Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
May 2017 · 341
Unless You Shine for Me...
And were it not for the sun
would there be dream?
Would cloud cry upon the day?
I would find, you and I, slavishly cuddled ‘round dragon breath
and every sight would be for sore eyes, lest they be blind.
Every man would be a beggar.
Children cackle in the dark.
Women, free of childbirth, are instead consumed by the world.
Without the sun there is no age.
We are what we haven’t chosen to be.
This is what I see when you’re not with me.
Emptiness separating reality from understanding.
And I call to you.
And I call to you.
And I scream for you!
And I boil alive in the broth, my own anger...
Whatever I can cook up to feed the hunger that you inspire.
But
a peace shatters the storm.
A shaft of light jousts the gloom like heavenly charioteer.
What else could it be?
It is you, so long as you shine for me.
I should be writing more often, but this will do for now.

Enjoy :)

DEW
May 2017 · 516
Distance Between Us...
Two horses galloping on sun-kissed plains
Hoofprints on roses
Hoofprints rippling surface of quiet lake
Hoofprints carve your name on yonder moon
Because we’ve been everywhere, and I was everywhere with you

Are your fingerprints on the back of my hand?
Must I be careful not to touch someone new, lest they know you’ve been there?
Would they tremble in fear?
Such love! They would say. It burns bright even in dying!
I needn’t fear such things. I’ll never touch another.

Should I cry? Would tears express such sorrows?
If I were to bring peace to the world, would I ever find my own? Such sorrow.
With such sorrow, would ****** sate the wound? Worlds reduced to graves and still sorrow lingers.
Such sorrow must burn away of its own ilk.
Better to have loved then lost? Better not to have loved you, at least.

I laugh.
The miles between us were a drop in the ocean. Truly, they were.
I can't get far enough from the memory of us... because I am the moon upon which your name was carved.
Better just strip down to the bone and walk to the nearest monastery...
Apr 2017 · 292
Edge of the Knife...
I stand on the edge
Why should I care
I'll tip this way or that
and glide in the air
It's all a game of how I can stay
when my feet no longer bleed
cut down to decay
My wounds are the grooves from which
music plays
The knife is the needle;
that's how I behave.

I stand on the edge of a blade
My journey splits me in two.
I forget who I am
each eye's a one-legged man
I want two things at once
Each thing, two things more
I feed the hydra,
carry me, carry me
The thousand-headed-beast
feeds the world.

I dance on the edge of a blade
because there's freedom in my abandon
There's hope in my tragedy
There's life in my dying
but the dying never ends.

My only silver lining
is the blade
of this guillotine... and
my only hope
is this dream within
a nightmare.
I hope you've enjoyed this one and,
are able to reflect on the things I've dug up.

Enjoy!

DEW
Mar 2017 · 615
White Sheets Whisper...
White sheets flutter...
they dance around the room
they whip and crack like storm-kissed sails
I cower in fear, my bed is empty save for pillows.

I rest my head
I'm nearly dead
I ache with dread
I crumble, like abandoned bread
and the table we set
is unwoven by time.
Splinters, like loose thread, pile up as do bones.
We are no longer held together by compassion,
we are butchered by sharp tongues and piercing glares,
for shame! We thought it was a funhouse, but we revel in slaughter.

White sheets flutter...
they wave like sleeping flags
they wave like quaking lands
then they settle and I hear the white sheets whisper
and the whispers haunt me
are they soaked by old lovers
tears like oceans raining into the sky
blood like rivers escaping the bed
bowels of deceit coughing up their secrets
let us drink all this vile bile and be drunken by horrors.

Is that the only way we can escape?
Not sure how all the ideas came together or where the inspiration was derived. I just had a thought:
"What if our bed sheets were ghosts? What would they say?"
Mar 2017 · 515
Mountains Flow...
Like an anthill I was, at birth.
The sprouting of a tree not yet mighty.
The trickle of a river not yet strong,
but within my mind were dreams.

I thought to myself...
When will I flow?

Every touch,
every word,
every color,
every note,
every taste,
was another grain,
another pebble,
another boulder,
another hill,
another expansion to my range of view.
And though I could yet call myself a mountain.
Though streams wove their ways from my eyes,
fresh springs of tender breaths,
trees rooted deep enough to whistle in the wind,
thoughts beginning to form,
I still spoke the words,
“When will I flow?”

I caressed the clouds and their silvery charm,
hugging my neck, like heavenly trinkets,
a beard of trees splayed down my chest and back, like emerald robe
and
ah,
rivers, splashing and bubbling and whooshing and running,
like naked children tumbling down from innocence,
giggling all the way
until they learn that the world hungers for blood.
The clouds at my neck are a vice at my fury.
They blacken like mists of soot
and crackle and moan.
They roar and spit fire upon the earth.
A tree splits and becomes a beacon of wrath, a torch
setting other trees aflame.
Oh, all nature is the same.
There is a time for peace and for war.
But when the flames settle.
When my skin is charred and creviced.
Then sprouts the green fingers of spring.

I am the mountain.
I command the seasons.
The winds are my whip.
The Earth is my chariot.
The clouds are my helm
and lightning my sword.
Guardian or warlord?
Lover or slaver?
Is it an illusion?
Am I at the whim of the seasons?
Does man define my beauty?

Thence comes the answer.
I flow.
I once flowed into me,
Growing strong, I was the mountain,
But the flow is leaving me now.
What leaves me is what I can do without.
The flow becomes my power.
In dying, I gain control.
Strong is my pen,
my word masters the sword
and
for every beginning
there is an end.
This is me thinking about age
and everything I can be with time
and all that will be lost to the ages.
Mar 2017 · 579
Just Change the Channel...
I surf through a crowd,
click, click, click,
am I slick?
Am I sick?

The faces cascade, each one like a molecule
in a waterfall of desire and liars and fire.
Do we sit here to burn or to yearn.
Do we ever learn or feel concern.
It seems I will never tire to conspire
against my own soul on this wire.

I'm wired.
The screen crackles a strange glow.
The bits and bytes tell me there's hope.
Ones and zeroes like so much knotted rope.
I hang on her every word,
oh, my shame is ethereal.
I want to stop seeing her,
but my hunger is serial.

She whisper's, "But wait...
...
...
...
... there's more..."
and I die to be born her prisoner.

In lust we trust,
the internet anthem,
the trumpet of the millennia
our senses abandoned.
The cascading fire, behind the screen,
the ache inside: my mind? my spleen?
I must be rotten,
how could I not be,
their alluring words and forms,
imprison me.

Can I break free? Qui-qui? Hehe!
It's a total lie, there is no greener grass.
So I hunger for more of the poison that made me;
I seek to drown myself, like a manly baby,
"Gimme more! A little more!"
They stand in shock,
then retreat to their bottles,
ignoring the ticking clock.
Back to her and her and her,
the ones who will never love me,
who've ensnared me to drain me,
me and me and me.

There are different kinds of blindness,
many we will never be ****** enough to see
but when the blinds are open,
can we really change what we see?
Do we come awake to a ruin,
a festering, aching, screaming lump of chaos
that we are but fingers to... this abomination.

I surf the crowd
and when she comes again,
I'll just change the channel,
and a new face materializes,
her beauty renders me thirsty
I smile my sleekest smile,
I recite the uncanny words,
"Mirror mirror on the wall."
So, despite my words in this poem, this is not just a sort of commentary on online relationships. This applies to many of the unhealthy relationships we engage in on a day to day basis, stretching back into our earliest memories and forward unto our deaths.

I can only hope that this poem will help people who might be fighting their conscience to consider some powerful self-reflection.

Have a great day :)

Enjoy!

DEW
Feb 2017 · 768
Will You Remember...
Fire and ice, you and I... wet with wonder.
We tangled and tossed and turned.
Our passion was poetic,
the way I saw truth in your eyes,
the way your smile hurt me the right way, that sharp tickle of pleasure.
Our joy was boundless, our toil of love without measure.
Yet...
Our love was a tide that crawled back to the heart of life.
Our ebb and flow of desire and fulfillment bled
all over that designer rug.
I sit in a cafe obsessing over deadlines and profits,
but,
can I really forget?
No.
And when I run out of deadlines,
and when I don't profit from profit,
the memories will bleed into me from
the past like rain "inside" an umbrella.
I will break.
I will sigh.
My eyes will mist,
my head will cloud.
I will shake my head and wonder...
"Will you remember?"
Hey, it's been a while!
Missed me? Anyone? ;)

Enjoy!

DEW
Jan 2017 · 463
Substitute my Soul...
You're born,
you live,
you die.
Is there time to evolve?

Sometimes I sit cross-legged and I hum,
and I congregate with familiars to hymn,
and I congregate with warriors to gym,
and I smash keyboards to poeticize,
but it there time to evolve?

I will not let you substitute my evolution.
It is not some rabbit evolves from hat trick.
It is not some ******* nothing to something odd.
I don't know what it is, but you're not substituting it.

It's something weird.

I can go insane and wake up a god,
is that not evolution?
I can fall in love and become superman overnight,
is that not evolution?
I am the ka-me-ha-me-ha fusion of my parents!
I was,
once as worthless and aptly sized
as the penny under your bed,
but just you wait (you know what I mean)
I became big enough to rob you of common sense
and maybe your cents (yeah, about those pennies... can I sleep with you?)
I became big enough to hurl mountains across lakes (warning: stated objects are proportional to ants).
I became big enough to be the most insignificant speck on the earth, but I could nuke San Francisco and you'd see my handiwork from the moon,
is that not evolution?

Evolution is the survival of the fittest,
that's right,
every football player could be the next evolutionary link,
just wait until the end of the match,
you might be the first witness ;)

Tell me I'm not wrong!
If you say the opposite, you're a communist... (see what I did there?)
Is that not evolution?

What exactly are we passing through,
to get from where I am typing "a" to you saying, "Why'd he choose 'a'?"
from all across somewhere else where I am not?
Mouthful? Mouth full of what? Imagination?
Is that not evolution?

I don't know where I am sometimes,
and then I pull out a cellular doohickey,
and I command a machine 100 times my size
that's somewhere where there's no air or gravity
to tell me where I am. Sometimes I threaten it,
"I'll give you the AIDs equivalent of a computer virus you,
you... you pervert! Yeah, I know you know where I am every hour,
of every minute,
of every second,
so... there!"
You've got to give satellites the what-for sometimes.
IS THAT NOT EVOLUTION!!!

I don't know.
I guess you don't believe me...
Is that not devolution? (See what I did there?)

Okay, okay, I'm not impressing you with anything,
neither wordplay nor swordplay,
neither hiccup nor genius,
okay,
I'll leave you with this.

What did the signing ape say to the other signing ape?
Boom.
(Is that not evolution...)
Had a lot of fun with this one.
Writing three poems in succession can be a bit crazy, so maybe that's why this poem is so zany, hahah.

Enjoy!

DEW
Jan 2017 · 1.3k
Love is Poison...
Love is poison,
love is love,
love is hell,
love is above,
when in heaven, God rest your soul,
when in love, no rest for you at all.

Love is the poison,
love is the antidote,
love is the noose,
love is the hymn,
when in hell, sing, sing, screeaam away the pain,
when in love, I'll come back again, again... again.

Love is death,
love is cure,
hate is doubt,
love is sure,
when in doubt, hold out your hand,
when you're sure, she doesn't taste bland.

And still, I'm dying for love,
because love is poison,
and I will love only when it kills me.
I hope you enjoyed this :)

DEW
Jan 2017 · 595
In Your Hands...
Words like "baby" aren't depressing
when you quench me like salad dressing.
You're the drapery in my soul
when I think I'm empty, you know I'm whole.

I rolled out of the womb,
a lump of clay, motionless, fidgets,
screaming for love.
I shambled through life,
a *** forming, cracking, breaking,
searching for myself.
What I eventually found was precious,
but to hold onto this truth proved to be a war.
The chaotic braying of battle subsided
when you fixed me with your eyes
and crossed a room
that seemed the length of an ocean
to pass your living breath into my bones
and I was as an instrument
in your hands.

I was amazed to find,
that I too am your castle in the storm,
that I am your raft over the deep,
and I am humbled
despite feeling so powerful
because something so precious
lies in my monstrous hands
and this brittle gift
is what bonds the bricks of my flesh.

Like a piano, you play me,
and all wonder why I sound so well.
They look to you and they know,
through joys and broken plans,
I'll be safe
in your hands...
It's been a little while since I wrote something.
I had such conviction with writing, especially through the first half of last year, but you know... life :)

I'm trying to connect with writing in a new way, somewhere deep down. I guess I'll know when I figure it out.

As always, enjoy!

DEW
So many hopes have
been laid to rest,
snuggling tight and cozy
where all dead dreams lie.

There wasn't even time to say goodbye.
Oh, my fighting spirit is now a sleeping spirit.
It doesn't wake to sweet smell of fancy,
to the buzzing of bees and all manner of honeys,
no.
It lies dead in the gutter,
or should I say,
asleep.

The only hope I have left, is to lie of the pain.
To wish away the wash of bitter taste
and lie away the bodies of thought and waste.
I have died too many times to count the carnage
and how I massacred myself,
past, present and future,
there is no more potential,
there is now just a rein
lying slack for lack of force,
the beast was too burdened...

There is a constant whispering.
Voices from a place I dare not venture.
My hands are bent and scarred, like twisted puppets.
How can I mend these broken dreams?
I can no longer traverse the seams,
now torn
beyond are the hopes I knew.
How do I mend the horses?

Is it not the hand of God that restores life
to dead things?
Why do his hands look like mine?
If I do not believe in myself,
how might I believe in him?
As a popular Youtuber put it:
"What is life?"
LOL
It seems the only question worth asking and worth an answer anymore. What would we even do with the answer? You've got to think about that. Is the answer worth anything?

I keep saying in my head, "God, I can only believe in you if you show up right here, right now." If he's not showing up, it surely means he doesn't want to. Maybe that means I'm a scumbag...

If you're one of those people who's been living for so long not knowing what you need, yet knowing you need something, I feel your pain. I think I'll write a poem about that next.

I hope you've enjoyed this poem.

DEW
Dec 2016 · 1.8k
The Father I Never Had...
Grow up without a father?
That wouldn't be so bad...
Yet every broken man whispers
to his devil,
you're the father I never had.

My chains are my desires,
my eyes are your possessions,
and when I walk into the fires,
my lies are my confessions.

Just a taste of your flesh,
will bring me to life,
but if you depend on me
your heart is a knife.

My father was a ghost,
but I grew up
I sought bigger ghosts,
the devil in my throw-up.

You can run from what haunts you,
you can hide from your past,
but the devil will flaunt you,
up there on his mast;

because you're the fool
who sought comfort in gold
you would have learned,
if you could grow old.

I've been the king
in an ocean of sand,
not knowing choice
is in the palm of my hand.
The things only God can teach you.

NOTE | I came back and separated the fifth stanza into the fifth and sixth stanzas that they are now. I also wanted to mention, each stanza has a voice of its own.

I decided to name them according to stanza:
1) wrath. 2) envy. 3) lust. 4) gluttony. 5) pride. 6) greed. 7) sloth.

I hope this clarifies things and adds more depth to the poem :)

Enjoy!

DEW
Dec 2016 · 370
She Was No Illusion...
As peacefully dying as the setting sun,
was our time together.

We did not long
to be apart or together,
but we drifted
and
kissed a farewell across
the ocean between.

It is on this day
that I
find ocean: guilty
It is not on looking back
but on looking forward that I say
dear lover that I never knew
I regret now loving you.

What does it say of the empty album
What does it say of seeds never planted
What does it whisper of happiness untold?
Nothing,
for fantasy cannot break the sorrow
of this moment.

It is the heavy pining that I gnaw at
like some lonely ******.
It's no **** that I build,
but a raft,
for I refuse to be an island.
Better to drift with the school,
learn common sense,
and remember not to throw away
new shoes.
But I remember...
running barefoot led me to
you.

In the quiet night,
borne on evening wind,
her dress flutters, speaking beauty.
In the stillness of my curiosity,
I pace over to her,
I whisper,
"She was no illusion. Liberty."

"What was she?" she breathes

With outstretched palm,
"Take my hand and we'll find her..."

She smiles,
she shakes her head,
"That's not how it works..."

My brow furrows,
doubt weighs on my hanging lip.

She dashes off, running wild and
free.

I give chase, laughing with glee,
for liberty does not run without me.
I came up with that line toward the beginning, "Dear lover I never knew, I regret now loving you," while washing dishes (not the first time that happened, LOL!) and, as usual, I had to write a little story around it.

I think this time though, I leave it up to you as to what the meaning is. It's too fresh for me to speak about what it means to me, because, I think, this poem came from a place I haven't paid much attention to recently.

Anyway, enjoy!

DEW
Dec 2016 · 796
Tears of Rain...
My darling, Nature, don't leave.
I was never good to you,
but
do
re
mem
ber,
I love you.

I kissed your back with water.
I ran my fingers along your womb with rake
I burned the poison with fire
I withdrew from you, for your sake!

It was easy to stand apart,
wasn't it?
Yet you never left me,
no, no,
and I never stayed.

When seasons are delayed,
I never blame you,
no!
I blame myself
myself!
I'm horrid
to abandon you
my Human Nature.
A planet unto its own.

Where are your gardens?
My mind? My soul? My heart?
Where are your temples?
My bonds? My kin? My world?
Where are your laws?
My books? My emotions? My life? My death?
These are all things I can grasp,
yet grasp no longer.
Things I can feel,
yet watch the bridges
burn!

And they say it is your fault,
Nature.
Dare I call you by your name?
Dare I call you Human!

so many tears so little effort to stop them
and all our lives are washed away
because the flood is pain
and the end
is
me.
I just felt like writing this one.
Maybe it's to myself,
maybe it's to us all.

Enjoy, but do think.

DEW
Dec 2016 · 1.2k
A Subtracting Symmetry...
Picasso had it right, you know...
there is no such thing as perfect.
Yet, there is gratitude in the flaw;
there is hope in the falsehood.

She appeared to me
as the manifestation of a fantasy.
I thought that
the perfection within her
blossomed her appearance as symmetry.

The madness
of my obsession cemented
upon her scent.
The string instrument
vibrations of my heart so nuanced,
so rare, yet, so familiar a dream as to be recollections
of heaven.
If she, living, tastes like love,
do delicious pastries
taste like death

The more I knew of her,
the less I knew
pain,
until...

From our love,
so robust in its ripeness,
time gormlessly gorged upon us,
and we decayed,
like seeds in the apple
trapped and never to be free.

It was then that I saw her flaws
and it seemed they were "real"
The distortions grew numerous
and each beauty lost appeal,
peeling away to slowly reveal
the scars that Frankenstein
couldst never, ever heal,
for his monster's myriad scars
are the pillars of its humanity...

Picasso measured the conflicted angles,
and saw perfection would rob them of life.
It is the awkward jostling of misshapen things
that gives them movement, as they ever so try to
shift into place, but if they were to do so,
they would be as the yonder rock,
or the caged boiling soup
of ancient fuel all
perfection
will
be
...

So
I let her go;
I freed myself of
the death I refused to
become. And when she broke,
I told her,
"When you are whole,
you will be happy to break, again."
Break bread with love.
I had, until today, maintained the belief,
that perfection is simply the highest potential
of what we are capable of in the moment.
Yet, I have found myself constantly trying to achieve my potential,
ignoring the fact that I was not capable of potential,
I was only capable of trying.
It means that
Instead of reaching for the goal,
I should have been making the necessary steps
(one step at a time)
and not forcing an insanity upon myself of what I understood as
the full extent of my ability,
because the more I expected my best in each moment,
then failed to succeed and later regretted my "inability", the more I lost sight of the fact that some moment are meant to be,
simply enjoyed for their
worth.

You see, I lost my conception of value, and furthermore the ability to practice evaluation. This occurs when you lose touch with reality.

I won't go on and on about it, so, this is where my commentary ends today.

In conclusion: if we lose touch with reality, we have to get back to what we understand is real: our core conception of reality; and build from there... we may just find that we are remaking ourselves, as the person we were before was headed to nowhere, or to disaster... don't waste away and waddle in despair.

I hope you've enjoyed this! Peace :)

DEW
Dec 2016 · 109
Chains on my Soul...
This is the narrative:
I live a comparative nightmare
disparate psyches battle for clarity,
within one body,
the cycle's insanity,
but humanity is the parody of a benevolent charity.

I lead the *** of an army
and lay waste on the enemy
so heavy that the donkey
is appointed head of the EPA:
it's on the trump card.

I don't understand the garbage I spew;
so much waste that there's nothing new.
It all conforms into a deep black goo
that I must dump in the rivers, my pride, too.

There are chains on my soul,
and they are sewn into my flesh
so that I am caged in my body.
When something rots,
there's no room to breathe.
When there is pain, it is amplified.
When I wish to love, I am destroyed,
and this happens with every glance,
for I love at first sight, but I am destroyed
yet, the chains remain, gnawing,
choking, hanging me, please...
Let me free.
Writer's Note: The third weird one tonight, also from November 2016. Can you say, "Skeletons in the closet?" Or, "Existential crisis?"
Dec 2016 · 502
The Crush...
Under the weight of this elephantine sea,
of smiling faces hiding madness behind bitter glee,
I try to find myself subliminally,
while tucked behind the ear of chemistry.

I could save true love for a rainy day,
but I have to take things slow
light myself on fire
to smoke the pain away.
I've become a drug to every woman I've known,
the ones who kicked the habit
threw away the bones.

I used to sleep in empty coffins
but I'm trying to live again
trying to love again
but it seems
I only end up "friends".
I write the poetry
to climb the tree
to find the me
that you want to see,
but I'm left with the question...

"Am I not enough?"

Attention is a bluff,
it's the mating call of emptiness.
I want to fill me with you,
but you're a fiction in the blue.
It's the idea of filling that fills,
it's the false love that kills,
the ha-hah, he-hee,
to hide that you don't love me.

So I'm saying goodbye,
I won't write to you anymore.
No more love letters,
I won't be your *****.
I tried to impress you,
but you loved what I hated
and hated what I loved:
you waited above,
but I found you below.

I found that there's nothing,
nothing left to show,
the crush of elephantine sea
crushes more than flesh and bone,
it grinds more than my heart,
no, it crushes the soul.

It's not the crush I'm afraid of,
it's who I won't be after it;
I would no longer be myself,
I'd be the ghost of somebody else.

So I slip out of the sea
and into my life,
because if I don't land,
I'll drift off into nothing.
Enjoy the poem :)

DEW
Dec 2016 · 621
Starving...
His footsteps lead to lost places
only he knew the journey;
for all else it was treacherous
they had no light like his burning.

When he drew near,
the horizons were lit as quiet embers that
rise, singing majesty to the heavens
as he rounds the Earth.

His laughter set babes to slumber and
their mothers would shake with desire,
yet none of this would stir him,
no warmth for lord of fire.

'Pon still surface of captivating sea,
a ripple racked the endless reaches
from it rose an alluring beauty,
such that sun seemed weary.

Lord of fire felt his power dim
from somewhere on Earth's rim
and sought out this source
of unyielding force.

There she was,
and how she tamed even
the dance of fickle flames
the lord she did astound.

"What have I found?"

Quick as a blink
the beauty did sink
and silence her visage
leaving lord disparaged.

He searched the sea,
unable to find beauty
no sea could sate this thirst
and erase what was seen.

There wasn't a sign
a glimmer sublime
of beauty to delight
our lord from fright.

His father chastised him
his brothers derided him
yet not fact nor fancy,
could quench him.

His fires grew fierce
they scorched friend and foe
"Where'd you last see her?"
I don't know... I don't know!

A quaking delirium
no sanctum or serum
could quench lord
and fight the flames.

The fires began to
do something tricky
they began to burn him
like a candle's wick.

His shouts pierce the aether
The heavens did respond
they put lord to sleep
mighty flames abscond.

In his dreams,
she was there,
he touched her hand,
he smelt her hair.

She was real,
how could he know
that he was asleep
an endless show,
but his thirst
was quenched
no fray, no throes
he knew what it was
to be drenched.

One brother crept by
and siphoned lord's fire
to become the object
of the living's hungry desire.

But an ember remained
in lord entombed
He's somewhere in sky
we call him Moon.
I'm so happy about this poem.
I wrote it in tribute to the song, "Starving" by Hailee Steinfeld.
That song does things to my heart... Give it a listen! LOL

Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this as I have "greatly" enjoyed it!

DEW
Dec 2016 · 403
Messages from the Womb...
Cast off your secrets
light the lamp
shake off the veils of slumber
indulge in the essence of life.

She calls
She calls to you and me
the Mother.
She speaks in the tongue of your soul
she is never a stranger
and when you listen
memories of love and bliss enchant you
though they were void not moments ago.

There is a chord still connecting us.
It is strummed when we love one another.
It is strummed when we share in selfless joy.
We are the instruments of this innocent music.
It coaxes the beast, our delusions, into its den.
We lock the gate and frolic in the fields,
safe from the weapons of our own chaotic powers.

The Mother invites us to her table.
Before us, the meal of life has been prepared.
It is whole in the giving.
She warns us to keep it whole.
If we give it back as one, there is a door she promises.
Who knows what lies beyond,
but,
I want to go there...

Do you?
I hope you enjoyed this :)

DEW
Like cadavers are so many lovers.
Drunk on a table for two,
laid out and cut open
examined, weighed and cataloged,
yes,
cupid has your number.

He sharpens his arrows.
"Oh, how cute! He's like a baby!"
Shut it!
He's a monster.

It was nothing serious.
Angela and I were noncommittal,
then,
it just...
Happened!
I kissed her and she lost her footing.
Her legs slackened like climber's loose rope.
Angela fell, hard.
I pulled out the arrow. (I only wish I had disinfectant.)
She was breathing funny. I wasn't sure what bit her,
but when her eyes flickered open,
I felt the shame she would never know.
I looked up in time to see a fluttering of white.
A dove? I was too naive.
Angela started to get clingy. That's when I got stingy.
Soon, I began to ignore messages selectively.
Eventually, she was a fading memory.

Monica. Jessica. Lisa. Monique.
The story kept repeating itself.
"Get a grip, love was chasing you! Some should be so lucky..."
If that grip is cupid's neck, give me two handfuls, please.
I nearly stopped ******* around altogether,
haunted by feather after feather,
but I really just learned to play it safe.
Cut them off after a couple of weeks.
I'll never forgive Cupid, that rotten ****.

Her name was Felicia.

It was day thirteen.
I had my copied and pasted, "Sorry," SMS ready to go.
We were engaged in pillow talk,
it was nothing serious.
Sarcasm turned into playfulness.
We rolled over,
she had me pinned,
she nibbled on my earlobe,
and with artful tongue stroked
years of pain
from my soul.
She reared back.
Our eyes locked in mutual reverence.
We smiled and embraced letting our slick bodies revel in the moist residue of our tender frolicking.
It was then that I felt the itch in my shoulder blade.
Color and warmth fled my chest.
It was with a numbness that I let her go,
and reach back,
and felt the long spine of the arrow,
like the stem of a scythe.

The weeks that followed were a heaven
that I had always hoped not to enjoy
and felt ever more guilty in knowing my unfettered happiness.
Simple pleasures I once knew were then mountains of joy.
My passions magnified were as the flames of the sun.
I even feared I could turn her away with mentions of my love,
but this was not an unrequited venture.
We shared in admissions of our deepest affections.
There was not a moment passed in yearning of our old lives.
Even shedding light on our past imperfections was a delight
incapable of breaking the spell.
Truly, this is the purpose of youth; this love; this roaring of souls entwined.

Is justice blind?

I certainly felt this token of nature cast its judgment upon me.
No sooner than I had finally accepted my new reality, did I watch this sheltering bubble burst.
We weren't as open as I had imagined, of course, I shouldn't be so naive to think so.
She disappeared. I was distraught for what seemed like weeks, but.
I got a phone call.
The phone call led to a hospital. Within the hospital, a room.
Within that room, she lay on a bed, head shaved, smiling weakly.
I sat hesitantly by her side.
She grinned as she pinned me with a pink ribbon.
"You'll fight with me, right?" She said, as her eyes searched my soul,
quivering, yet there was a fierce strength behind the weariness.
"If I don't fight, I'll lose more than losing you."
She lay her head in my chest. A chest that could lend its power.
Looking out of the window into the horizon, I wished for things I never considered to be signs of hope. Yes, I'll fight...

