To walk in the path of those footsteps before me,
Those that led to gilded gateways of valiant hope and glory,
Where freedom manumits fierce hands chained to death
And heroes' tales are written in martyred blood, stolen breath.
These stories shall follow me where'er I go.
Their basilic faces would make kings of us all
And shed away the wrongdoings of supreme,privileged blood.
Yet what makes us privileged than our deeds and our thoughts,
And the labors that brought us to what we have naught.
These stories shall haunt me where'er I go.
This certain romance that exists between future and past,
The tales of the old coincide with grieved souls that have left.
Those who were soldiers and battalions of fearless digress,
Have etched into memory the words we shall never dispossess.
These stories shall guide me where'er I go.
These stories, the ones that spur the emotions,
And tug at the heart, with all the dead's devotion,
Have reminded us of wrongs that remain and are kept,
Locked away in the deepest part of the cage evils profusely *****
These stories are remembered where'er I go.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
If I joined her in the sky,
Would they remember me?
As they remember her,
With odes and pictures,
Soft renditions of her laughter.
I do not feel as if I've left a single stroke.
This painting is a wild one,
A sad one.
And death will part us all,
But her death adjoined,
With tears and remembrance.
My death would do none at all.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
These sparks, these enigmas tied down to the strings
Of my sewn together heart, keep me well alive.
And if I could but paint the color of kiss on your lips,
This insurmountable feeling of being,
I would.
Yet you have unwound the thread.
The blood pulsed once, but now aches for ignition,
And I wait for the return, for the ambulance,
That exists somewhere in the world of
Broken hearts, chained and silent memories.
This feeling of being lost, for what seems eternity,
Aches the muscles in a most unforeseeable,
Detaching and persistent, morbid way.
For the thoughts precede when unspoken,
In triggers of the smallest things.
In a song, a melancholy remedy,
And in the sky, the stars that burn with deathly fire,
As do I - yearning for what has past.
If time could change, I would wish it all back.
But time shall steal away.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
Show me where the thoughts collide
The heart, the herald angel lies
And woolen is the very skin
Held taut against your bones
And you had told me once before
These very aching metaphors
Would drift away like dusty spores
Amongst the broken wind
These memories will **** me
Surely in the end.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
We are labeled (wo)men.
I am wo- without the man.
But without man, I am an individual.
I am no woe.
I am no syllable.
I am more than my own label.
So think again.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
Do the trees love the leaves,
Their worldly decors hanging so peacefully?
So beautifully do they fall into winter,
That sorrowful trees wail in the wind
Yearning for their beauty back,
Naked until spring.
Or do the leaves love the trees,
That house them in their brambles
And branches so bare when abandoned?
Mere twigs become friends,
Nourishing the green that gives them
Life and purpose among the greater things.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
We built cities with shattered glass
Grand scrapers that reached past the clouds
Carpenters of modern day Rome
And warriors of worlds unrenowned
It was an empire of future centuries
A city that grew to the sky
We had taken the land before us
Had taken it in great strides
The world only knew of our legends
They fought to become just like ours
But crumbled were the moral fortitudes
That harrowed our own laws
We are destroyed by the things we create
Greed would demolish us all
The empire comes crashing down
Down from the sky it evolved
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
Hearts to hands do not dwell softly,
Mind to hands could do no harm.
But heart to hands is only something
That those would dare to charm.
Hearts to hands could cut scars deeply,
Mind to hands would heal the scar.
But heart to hands is a good omen,
We think that at the start.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
When the young met the old
There was silence involved
A deafening silence, none heard at all.
There once was a child
Who tread no denial
On webs spun with dreams,
The young had built an empire.
And how in graves did they scream,
Those dreams were meant for me
So selfishly were those dreams meant to be.
For when the young met the old
A story was told,
And dreams do not grow
As they so selfishly seemed.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
The discovery of hypocrisy
Became the paradigm of life
I am not but I am
Was the great ordeal
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC