There is just too much
Too much to feel:
*Eruptions of emotion channel from my core to the surface
Only to be siphoned off and returned to the callous cauldron
The magma dashes at my inner walls and
The wretched pain it causes is tightly sealed away;
Kept such that no one would suspect…
No one suspects Mother Nature is alive within
And she is restless*
There is just too much
Too much to think:
*Contemplations accelerate through my mind's eye
Ideas and reminiscences claw the pupils,
Each one consumed with self-importance hence
driven with desperation to tumble through that narrow opening,
Falling instead into the cauldron
Wherefore they agitate its contorted contents*
There is just too much
But,
Like a calm ocean,
The surface waves are gentle
Healthy blue-green water dances to the shore and back
Crisp, salty spray permeates the air
Which invariably caresses the lungs of the living
Like a calm ocean, the surface waves are gentle
Masking the horrors lurking in its murky depths.
-A.M.E.N.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Concentric circles spiral towards me,
And I am engulfed
The darkness screams at me from all directions
Sight is but a fantasy
But sound, sound is my friend.
Echoes of my voice greet me with pictures.
I do not collide with my prison walls,
As I soar through the cylindrical black
And suddenly I am free
The skies welcome me
And clothe me in its gentle blues and greys
The air licks at my face
In my jaws I carry glorious meat
Triumphant I am -
And soon I will be returning
through the tunnel black for more
-A.M.E.N.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
I'm over the precipice but I don't fall
Whether by sheer will or providence, Earth doesn't yet greet me - face to face
I'm left to my own devices
I'm in a crisis
The alarms ringing in my skull incapacitate me
The fear is electrifying as my eyes shift downwards
I float briefly in my trance
Wondering shall I meet my demise at the bottom?
What a mighty bound she takes as she leaps to the skies
Who told her she could fly?
The Wish, yes it's attainable
But what is her sacrifice?
What foolish thinking
That she has control over what is not hers
She will not fly yet
How pitiful is the untimely realisation of one's futile actions
Her gaze lowers as fear scampers across her features
She knows her fate
Regret flies into my face; It's slender beak nips at my curled fingers
And as time awakens, the grace period goes to sleep
My glance quickly returns to whence I came
I feel the unbearable longing for a foundation that will not fail me
But alas time is up; It is about; It will act on today's victim
There is no return
What I thought was tantalizing only just previously
Now feels like a weight in my hand
My mind whirls
I cannot breathe at this height
My grip loosens;
Look before you leap, they say
Leap and ask questions later, you do
Miserable child, no one is up there to answer your questions
And when you return down here, you can no longer ask
With trembling fingers The Wish escapes
It feebly flutters to greater heights
Abandoning this doubtful creature being tossed and thrown by the wind
My heart weeps for you, child
I close my eyes
And I do not envy you your ignorance
I raise my head to the skies
Never again
Never again will I-
Fill your head with such lies
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I fall
-A.M.E.N.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
My canvas, my art
My pottery to mould
My statue to sculpt
My treasure to hold
Inspiration is welcome
Appreciation offered in return
Glad to make a jewelled vase of this urn
No idea is enough
The shapes seem all wrong
The paint too dull
The song too long
My craft is no longer mine
From whence came this technique?
This form, this approach,
won't produce what I seek
Passionless correction grasps my hand
Once again I remove the sheet from the stand
Once again I place the brush in my hand
Once again I kneel before the furnace to plunge my mess-in-a-pan
Into the blaze which will return me near to the beginning
But not quite at the start
The canvas, now devoid of heart;
Of soul
All mind but
None mine
Tattered and torn; But still amendable with time…
And still, this is my canvas
And yet still, this is my art
A reflection of me; of what's in my heart
Who I am;
Who I want to be
I will design what I want to see
No. I won't put your favourite colour
Of course, I won't include your favourite quote
(With all due respect, Shakespeare is an excellent writer but he won't fit here!)
With all due respect, things must change now and it will be done without a vote.
This is now.
-A.M.E.N.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC