I'm not a poet. I'm just a writer trying
to find a place to rest my pen
somewhere between the sonnets
and the story books
The ink runs dry and the pages
o v e r f l o w
but from which end,
I just don't know
an ache for a golden strand of hair,
that is electrifying in itself,
and when god welcomes us through his gates,
we'll be holding hands,
and grinning like it means something,
because we cheated life like a bunch of madmen.
fugazi fools of fur and plastic diamonds,
bel air times and hot July,
marlboro smoke, suck in,
orange burning desire,
classy charades and hide and seek,
which turned into a maze of veins,
connecting to my heart line,
which you played like a puppet,
and i knew but a gold haired girl doesn't care,
but oh, you can channel every god,
and light up a stage,
and keep a summer night humid,
a son of a god,
a titan of the 21st century,
a tan and a kind heart,
a victim of a poet,
and so they say, you'll never die,
Because i love you.
I am the poet of the dark.
The red heart deep in me,
has stopped beating steadily.
Am I goddess of the dark.
who watches you, in the night.
With the look of a darkened stare,
trying to find beauty in me.
My eyes painted black,
see what they hidden in their minds
by immortal eyes, just like mine.
I am the night mist
lurking in every corner.
Gargoyles.
The cathedrals.
I wander in the dark skies,
where the eyes of crows shine.
In the dark
I will never find the light.
My wings of a dark angels.
My loneliness
devours the hours,
waiting for the day is done.
Cover of night waiting to fall on me.
where night dreams fall,
without arousing my already broken heart.
My verses written
with blood.
Runs like a warm rain.
In abandoned buildings,
where I had given myself to the darkness.
Disease left by beings,
that destroy the world.
With their impious rage>
Who are the strangers?
Or are you crazy?
Leave me alone with my sorrow, because the dead is crying
After all, someone needs to die.
Then it's me
Goddess of Darkness
Casaria.
Let me light my fire,
in the land of dead souls
I lie down on the tombstones cold and left alone.
left by beings of old.
Let me sing dark lullaby's.
Dont come close to me.
The world is sick and twisted.
Maybe there is more healing
Someone needs to die.
Then it's me
being the dark princess.
Both my parents are working,
And we live in a desolate campus,
Neighbourhood is a stranger's place,
Ever since my being a kid with a tricycle.
So it does succeed in explaining something,
It does give hint o'my being a loner ever since,
That explains how lonely a neighborhood can be,
But that doesn't explain how I was in my childhood.
I was just Lonely.
So
L
o
n
e
l
y
I was.
There were few friends intermittently,
And kept losing them to a new school.
I kept making and losing friends along,
But now I have found some poet friends.
The one I really love & care about is also a poetess,
But now I don't fret loneliness as badly as I used to.
My HP Poem #239
©Atul Kaushal
I am a nurse by profession,
A poet by passion,
Keep my faith in God above,
Indeed, all of them I love.
My heart is never dread,
Message of the Lord I spread,
View life in a positive way
And no regrets every day.
Strive to be inspiring,
Thankful for the blessing,
In God's name,
I'll make Him very fame.
Grab a copy of my love poems collection. Click below:
www.lulu.com/spotlight/Bestlovepoems
I don't really write poetry
I only spill my thoughts across the page
In a way that looks pretty.
At least I'm honest.
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with tart empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and become one who was
in poetry.
"a canvas, which reflects
sunlight in rays unseen
before submitting itself to a life of color"
Razelle McCarrick
--------------------------------------------------
From memory she painted me,
Tho we had never met.
She painted my biography
On an easel of paper, brushes of pencil,
Exposed, bereft, inexorably delighted
At being dissolved in words that were not mine.
My annotated notes herein ascribed
To her revelations of my secreted stories,
Were written as I gazed upon the multi-blues of
California's beaches, neckline decorated with
Strands of white pearled beaches
Opposite contusions, bruises of
Orange terra cotta roofs, a burnt coral,
Colors that demanded attention, preservation,
Salutations, all hail the penetrating gaze of
Razelle, betrayer and savior.
His moniker was a borrowed line,
Still crazy after all these years,
How could this unknown girl of twenty two
Clear capture, undress me in the poetry of her canvas,
The instant and constant self-examination,
The rapture when transcending the fears
Instilled from birth of how I ought to be,
Which sixty two years on, the wrestling never ends.
Color me flesh nude,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was writ.
N.M.L.
-------------------------------------------------------
Razelle McCarrick · Sep 21, 2010
Biography of a Man
Someone wrote a biography of a man. Said he liked to write poetry and spend time in nature. But there are many things its readers will never know about. The streams of thought, the analysis, confusion, the Sadness, sprinkles of joy, the Transcension. A strange man he was..sweetly strange, but strangely bitter. At odds with the halves of himself..or perhaps thirds. But who will know? Someone wrote a biography of a man, but didn't say he was crazy. Or that he had a sharp mathematical mind and tried to add up the components of life to find it wasn't an equation in the first place. It was omitted that he was not merely a man, but of some other kind, often missing his home and his people, though he didn't know who they were. They didn't say when he became deaf, that he still played his favorite songs because he could feel them all the same and see them in colors. And no one knew that he refused to write in pen, but pencil only because one day his work would be rubbed away by the sands of time, just like his body. Someone wrote a biography of a man, but there was no account of what he did on a beautiful day, like the time he sat by a stream pondering his life and rewrote the biography of a man.
Karma Mia,
Please don't be that way
What have I done?
I truly don't remember
Karma Mia,
Whatever it is, can't we just put the past behind us?
No need to keep score
You seem to be focusing only on the negative
Karma Mia,
Let's just live in the moment
A fresh start every day
I promise to be my best self
Oh, Karma Mia,
You hold my life in your hands
We'll be together always
It's fate
P.S. (courtesy of fellow HP poet, Adreishka Moonlight)
Oh Karma Mia,
The past is past,
The present is a gift,
Will you give it to me?
This is not a poem.
I just discovered I have Taylor Swift Syndrome. The subject matter of my poems seem to always be my life's tragic dismay at the hands of an "ain't shit" man. I thus must sorrowfully self-diagnose myself with , as well as possibly be the first to officially coin the term, Taylor Swift Syndrome.
What is the cure you ask?
Simply taking control of my actions and not writing bitter ass "why don't you love me" poems. Most specifically my continued volunteering of my heart to people who I know are incapable of nurturing it in the way is so desires and then proceeding to bitch and moan through my creative talent about them not doing what I know they are unable to do MUST STOP!!
Treatment you said?
A complete subject matter shift of my poetry for the next 3 to 9 month, I'm honestly unsure of how long it will take but if 9 months is enough time to create a human being it is surely enough time to change a mindset. From this point until either August 2013 or February 2014 I shall no longer be a he woman, man hater poet.
Let the journey begin.
-Dr. Rab.