In that moment of my life, it was as if I weren't alive.
Perhaps my body was waiting for me to return: sitting there, breathless.

Are brave words the measure of fate?
Oh, I wish this were so, yet some battles only time can win.

I didn't go to the funeral. I simply asked that I may scatter the ashes.
It was a moment for two. I stood on a cliff by the sea, a place she and I loved. I spoke to her, in ways I knew she deserved. I scattered the ashes, and I knew she had returned to the promise of life, a place beyond time and pain.

And so, time passes for me.

In time, I am ready to love another.
A familiar itch in the shoulder blade.
I know the arrow is there.
I look up and there is cupid, smiling.
No need to hide from a gracious soul.
I gaze and I whisper:

"Please, Cupid. This time, don't leave me breathless."
Enjoy :)

DEW
My passions, like a flood of magma, pool at my feet; caking, cooling, cementing... and I wonder why I am rooted in my beliefs.
This was a Twitter poem that I posted either late last year or very early this year.

Enjoy :)

DEW
Dec 2016 · 268
From the Heart...
Tiny necklace locket
resting on a rock
it
gleams in the sun
next to necks that met a gun.

I wonder why they left
they
left my soul bereft
of the dreams I wish to hold
oh, the story's growing cold.

They were dreams!
My dreams!
Whose do you think they were?
I was the one with all the youth.
You put your hopes on my shoulders,
didn't you?
So why did you leave me?!
It's not my fault I forgot the
dreams...

The colors run from my face
and twist and turn
down
down
the drain
leaving stains that
I wish
were the mark that I'd be
satisfied with leaving on the world,
but
no one appreciates a colorful drain.

Even when the end of your life
is a paradise
does that justify the hell you've been through!
Don't you wake up
in the heat of summer
sweating
and wish the nightmares would just pour out, too!
Why is it that the biggest fish,
in the nets of our minds
are the angler fish and the puffer fish?
Terrifying and poisonous.
Rancid and unappetizing, because we leave them
out in the sun
afraid to touch our own dysfunction!

What justice is this?
My father wasn't father enough!
Why did he sleep all day?
When he died, didn't I already know he was dead?
Did I experience a déjà vu no more feeling than it was a jagged knife?
Am I dead too?
Is that why I think this is hell?
Is that why I wondered if there are souls? The confusion borne by still being flesh and blood, yet being so ghostly that I couldn't scratch the itch of my bleeding soul.

Justice? If you cry inside, does anyone hear you scream?
Can you?
Only when it's too late.
The last drop of the blood of your soul spent.
Mortgages! Taxes! Insurance! Loans! Employment!
Yes, please, they're all a merciless enjoyment!
A ceaseless tickling of agonizing fun.

What choice do we have?
The choice to tell those who tell you, to tell those to tell that person,  and on and on that it's enough!
We're tired of being told money is life-blood.
Why should my ability to live be based on how much dead tree you've been siphoning from the life of the planet I am worth? Am I a resource?
I'm sure that's in your audit, isn't it?

Citizen #11899382280 is complaining again, send him back for conditioning. Advertise some more bacon and send him to the hospital again so he's distracted, this will distract his whole family. We'll advertise a specific hospital he should go to to them so they feel compelled. When he's at that specific hospital, we'll shorten his life as our insurance. His family will think he's graying because of the stress of the heart attack, but it's really the drugs, which always look the same, yet are increasingly more destructive. We'll send Lawyer #448322783 in to talk about his retirement and will. The family has requested him, but Lawyer #448322783 works for us. Lawyer #448322783 will edit the will to suit our intentions. Once the will is arranged, we will increase the life-shortening medication, which will, in and of itself cause complications. We will introduce a catalyst to forego the critical time we have to avoid his otherwise impending and damaging insubordination. When Citizen #11899382280 is dead, we will retrieve the damaging and insubordinate files from his HelloPoetry.com account and erase his existence. Were he alive, he would find this poem ironic that his emotions, being a matter of the heart, led to a death that was a matter of the heart.

From the heart,
Your loving government & your ****** life
Pain and suffering.
The face of our existence.

I hope you've enjoyed this.

DEW
Dec 2016 · 276
Forgetting the Forgotten...
I forget where I forgot you...
That place is a ghost land,
it's a dreamscape,
it's a netherworld,
where Styx was our path
and death was our guide
for into life we emerged
absent of one another.

When I remember that I don't remember you,
there is a gentle flutter of the heart
or the buoyancy of a smile uplifting the balloons of my cheeks
even the pull of earthly forces
a magnetism that I'm sure slams us into walls
across time and space
when we can't escape the force.
I'm forced to regret my shame.
My heart splits apart where glue,
like melting-hot pizza cheese,
can't protect the seams and my memory is suddenly
seamless.

There you are.
Cradled in a vignette.
It's snowing, and I've fallen over.
My friend cackles next to our Quasimodo snowman.
You fear that I am a basket of eggs
sliding toward the precipice
time counts down
you fade
I smile,
and tomorrow
your haunting is a stormcloud
the past comes raining down upon me...

"Good morning folks, it's 97.8FML; look's like we've got repressed memories. Visibility is low. There's a sharp depression chill sweeping over. The tears won't let up; about 70litres today. Better have good wipers, it's looking like a long weekend. And now, we have a word from our sponsors. Kleenex."

The memory surfaced the same way you found me.
Out of the blue, like an angel: of death or of life, I don't know.
Sleeping is harder than catching butterflies.
When I count the sheep, they have your face.
When I think about you, it's a circus.
It's a mixture of laughter and staring into a wall; the occasionally thrown chair at an invisible lion and the whiplash of my dreadful anger.

It doesn't make sense. I last knew you in the time it takes to grow a forest. And here I am. In a thicket of bedlam.

I used to forget that I'd forgotten you.
Now, I can't remember you're not worth the memory.
So, it seems like it takes me a long time to process my emotions.
Maybe over half a year ago, I had this resurgence of feeling for my college sweetheart. It was strange. I've been thinking that I probably never processed the emotions properly. Over the past couple days, the memories came back again and I saw things in a light that I've been afraid to consider for, years. How does that even happen? LOL

Anyway. I was also thinking about the people we forget without even thinking about it. People we couldn't even imagine if our lives depended on it. I became painfully aware of that the other month or so, and now I've been keeping tabs on how I do it and I don't know what to think. I'm just confused. I suppose I care for the wrong reasons. Maybe because I've been forgotten by people that I wish remembered me. Anyway, this poem echoes that and probably many more things as well as the two aforementioned topics.

I hope you've enjoyed this piece :)

DEW

P.S. I've been thinking that writer's block is actually just a secret craving. We have to search our feelings and write about what our heart (if you want to call it "Muse" that's up to you) is trying to say.
Keep that in mind!!!
Dec 2016 · 485
In Reverence, Ignored...
What do you hold dear?
I've seen it.
Tasted it.
Owned it.
Thrown it away.
I've loved it, hated it, ignored it.
This is what we fear:

The primitives unearthed the obsidian.
Their eyes caressed its semi-reflective luster.
Their fingers ran along the smooth confines of purpose,
or rather, surface,
it was cool to the touch
and obsidian whispered its secrets
imparting realities the primitives sought.

Tree bark was no longer an obstacle.
The flesh of beast
land, air, or sea-bound
came away like loose clothing
and the people rejoiced, teeth all the whiter.

One day, whilst digging with his prized tool,
one man found a sparkling oddity.
It puzzled him deeply.
And so,
he unearthed it
and sought to reveal its
mystery, disrobing the dirt that clung
to its crystalline body this thing, this... diamond
in the ruff was beautiful, but truly,
what worth was beauty
in light of the fill
of belly?

The man put faithful obsidian
back on the shelf
and joined his hard-working brethren at the fire.
In the night,
a stranger passed through the village.

The man sat at his fire,
chipping the stone from the crystal,
entertaining the astounded onlookers
as he perfected the gem.
The stranger looked upon the diamond
and she delighted in her providence.

She stood at the fire of the meal place
allowing its haunting glow
to cast her face in flame and shadow.
She announced,
"Look upon his treasure.
This is no mere stone!
A fist of this
diamond
can buy you king's riches
in Assur.
This man cares not for that..."
And with that, she skulked into the shadows.

Those whose hungry eyes
spoke for their hollow hearts
came forward and pleaded with the man.
If he does not care for the stone,
mustn't he choose a kin who does?

"You care not for the stone!"
the man declared,
"You care for the debauchery of the city!
I must keep this to ward you from death."

Their pleading became insistent
then ravenous,
but the man defended himself,
until one deranged man,
drunk with the fantasy of the gem,
stabbed the possessor in the back.
Thence began the war for the diamond.

Who should be the
rightful
possessor of the diamond?
Bloodshed can be no true reward.
Bodies lay strewn across the floor in warring poses
teeth gritted
eyes glaring
one ****** palm sated with the prize.

The stranger danced into the bankrupt fray
snatched the gem from the dead grip
clutching it for herself.

She smiled her yellow smile that
by her sin
could only be cleansed
by the innocence of the crystal clear gem.

She walked off triumphant.

All around, obsidian glittered in the fires
that now fought to consume the village.
The first man crawled in the dirt,
like some blood-trailing slug,
trying to escape the inferno.
Trapped, he leant against a wall
and obsidian clattered to the floor.
He picked it up,
"****** are those who delight
in fill of fantasy,
o'er fill of belly!"
There, the fire consumed him,
screams and all.

How unfortunate it is
for the meek to pay the price
for the world's greed.
I love that spark of inspiration and what follows.
Kudos to all you poets out there who've influenced me to this point.
You've made me stonger, and for that, many thanks!

Enjoy this piece to the fullest :)

DEW
Dec 2016 · 519
Cardiac: A Rapture...
The heart. The errant symbol of restless devotion.
It can be a blind lover's hope, a buoy in death's dying desperation,
Or damnation to the wise, a martyr's foolish, festering, folly.
Be sure not to forget, that the heart is sure to die.

It will be diseased, before it is deceased.
It will be broken, before it is bereft of beauty.
It will be hopeless, before it is hesitant,
And in that pause before the final blow,
It shall weep its last tear, and love no longer.

If betrayal is dealt with a kiss, then pray tell,
What is the sign, that heralds love's abandon.
Any moment, any breath saved for eternity,
Is snuffed out in the most glorious fashion.

Calm before the unapproachable sigh, and
Still no whisper of frustration from me.
I would still be strong, if I were to say,
That I am no longer passion's, patient, prisoner,
Or cupid's, aimless, trusting, intrepid, target.

He wouldst claim me heretic before heir.
Hair like the winter white, sprouts 'pon my scalp.
Signs of my bitterness waning in the wash of wine.
For we are all grapes, longing to be sublime.

Were I to count the leaves from June to June,
Where in the world, would I find love soon?
Would I learn that life on a silver platter,
Is useless, enjoyed with plastic spoons?
Surely any fork would do, unless the meal forbids it.

Foraging amidst the gardens of Eden and Amazon,
The animals wonder at my perplexity, my regret.
How could they understand, these apes and snakes.
Up in a tree, there it shone. A familiar shape, for me to long
A ripe, red, resonant fruit shaped for open hands.
The apple shook in branches, fading like.
The heart.
I'm trying to remember, but I can't ease the forgetting: I'm pretty sure I originally intended the title to be a sort of pun.

Anyway, we journey into the past, 2010, once again.
I used to read "way" more back then and am only getting back into that mode of mischief of late... too late, in my opinion.

I hope everyone enjoys this one :)

DEW
Dec 2016 · 695
It Stokes the Embers...
If you ever wonder why
poetry is flames,
you will hear my name
whispered in your room,
cocoon-cocoon-****.

I am the embers
inside the hearth of the storm,
I leave behind remembrance
to keep you safe and warm,
I live in lingual form,
cocoon-cocoon-cooon.

What stokes the flames,
when the heart is fading
when life is braiding you
into a mess
the stress
confess
sorrow is hard to impress
ravaging you, leaving you
less
yet the flames burn on
poetically strong
indomitable words
right or wrong,
they are the song
of the chirping heart
from end to start
a noble art
and my name is there
please, don't stare,
cocoon-cocoon-****.

I leap from the pages,
from the fires of the ages,
I have no name
but my poetic, rages
I leave behind my...

Cocoon-cocoon-****.

I fly away,
belatedly soon,
but I leave behind
a cocoon,
for the butterfly sheds tears
racked up over the years
rising from the waves
of paupers and slaves
for the butterfly craves
the cow.
I had a lot of fun writing this one.
I can only hope of the same for your reading experience.
It's a fun one to think about!

About the last line:
"The butterfly craves the cow," is my expression of the human experience. An experience that is constantly redefining itself much as a flashlight in the dark can discover the world and yet only have fill of a moment that is constantly passing; not empty as it is constantly filling; a strange fluidity of experience in which we search for more.
An experience in which, even when we do attain humility and contentment in our lives (steadying the flashlight), it becomes our mission to maintain our state of peace.

Butterfly craving the cow, is to crave the source.

It is to crave the truth. It's what we call "real". Something that lacks deception. Something we can weigh and is open to understanding.
We develop the idea, as we grow up and imitate our society, that if something is secret, it cannot be real. Yet today, we are shedding this idea in favor of fear. That led me to the church in my own life. Christians are comfortable with the idea of there being truths unattainable in our transient moment. Truths that are permanent in a life that we cannot do more than hope and prepare for.

Whether or not this is possible, we have to come to terms with the human hunger for fire and why religion, and especially the Abrahamic religions, are so good at satisfying this hunger and changing people from their core. We have to seriously consider the idea of God and understand that if we continue to think of him as an idea, our transience will surpass such flimsy conceptions.

Enjoy!

DEW
Dec 2016 · 488
Leave Burdens Behind...
I'm leaving it up
to somebody else.
The battle scars
are notched on my belt.

Come take my wounds,
I'll leave burdens behind.
I'll shut myself in
and close the blinds.

I didn't know there was a battle
that could be fought within
against the weight of
despair
and the fires of sin.

The kindles of hope,
the ladders of strength,
tested by life
and its brittle length.

Just lay me to rest
where I
unsheathed the sword
come strike me down
in absence
of the Lord.

I'm seeking the peace
that I struck to p.i.e.c.e.s,
that I replaced with pleasure
and its demanding releases.

When you're broken down
and I'm broken in kind,
let's give up the fight
and leave burdens behind.

It'll all crumble,
the world and the sword,
and we will all mumble,
eternally
ignored;
for sinners will stumble,
in sight of the Lord.
Feeling a lot stronger than I have in a long time.
Hopefully, this will make you stronger, too.

Enjoy :)

DEW
Dec 2016 · 724
Through the Impenetrable...
Have you ever doubted...
Lost in a searching grasp for
lies
only to be comforted by fear:
its rigid, creviced tongue
a jagged weapon
like an obsidian relic of barbarism
scrapes my skin
scratches my earlobe
it tries to find a way into my mind.

I have forgotten the taste of truth
like a babe fed by beasts
I grew strong
or so I thought.

I tried to carve my name
into the disc of the world
"Fool"
The world isn't flat,
but I am.
I fit into the cracks you think are safe.
I slip into your secrets.
I carved lines into the world until
the impenetrable layers of rock and tree
and sky and core
were but pages,
thinly veiled memories of lives we
once cherished.

I know you've forgotten the taste
of truth
because you feel my sorrow.
It is your tale I tell
and that is why
I feel so alone.

You are impenetrable
and when I see through you,
I don't see anything at all.
I've forgotten who I used to be.
So, perhaps this is indicative of more than I realize.
Perhaps I was never, a "me" or, more accurately, the modern, romanticized, IDEA of the self.
If we strip this away, do we instead find something greater than this fantasized patina we have introduced into our culture?

Maybe the thought ends here.
Maybe this is only the ghostly conjuration of a moment's deep rumination,
soon to be dust in the library of an aging mind...

Enjoy!

DEW
Dec 2016 · 286
Disturbing the Fleece...
The music wasn't reaching him.
He was starting to wonder,
was he really him?
The picture fades in the portrait
rim,
but it's okay, if who you are is dim,
because the world is brighter than your
sin
but to him,
the world fades in its global
rim
and his life loses its flavor
love loses its neighbor
It's kind of hard to think
when your job is slave labor
It's kind of hard to wink when happiness
is hard to savor,
but that doesn't mean you've got to hate your
creator.
How does life go on when you're empty?
You hunger for more,
but in front of you is plenty
Why?
As time ticks down
from eleven,
the suffering is worse
when all you want is
heaven.
I hope you enjoyed this :)

DEW
There are so many questions
like, is love an invention?
Is peace a prevention,
of the wars of deception?
Will I lose myself if I have no one else?
Will there be nothing left
if I hold my breath?

I can get lost
if I'm not willing to learn.
I can get cold
if I let the fires burn.
All of the bridges
that I've tried to earn
might as well not exist
if I've nothing to yearn.

There's a gun in my hand
and in my soul
There's a gun in my mind
when I lose
control
But the gun in my heart's
on a deeper
roll
I don't know how to stop
bo-boom-bo-boom-boom

Are there answers?
Or are we destined for cancers?
Are we dancers
in a minefield of adders?
Will the snakes keep us warm when we're asleep?
Will they bind our wounds,
and leave us with our souls to keep?

I've been in the pit so long, it's home.
A battleground so thick, yet so alone.
I've lost my mind, but I haven't lost my heart;
it doesn't know how to speak
without the will to say what's hard.
It's gone soft,
a gentle, hopeless thing.
Without a mind, how can it even sing?
So it's armed to the teeth
in the confusion of the storm.
The world is dark
there is no more a norm.
Will a heart lost at sea ever find its mark.
If you don't know what I mean,
just look at where we are.

There's a gun in my hand
and in my soul
There's a gun in my mind
when I lose
control
But the gun in my heart's
on a deeper
roll
I don't know how to stop
bo-boom-bo-boom-boom

The gun never stops
bo-boom-bo-boom-boom

Find a way to stop
bo-boom-bo-boom-boom
I hope you enjoyed this poem :)
Have a great day.

DEW
Nov 2016 · 283
Blind...
Do you see the towers of the, towers of the mind.
Broadcasting jealousy and sin of every kind.
Was hopefully lost, but now I’m hopelessly found.
Was flying high, but now I’m hugging the ground.

Dangerous music of the, music of the lion,
Scaring the children, can you hear ’em cryin’?
Sometimes sleeping sound, sometimes waking silent.
Always eating lifeforms, always acting violent.

Do you mind, yes do you mind, a different tasting relief?
Do you dream of God, or does the devil ***** belief?
You say I was blind, now I want you to say that I see.
You will lock the doors and I will distribute the key.

Safely seeking seven songs so silence stops.
Broken bridges braying creating many crops.
A spectacular vernacular sweeps the nation.
A dreadful mouthful regurgitated elation.

Sight to the sorrowful, blindness to the blissful.
I dare say corporate ****** tarnish the beautiful.
I wrote this poem on November 19th, last year.
It was a great time, because I'd just gotten back in touch with writing poetry for myself and I feel I was successful in expressing my emotions, philosophies and dreams as I paved my path to today.

