Under the violent moon light
Fog creeps into the vast lands
Winds blows across the gray forest
A murder of crows flies by,filling the skies like a black mask
The blasphemy has a catastrophic picture
The Demi God's are pleased
Souls will rise, within the darkness
The torment is never ending
I thought of being an artist
A career I’ve always dreamed
But perhaps I wasn't the smartest
It wasn’t as it seemed
The lines disconnect and break
These colors a garish hue
A piece most bleak and fake
Is one I always rue
My hands mislead my mind
Unable to recreate for me
The picture I imagined, I find
This frustration a hefty fee
Art is expression, or so they say
But how can I express, I ask,
When my art only blocks the way
And proves a more daunting task?
Have seen in these fifteen years of mine
More horrors than many in a hundred see.
I have seen grief, and bitterness, and pain.
You have given that to me.
That has been your gift.
Beats at ten thousand times its normal pace
For fear when I see you walk into the room
I know what’s coming next-
Onto the streets,
And into a stranger’s unforgiving arms.
Littered with bruises you left,
Is a canvas for the horrifying picture
You wish to paint me into-
One where you are the puppet master
And I your marionette.
But I am only a child,
Not a vehicle for your twisted pleasure.
Will not pay your bills.
Not after you left me with a child.
I wear loose clothes to hide her- it’s a girl, I think.
And I won’t let you take her away.
Will carry me far away from here,
As soon as I’ve scrounged up
Enough spare quarters, caught on the dirty concrete
You force me into walking every night,
I'll catch a bus or two away from here.
Will not be broken.
I am strong.
On Thursday night, I’ll fly away from here.
And you’ll forget me
I mean nothing to you.
Force of evil,
You’ll find another.
I wish her fast escape.
I will be free.
This poem explores the perspective of a fifteen year old girl who has been involved in the sex trade and is preparing to escape.
Tranquility and peace. The absolute essence of
nature captured through a lens. An extension of the
eye, the capture of a moment in time, lost
forever, yet not at all. You not only
catch that moment in an eternal image, but you
somehow capture the emotions, for whenever you
look at that picture, you will remember
exactly what you thought and felt at that
exact moment. It's as if you have etched
yourself in that moment. A true
photographer not only captures a picture
for the world to see, but through his
photographs stir up emotions within the
viewer, making it a timeless and cherished
gift. For a true artist captures not only
an image, but a fraction of history.
There is room in my heart for the sweet,
Poetic night spent with friends by the fire.
When our ideas and dreams come together,
forming as one and bonding us even closer.
There is room in my heart for my passions,
Such as personally drawing a permanent picture
on the flesh of my fellow man.
Or for the sweet melody of jazz music
On a chilled winter day.
There is room in my heart for learning.
Being a universe only becoming self aware.
Attaining knowledge from the farest,
Reaches of the human mind.
And teaching each other as family.
There is room in my heart for many things.
Some personal, not to share.
Others for other people, who may not know.
The room in my heart is unlimited,
For it is always open.
