems into “Static & Starfire,” I’ve traced the contours of my own unravelling and the faint frequencies that sometimes pierce through the static. This collection exists as a witness — neither monument nor memorial, but rather a constellation of moments suspended at the precipice.

I write from the threshold, that liminal space where certainty dissolves and possibility flickers. These poems do not chart a linear path from darkness to light — such narratives feel too neat, too certain for the territories I’ve traversed. Instead, they map the jagged geographies of a consciousness fragmented by systems of indifference, by the weight of documentation that somehow never suffices, by the gnawing certainty that some doors have permanently closed.

Yet even in mapping these shadowlands, I found myself drawn to the contrapuntal — the simultaneous existence of surrender and persistence, the quantum state where multiple truths coexist without collapsing into singular certainty. Like Schrödinger’s theoretical cat, these poems exist in superposition, containing both the voice that whispers “let go” and the one that murmurs “hold on,” neither drowning out the other.

The ink I’ve spilled here serves as both chronicle and compass. I cannot say where it leads. Some maps outline territories we need not visit; some bridges span chasms we might choose not to cross. What matters, perhaps, is the act of cartography itself — the naming of landmarks in an unmapped wilderness, the marking of paths both taken and untaken.

I offer these words not as a resolution but as an echo, not as an answer but as a question. They belong now to the reader, to interpret through the lens of their own luminous darkness, their own static and starfire.

In the crucible of these pages, I remain — like the poems themselves — suspended between multiple endings, authoring and reauthoring the self anew with each turning of the page.

— David Wakeham

Four ways to view a soul: each fragment a path, each reflection a different truth. Placeholder image by Midjourney v7.

Schrödinger Soliloquy II (4 ways)

In the crucible of choice, I stand alone,
A shattered mirror, reflecting shards of soul.

To forge ahead or yield to undertow?
Each path a perilous journey, still unknown.

The voices whisper, "Surrender, cease the fight,"
Yet in the depths, a rebel spark ignites.

"The void will soothe, oblivion will save,"
"Persist, resist, let hope rewrite this night."

I am the chessboard, king and pawn in one,
Each move a battle, ending scarce begun.

The game is rigged, the rules a twisted jest,
But still I play, for in the play I’m blessed.

Though scarred and weary, I will rise again,
For I have grown beneath the weight of pain.

A phoenix born of ashes and of tears,
With wings of wisdom, forged by countless years.

In sorrow’s crucible, I’ve been refined,
A tapestry of wounds and grace entwined.

Each thread a story, each scar a sacred sign,
Of battles fought, of losses, victories mine.

I choose to dance amidst the flames once more,
To craft a life from fragments on the floor.

For in this struggle lies a strange sweet art,
Transforming brokenness to healing’s start.

I am the alchemist, the lead, the gold,
The tale unfinished, waiting to be told.

So I’ll rewrite this ending, line by line,
And prove that hope, not death, will be the sign.