Please enjoy, and also comment if you're brave :)

DEW
Nov 2016 · 68
My Raging Conscience...
When the cage has no bars, what do you rattle?
I grab my chest, something is pounding inside!
Maybe I'm the cage...
I'm a walking, talking penitentiary.
My uniform is black, my prisoner is blue,
these words that I'm writing, he's writing to you!
Yet I'm an accomplice because I too am a prisoner,
I build walls and break them down hoping the symbolism will free me.
I traversed the world searching for a way out, my only hope is the sky,
so I created all of you to help me fly.
I just lied, didn't I? That's what you'd wish.
Baby, you've got no class if you're not the main dish.
A car or a plane or a train or a ship.
You can go anywhere you want but you can't leave this "planet"... sh#$!
Where do you want to go, J? You barely leave your house.
"Shh, I need an excuse to hate my life!"
You don't need to hate you, that's a job for your ex-wife...
"Sshhhhhh."
Writer's Note: This hails from back in November 2016, LOL. It's just been sitting unpublished... it is weird, though.
Nov 2016 · 642
Angels & Demons...
The hour was late, and
soon to be later.
The minutes devoured the seconds.
Leisure was my antidote to a long day's madness.
Then I found her, or she found me.
She cast a spell on me in the witching hour.
Her gaze was possessive of me.
Premonition was her touch.

I know not how she crossed the room.
What mattered is she was in my lap. Summoned.
Yet, was it I who lingered, nose at heel?
You can't question the magic.
We are the agents of fate;
we are deciding and directed.

I could never be a marksman.
I wanted her to kiss me: I talked about our parents.
I wanted to dance with her: I romanced the weather.
I wanted a way to reach her: I reach for her thighs.
Oh, how we all wish the target would welcome the bullet,
and to my surprise, she welcomes.
My defences evaporate into the smoke-filled air.
I take her hand. The edge of her lip curves.
That's all she wrote.

Sometimes, complexity is a burden, and simplicity is freedom.

A lifetime of unrequited passion was distilled in that night for us both.
We danced in controlled chaos: not knowing our bodies, yet fully aware.
Time ticked backwards and forgot to tock.
I lost my tie, she lost her sock.
Giggles, the sign of a fermented joy.
The joy of not knowing joy, true joy, and then having it.

It was love... wasn't it?
Yes, it was. It was not mature, sure, but it was. We knew it.
We sheltered ourselves from the world.
Time ticked forward and tocked with abandon.
I remember moments holding her, sharing in her warmth as she shared in mine. A communion for two.

I remember rings exchanged.
I remember the first fruit of her labor. Our labor.
A hand so small it felt like a stick shift.
Time ticked forward and, then

Silence.
I don't know when we stopped talking,
but she was gone.

My tears, some semblance of oceans forgotten, dotted the clothes of my baby rocking in my trembling arms.
It seemed pain was my daily meal.
I faced questions I never considered possible:
Will she ever come back?
Will I ever love again?
What if I can't love again?
What if I feel this pain forever?
...
What if she's dead?

Our life replayed like waves lapping the shore in my distant mind:
How the upbeat jazz descended to slow rock tunes.
"Oh babeh, your lipstick kiss is foreva, it's the red rose ova my grave!"
Our cyclical steps matching, lighting fires in our hearts.
Our arms coiled around one another, as if we were falling from some hallowed place... falling in love is scary.

We try to smile and remember the madness when we're sober.

We forget the things that are important sometimes... all the time.
We forget so much that we become these chewed up, gnarled bits of humanity, searching for our souls when they are right inside us. Incomplete, sure, but there all along.
We have that hollow wanting.
That grinding hunger, that hot thirst.
I don't know the cure for certain, but, the memories seem to know.

Let's stop searching for happiness. That's like searching for flight. What we need is the wings. It's not youth, it's not money. It's opportunity. It's innocence: the belief that things are simple, because they are.

Innocence led me to Rosie that night.
Compromise in the face of difficulty stole me away.

It was years later that I remembered the pain.
Laura got off the school bus angry.
"Boys."
When I got to the bottom of it, she was in the wrong.
She dumped him... for nothing. Because she could.

Waves of despair bubbled up from beneath my present: the calling of the past.
I almost strayed from my resolutions.

I was left with the thought, "She's just like her mother,"
but I left that thought forlorn,
because the truth is, I raised Laura,
and so,
maybe I'm the demon calling the angels sick.

Maybe we're all demons.
It makes sense. We all feel we've fallen from grace.
The devil you know smiles from the mirror,
it wears your face and crowns you king or crud...

Starve it to death, hang it on your sterling bow and
sail for the waking dawn.
Abandonment can happen even when a person is physically by your side, but it's never as final as when they are not.

Sometimes, we're content with allowing that person to be there: physically. We let the rift linger and propagate itself. They were gone before they were gone physically. It happens more than we are aware.
Count the people on your hand that you knew last year who you don't associate with this year or by year's end; are you running out of fingers?

I marvel at how careless we can be. Fascinating how dispensable some we've known have been and how indispensable our selfishness sometimes *is*.
The children reflect this idealism... through bullying. A prevalent symptom of a virulent disease. Because the idea that people are dispensable begs the question of whom to accept. Whom must we save from the rigors of our own prejudice and deception... and whom must we condemn?

We all have our reasons. We're guilty of nothing except being human and to be human is to be guilty.

I had pages worth of text here, but I decided not to burden you... LOL!

As always, enjoy!

DEW
Nov 2016 · 1.5k
The Man with no Name...
Golden coin gleaming in hand.
All his hopes took refuge in that vestige of conjured worth.
The man with no name would buy his name this day...

The empire's burgeoning halls pressed in around him as he strode.
They would devour him in this moment if they had not done so already.
Yet, why the empire? There are more docile things to tame.
Everything is the same for the man with no name.

"People would apologize for stepping on me, but they knew not what to call me, so they went somnolently on their way."
I try to imagine these are the things he'd say,
instead these are the words of those I know,
those that I can hear, see, smell, touch... taste.
The man with no name's words are a waste.
He leaves no footprints wherever he may go.

The steps to the Hand of the Empire are steep.
Some will climb it, some will weep.
Yet, the man with no name will not turn back this day;
he takes a moment to fill and a moment to pray.

His memories are so vibrant, so full of clarity,
like crystals in the light, banishing insanity;
his tales will evoke the highest majesty,
entrance the gluttonous, deprave with vanity,
they'll bite the snake and poison its legacy,
they'll quietly rake the fields of the mind,
yet each soul is weary, cold and blind,
when he is gone, they pay no mind.

His steps are strong, hard, fast
throughout the night, will he last?
This is no simple, boring task,
the steps to the Hand do more than ask.
They take from you and more than due,
they make you fight,
they run through you.
When the night is cold and breezy,
you'll find the steps are dark and creepy...

Of course, the man with no name bears on.
What has he to fear, you can't hunt what you don't want,
for the hunt is a thrill, and trash is pleasureless.
The steps are perilous,
they hunger for blood,
his steps are thunderous,
nailing thud after thud.

Dawn peeks over the distant horizon,
and what a sight to see: the man is still rising.
In tandem the sky and he play their parts,
so does the Empire, putting bodies in carts,
for the night brings the dead, so many have tried,
to climb up the steps and in doing so, died.

The man with no name treads a feat all his own,
but see? A trembling hand. The ache of bone.
For the man with no name is tiring, tiring,
even in the face of his glory aspiring.

He would tend to the sick and defend the weak,
danger and challenge and evil he'd seek,
to vanquish the rotten
and save the damsel,
but he's always forgotten,
that he couldn't handle.

So this lead him to this fateful day,
to this fateful place.

Just look at the sweat cascading his face.
Look at his knees, how they groan and slow pace,
his legs seem to jostle and wobble out of place.
Where is his strong stride? It almost seems funny.
Many would do this sort of thing for money.
Yet, he does this for his own pride,
and that grim determination, from his face,
seems to slide.

He collapses and the jut of a step knocks his face,
for the steps are at his throat,
trying to crush his ebbing life.

I've known better men
to have fared far worse,
but this man looks on his life,
not as gift,
as curse.

Who is more deserving?
More than he?
Cowards! Be gone!
Pretenders, flee!

What's this?
He props himself up with ease,
the fire in his eyes would startle a lion.
The steps tremble with fury,
they quiver with disgust,
they lust for his end,
he must die, he must!

"No."
He speaks!
"Not today."
The gall!
Don't tempt these steps,
the Empire's nigh trekable wall!
"What I want more than anything,
is to be myself,
whoever I am,
so let me pass, you glorified shelf!"

How strange it would be, to be there that day,
for the steps let him pass, without delay.

He stood in the face of the Hand of the Empire.
Glistening in his palm, the token to buy his face:
his full life's earnings, polished, just in case.

He sighed, "All I've ever wanted is to be respected."
At the cusp of his one goal, the man defected.

One day, he told me this tale.
This he said, into my conscience: burned.
"If you fight death for a name,
you'll lose all you've earned."
It's a rare thing these days for me to feel puckered out after writing a poem, but this one had me panting... metaphorically... maybe a "little" bit literally, LOL.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this!
Let me know if/how much, you liked it :)

DEW
Nov 2016 · 941
Mercy Redacted...
There's a penny for every sob story,
and a dime for every winner.
A dollar for the tax collector,
and Benjamin pays himself.

But you, my friend, are forgiven,
forget toil and bore;
where you lounge on laurels,
others hunger for more.

There's nonsense in fiction,
truth in law.
But law guarding fiction:
the beast's toothy maw.

You write the laws, my friend,
you are the fiction and truth,
you are the red hand,
you are the beast's jagged tooth.