Best known for writing such words it scrawled in many languages inked out of hearts of
Poet’s politician’s clergy investment of mind and soul glided over parchment it would open
Doors of wood hinges were heard to creak when wise words were spoken and angry kings could
No longer hold freedom back after words of truth shined forth with wisdom and would not
Be denied by personnel greed and cruelty the very breath of man was infused in such
Documents that had veracity that was uncommon in nature the heights were noted the
Indignity and stupidity and rigidness that would in slave people was forever snapped no bonds
Could hold after the quill responded to such ignorance pleasantries were subscribed to by
Mortal hand that reached beyond uncertainty and touched divine sensibility it wrote on
Personnel levels in the case of widowhood when the dark curtains of loss were drawn and no
Light shined into the soul of the bereaved in the darkness a sister friend’s face slowly emerged
From the murky dark waters that sorrows flood brought in her embrace and understanding the
Quill wrote of a slow growing power a bridge was constructed over the river of nerve and
Exhausting pangs longing for the beloved that was departed but through this single individual
The stitching of healing began its most needed work through another the sharing of faith and
Trust would create a heart that no longer was held in gloom but pierced the heavenly blue
Where the fair one stood in garments of gleaming white of mist and tranquil portions no longer
Was fate alone in play but joyous music the flute the horn the violin drew a picture of a country
Lane there love was once again completed harmony over arched death itself and it was all
Viewed under the greatest banner men ever knew and it is friendship the telling and knowing of
Tears and a shoulder to cry on it gives way to building blocks that create a different life
Widowhood made agreeable while the wound still remains it is a course changer the injured
Now arises a heroine of quiet silent grace a source of strength a viable counter weight to grief’s
Unbearable character the quill surmounts the littleness in people stories are in abundance that
Show both sides of the issue the abyss that selfishness brings but what heights can be reached
By serving others instead of self weights the quill lifts effortlessly weighty matters the line we
Have come through many slings and arrows fits twists and turns the quill runs before as a lion
Tamer it cracks a whip trouble is quickly vanquished there is writing everywhere the quill will
Guide to so many existing ideas that create formidable answers but with this in play the
Intangible restless pull of something beyond reason that must be recognized and dealt with all
Success and pleasure will melt away as the pull of importance that will not give way most of us
Know the undeniable truth that over all that is said above a greater quill writes in perfect
Accord without error not of fleshly hand but spirit that moved on men to state His wishes and
Commands without this writing no one can know true happiness or fulfillment outside of this
Most extraordinary compelling truth but what record there is of such sadness because of failure
To listen to a love story of tremendous drama all pertaining to the highest highs and the lowest
Lows and of one by love just won’t give up on the ones He holds so dear it comes down to this
Reality it still stands true there is a Hell to shun and a heaven to win through all the swirling
Down through time this great weight rests on us all what we decide will be flames or bliss abide
With him who hates you completely or the one who loved you to the point of dying in agony
You are the only one who can complete the story the quill writes love and mercy sadly so many
Show it has little effect the quill writes on sin is death those who practice it will surely die this is
The second death the lake of fire
I am a romantic
I wonder when I will see you again
I hear angels singing softly
I see a house on an island
I want to be loved by you
I am a romantic
I pretend I don't really care
I feel like I'm about to explode
I worry I'm in this alone
I cry when I think of my life when you're gone
I am a romantic
I understand your random humor
I say to be sweet
I dream of peaceful isolation
I try to picture what that wold with you would be
I hope one day my dream comes true
I am a romantic
He's a bit odd, this groovy guy
without cash it seems and young, so young
and strange, new age and runs barefoot every day
and oh, what muscular legs he photographs and one day
he'd done it before, but one day, a picture of his legs and dropped shorts
surfer shorts, keys on top, at the pinnacle of some hill
Kind of a thrill and he posts his feet running, running
up and up and then a view and I love to think of him
And imagine, and yet I know how silly it is to think of
his strong arms, and such well formed body
working out his core, always the core, everything
is the core, the core
Working it out, with me.
I can picture my future clearly,
Every crack and warp in the floor boards,
I can see where I’m going to be and where I’m going to go
A ghost of a lover passes through every image
But is never there long enough to make an indent in the mattress;
A fragrance of false hope and dried tears fills my nose
Stains of coffee spilled over every book left on the kitchen counter
I constantly paced back in forth in the middle of the night
Wondering when you’d come home
Whoever you are
Where ever you are
And I wonder now
In the present
Who is that ghost wandering in my future?
Whispers from a forgotten dream seem to swirl as the morning mist disturbed by a fleeting doe causes hurricane images across the panorama
Sun flecked water droplets fracture light sending prisms spinning around drab and worn flower printed wall paper
Dust, motionless hovers just in the line of sight creating a wash to blur and mental images take control of the projector while the audience pauses and holds it breath
Back alley sex
First grade recital
First rectal exam (licensed and private)
Her soft lips
Moaning fills the theater as her face once again becomes the only picture: in the sun, on the beach, eating a sandwich, cutting her toenails
It works every time he thought to himself as he refocused on the dawn breaking around him
Rays shining though fog induce mild hallucinations as inner demons look for ethereal access
And he thinks to himself, “She always quieted the voices.”