On and on, the mercy rolls
Are you winning?
Check the polls!
Is it fiction?
No one knows,
but the crown drapes from your head,
to your toes.

Life worms its way into your moth holes...
99 problems; 101 dalmations: you do the math.
You plug the holes with your fingers;
end up with no hands to stop the flood.
That empty feeling lingers,
so does the blood.

Everything's shot to cheese,
but the truth isn't cheesy.
You beg for no mercy,
but you don't say please.

In the end, there's no mention
of how you were spared.
Dare to infract again,
only devils have dared.
I started with the third and fourth lines of the sixth stanza:
"You plug the holes with your fingers;
end up with no hands to stop the flood,"
that I had written weeks ago and had actually intended as a proverb for my fantasy novel, "Brightvoid," which I am currently planning/writing.

Since I had misplaced the note with those lines and put them into my poetry notes, I sat there, staring at those words and decided, "You know what, I'll do it."

Those words will still be employed in my novel, but they'll also be employed in this poem. They must be poor, working two jobs, poor things :(

Enjoy!

DEW
Nov 2016 · 388
An Appetite for Monsters...
Poison
Poison, dripping on the tongue
soaking in the flesh
crawling through the veins
possessing the body
reaping the soul
waiting inside...
waiting to be caught red-handed.

Hate,
a poison I know too well,
gripping my heart
sacking my defenses
and throwing them into the river.

Hate ignites my passion
turns lover to monster
turns monster to lover
and all the while
I drink in the crude oil.
This raw token of evil.
Its malice is like
the claws of a lion
hidden
waiting
like poison
suddenly they thrash!
Peace is cut to pieces.

I once had an appetite for lovers.
Now, I only appetize the monsters.
Dark thoughts,
plastered upon this page
like ink,
or dark paint.
The contrast is you.
Don't give in. Just know.

Side note: by appetize here, I mean "to effect appeal."
As far as I know, appetize is not a real word.

Anyway, enjoy :)

DEW
Nov 2016 · 113
Disruptive Indifference...
Are you patiently persistent, or persistently patient?
You are encouraged to be both when under the pavement.
Yet, in the world of the living, everyone's rushing.
When you blow jobs from the government, blushing.
When you smoke cars at the dealer, pushing.
Ideas laced over one another like a hero in addiction.
Pleasure locked in fervent battle like out her space friction.

I need a place to die where love is infinite.
Hostess: "Another cup of gin?"
Me: "That's it, I quit!"
Hostess: "You don't even work here, Jim?"
Me: It's weird, I know, but this moment isn't working for me,
I've got to split..."

We need to live in a place where you can't get addicted off of spit!
I don't want to buy pleasure, don't you ever make it an option,
do you like broken souls, so broken that the empty's rotten?
I've lost my nerve with this, so I can't feel a thing,
Reality: "Sir, we've been calling you for years!"
Me: "Oh, couldn't hear the ring... from where I dropped it!"

I'm divorced from this insanity, reality? Travesty?
I show up at bars, saying, "Let me out!" Bars of steel!
It's a hard sell to be sober. I'm sober, man. "For real?"
Everyone wants the pleasure: a jolly good time!
When someone's sober, well, it's almost a crime... (it might be)
Beer? No. Poker? No. Swear word? No. *******? Ummm...
:)
Maybe...
>:-)
No.
:'-(

What a land. What a hopeless, marching masquerade of: huh?
Dear diary,
Life is strange.
The end.

LOL
If you need an explanation, every so often, I write a bizarre poem. I suppose it's like getting the bats out of the closet, feeding them rats sneakily stuffed with garlic, and then hiding their bodies in a museum, whereupon you immediately regret your decisions...

Enjoy! (I'm sorry if this was too weird for you, LOL! Wrote this last week after election day.)

DEW

Writer's note: wow, a breath of fresh air reading this at the end of the year. What a journey this year has been! I was ashamed of this poem, thought it was too risque, but I now have no idea why I was so scared... especially after that election, LOL! I'm going to post all my weird, comical poems now, all at once!  :o)
Nov 2016 · 895
Status Quo...
The crow will crow
and all will know
the good will go
praise status quo.

The blow will blow
destruct the foe
went toe to toe
with status quo.

Mountains bow in the twilight
seas will shriek in that hell
beasts will bray at the bite
broken dreams' bruises swell.

Might was right
give up the fight
in fading light
under status quo.

There is no more
after settled score
when at the core
the ***** is adored
beware the door
of status quo.
This election has been weird, tough, funny, sad, frustrating, enraging, outrageous, and a host of other feelings, but no matter what the outcome, all that can be said is: welcome to America.

It is on our shoulders if we perpetuate stupidity, foolishness, insensitivity, and bigotry: not some faceless figurehead.

I aim not to offend, but to share myself as wholly as the world itself.

Enjoy!

DEW
My heart aches, to beat with the flow of time eternal. Not to count the seconds, but to know the passing. Death is only the beginning; life is only the moment. Pain unites them both. Pain severs, connects and furthermore brings balance to the lack of such. Heaven, a transcendent paradise above our placid river of life. Hell, the fire below our feet, churning the sands; boiling the water; raising the winds.

The earth aches, for at its core burns a love deeper than all the vast pools of knowledge itself. We overcome fear, to wade into the waters; to see beyond depth and know once again that time is master. Patience is key. Servitude is silence.

Rebellion is wrath. War is wrought from age. Age, an agent of time. Slowly stripping away all we are, until the flesh we know, is nothing but food for the ages to come. Time feeds on the worrier. War feeds on the warrior. Death feeds upon the devoted; ignorant of time and its tick, ******* the happiness out of the unknown. Positive presence is a blessing. Negative nihilism is a weight.

Be free of it. Be free of greed for gold and bottomless wonder.
Time, are the steps we make between seasons. Agents of peace.
The silence of space can never break its chains. Life is the same.
You ever looked at something you did and wondered, "How did I do that?" I get that feeling when I look at this. It's like it lights a fire in my soul and makes me believe in things I once forgot.
I wrote this as a Facebook post on this day in 2011 (5 years ago), and though time is a distance vaster than a thousand worlds, I can traverse it in a single memory.

Anyway, enjoy!

DEW
Nov 2016 · 471
Let's be Here...
Be lucky that it's clear
that I'm here
and not in your ear
making rhymes about
******* and beer.
I'm here
knotting so many fallacies that
I could be queer
but it's clear,
I'm here.

Still here, that is.
Or... maybe I should be lucky.
Let's both not take here for granted.
Even when it aches,
like reality has some sickness
that we can neither cure nor talk down,
we must remember
that we can no more not be here
than we can be in our dreams...
If you can't understand those words
then you're struggling to be here
shifting your eyes like flickering flashlights
they **** away and bang bang bang against the hand of boredom
because the brain is running dry,
I understand.

Be here with me, dear literary vagabond,
peruse my nonsense. Take a bite.
Chew upon the syllables and forgettables,
like soggy vegetables.
Let it all melt in your mind,
like Belgian chocolate (forget the vegetables).
There's nothing here except derangement,
but
have you won the battle?
Are you still here?

The sound of turbulent water
running through the pipes.
The roar of trembling engines,
jostling and towing their vehicles
down the street.
The tap dance of computer keys
mirroring the senility of my mind...
The slamming of doors:
all these sounds,
as if reality is sonically transparent,
but
are you here with me?

This world is more transparent
than I ever gave it credit.
If you're still here,
I bid you welcome
to the magnificent world
of a millennial extravaganza,
growing beyond the cosmos as if
our minds can pierce the heart of dark
and render mystery a pale reflection of
ordinary!

Yes, if you're here,
still here,
things are very ordinary.
And I can never hide that from you.
I can never make you think these words are legendary,
because I'm here,
and I'm not not here,
so you take me for granted
and though I could spin your mind
like a world on my finger,
people will only wish they could be here with me,
when I'm dead,
but if you're reading this,
I'm here.
Ironies of life and death.
Parallels of the ordinary and extraordinary.
They bind us in a seamless dance,
a dance that weaves together passion
and stillness.

I hope you all enjoy!

DEW
We live in mist and cloud
searching for warmth and mirth.

The mist fades, the clouds falter.

We each stand on a peak.
I see her glimmering smile
it banishes doubt and worry.

Who knew a smile could
be
so mollifying
so
filling, yet distant?

I look below
to the treacherous
valley.
I shiver at thought
but
omens cannot purchase
my hope.
I march forward.

Across the chasm
of maybe so
and
perhaps not
I fight the tide of
blistering denial, of
mourning and loss
but as I near,
her smile loses its bearings
it slackens and crumbles
smeared in shadow
it dies slowly
so does
my
odyssey...

Without her sunlit smile
to light the way
through treacherous valley
and darkening day
I wait, in wonder
of my eager
stupidity,
and waste away
in ravenous dismay
for her smile does fade
in the nearing
when will I learn that I
can never get
close for comfort.
We don't seek love and romance
for the sake of love and romance.
I believe we do it to escape darkness.
Much as light banishes shadow.
Love banishes loneliness and pain.
So we struggle onward,
through treacherous valleys
hoping to peak
at a wondrous experience.

Enjoy!

DEW
Nov 2016 · 677
The Touch that Tingles...
So pleasant was the weather
a summer spent together
she's *****-trapped with pleasure
sensations in great measure
To you, she was a treasure
but today there's nothing deader
than the tingles in your head or
the fantasy to wed her.

Tell me of her touch
like earthquakes in foreign lands
that you can feel between
your legs
like ocean water churning, churning
falling upon you when you're burning
from a sky so vast, it seems
that your dreams are pauper's dreams
She's like that same sky in the night
so dark... so bright
your eyes are alight
with infinity in sight
and you take a bite
of her honey cream thighs
you feel alone
and then she sighs
and you are responsible
it's like some living math
you plus her
in a bubbling bath
equals roiling memories
that cage as much as free,
freeze as much as warm.

What choice do we have?
Life is a choice of slave masters...
Be enslaved by love,
or dominated by hate:
either way, there's pain.
Either way, there's a rain so fierce
all the world is swept away,
but you and she, she and you,
you can never be erased,
for you are not earth and tree;
you are not river and rock;
you are spirit:
a thing proved unconquerable by death.

So, after life, when there is time to linger,
think upon the touch that tingles.
Heaven waits for all men,
each woman a
piece of
it.
Yesterday, I wrote down the line, "She's *****-trapped with pleasure," and I could just feel the poem waiting in the aether. I cast my net out and scooped up word after word, careful to be gentle, careful to be careful.
So here it is, a thing to be enjoyed in your minutes of peace. I hope it enchants you as much as it enchanted me. I love my poetry, and that's why I keep writing.

Enjoy! :)

DEW
Nov 2016 · 294
Like the Roots...
I know that it's twisted,
But, what love isn't
It steadily grows in your mind,
Vines intertwined, each branch is a vessel
To the heart of the blind,
because that's what love is.
Simple, how it complicates
When it breaks,
There's no remedy for how it aches
The mistakes, that you so awkwardly pursue,
Are the branches that lead to the, I love you
Now tell me and listen,
Let the quick sand, quicken
As you drown in the dust
Of what you cooked in the kitchen
You thought it was religion,
When you said your vows,
Like an animal you're stricken
When they, she, takes you down,
Simple, how it aggravates,
When you take,
Your last step.
Hard to believe it when you feel
A back-stab wound,
You're all consumed,
You want to crawl inside,
With the rage that love has blinded,
The truth is harder to take,
Than any magic pill you make,
Any time a simple memory,
Sneaks up to say, 'Hello!'
You're breaking every mirror
To not see your face bellow.
There you go, it's twisted,
But, what hate isn't,
With nowhere to go,
You feel like the convicted.
So you're trapped in a life,
That you don't want to be in.
You'd love to start over,
Just where to begin?
Tears are like, rain on the window of your cell
It's fine when you're here,
No one can hear you yell.
Anything, so long as you forget that smell,
The one that's so good, it's like poison in the well.
You want to drink.
God you know how much it hurts when you do.
Hey, take another sip...
It's not like the memories are through with you.
They're like the torturers
And you're a rat in their cage.
An experiment sometimes; Life.
It can go both ways.
You just never believe in bad fortune,
So why bow to the danger?
In the depth you're so hollow,
Because inside is a stranger.
There they are again,
The tears,
The fears,
The anger,
The stranger,
The hate,
The scientists.
Back again with prodding sticks.
They're in your mind,
And there, they're rooted.
You once grew love like a tree,
But, your world's upside down.
So all you have are the roots.
No... wait, they're thorns.
Like the roots...
This poem (almost a rap) was written on this day, November 4th, all the way back in 2010.
2010 was a big year for me with poetry. I experimented quite a lot. I wrote a few amazing ones. It was also a turbulent year for many reasons, which I won't go into.

However, I had some romantic relationships that year that have defined my life: memories that cling to my consciousness; memories that are awake even when I'm asleep. Such is love.

I hope you enjoy this one :)

DEW
Nov 2016 · 866
Bulimic Gate...
Our world is dying
Its aches are the wars
its groans are the screams

Blame
like a thorned crown
needles my mind
sowing doubt
and guilt.

Yet, I accept my purpose...
I heed the signs
I slay the serpents
I caw the call
salvation is worth this.

I gather the worthy:
the wheat from
chaff;
those humans, now demons,
in abandonment,
laugh...
but the worthy, chins high
heads aglow
walk the path;
I tread
through endless snow.

Yet when the passage
has been met
"Was I wrong?
Am I false prophet?
Crazed all along?"

For the gate is not barred
it spits us out.
It cleanses its treasure
from our ilk
like holy drought.

Left to scour the wasteland
gnawing us with frost
We wander its wasting reaches
We're not frightened
we're lost.
Believe it or not,
despite the religious allusions,
I intended this to be about publication
and trying to make it as an artist.
However, it can be what you wish to see :)

Enjoy!

DEW
Who would have thought
there would be no freedom
in broken bonds?

Love is that strange thing
that suffocates us
as it gives us life.

Oh, you don't know what love is?
It is the shadow of the heart
that diminishes in darkness
fading to nothing...
Yet in the roaring light,
it swells and consumes!
It darkens and sharpens
until it towers upon mountains
upon seas
into the heavens!

Shadow is memory...

Do you remember?
How the light felt
warm?
Oh, how it filled the soul
and melted the pain;
like summer rain
it nourished the roots.

All things soft and safe
turned to the light
and sheltered in the shade
that love did provide.

Yet, what is the light,
if love is the shadow?
It is the very sight
of the hope for tomorrow.
Written for a friend going through a hard time.
I hope it can touch others, too.

I do honestly feel like shadow has a bad rep, haha... even though night is technically the shadow of the Earth.

It's what people choose to do with darkness that defines them: I make art :)

Enjoy!

DEW
Oct 2016 · 511
Mortal Enemy...
Strangers meet under banner of peace,
Each with bubbling thoughts to release,
Words, flooding jaw, to open mouth,
Salivating tongue, whipping words to route.

Gingerly they stand, like spices they are,
Ready to aid any recipe,
To reach for dreams afar.
They don't even know who they are,
But they make shapes of one another,
Regardless of fit, unlike kindred brother.

Bright words fade to dark whispers,
As the strangers make new friends.

In the end, what is left are daggers,
Made from the shadows of contrast.

One stranger bleeds, invisible wounds that bleet,
Calling out for transcendence, beyond defeat.
The other ponders for silence, amongst the wheat,
But in a field of sorrows, one cannot help but eat.
The strangers stand apart, on a stage bitter sweet,
For underfoot is the rage, a sword incomplete.

Rage desires vengeance, out of arcane countenance,
Fallen from mercy, they each are kane to the sore,
Humans thrive on the jolt of fear sans repentance,
For the breath of *****, and wine, are of death.

Acquainted strangers shed blood instead of nectar,
So as not to drink of the life, from which they all are victor.

Yet they stand mortal enemies, under the stars of fate and boredom.
Where is that banner of peace, waving to set the stage... again?
For we are not sworn enemies, we are mortals of a fallen kingdom,
Meant to die for beliefs that will eat us alive from the inside.
I wrote this on September 28th, 2011.
I have an idea as to what inspired this, but I can't be sure.
Regardless, the amount of symbolism and hidden meaning in this is astounding. I can only read into it properly (even after all this time) because I'm me, LOL.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

DEW
Oct 2016 · 587
Bereft... (Haiku Triplet)
SEARCHING...
there on horizon,
sight unseen, treasure untold,
I seek its wonder.

WELCOMED...
craved in the seizing,
sating thirst in this, my soul,
I sing mortal glee.

ABANDONED...
come has fallen hour,
soul aches from broken dream's shards.
hope? never again.
With the Haiku Triplets (or Quartets) I write,
I try to tell a story with each part having,
the potential to stand on its own.

They can be separated, yet still whole.

Enjoy!

DEW
Oct 2016 · 250
The Narrow Distilled...
Gone is the freedom
Collapsed is the passion that was load bearing
Our hopes lie in groves, past knowledge.
Waiting upon dying breath if Despair is to die.
And what remains for us who remain?
Are we the useless tea dregs waiting for flames?
Has everything good been stripped away aginst our choosing?
If so, do we allow ourselves to drown?
Righteousness is as a static charge - building until someone is shocked.
Are you jolted awake?
Will you be my monster, assembled from the legs and arms of myriad saints?
Question upon question... does it derail you, or embolden you?
They will find you without regard for your privacy.
Even in the wake of your denial, they will test you.
Are you who you think you are?
If you are not, then I will define you.
You are weary. Confused. Searching.
Much as any beast in the wild, you hunger incessantly and no one and nothing has the fill you seek.
Then, are you not the living dead?
A body that still ticks and talks, but, dear me, no soul, have you?
We are on a quest to reclaim such forgotten things.
In the depths of darkness, a darkness nestled in the heart of mystery and not really a darkness at all, desire whispers.
All you must do is whisper back.
That which is darkness becomes a mystery,
but that which is a mystery is not darkness.

Enjoy!

DEW
Oct 2016 · 1.2k
What I Love, I Steal...
Theft I try to contemplate.
What is it that lingers,
On finger tips,
On stranger's lips.
What is mine, tell me when?

I shake the tingling weight.
Why is it, that desire,
On silver trinkets,
On breast couplets.
Hath lead me lost. In vain?

Who had it first? What god.
When is mine forever,
On eve of death,
On ****** unknown.
Who? That pleasure is beneath you.
I wrote this poem 6 years ago (If you've been keeping up with my poetry, 2010 was an amazing year... for my poetry, LOL. So too was 2011) and I found myself entranced by it again, so I decided to post it here.

Enjoy!

DEW
Oct 2016 · 328
Bliss has a Face...
If I could ever see,
a woman that personifies,
the symphony of this bliss,
I would cry,
and feel no shame from it.

If she spoke,
with the restraint-ed passion and grace
in the tune of my emotion;
I dare say I would be lulled into a dream,
the romance of which,
I could never hope to realistically pursue...
This is actually from a facebook post that I wrote 6 or so years ago about the humanity and beauty of femininity in relation to a piece of music I heard called "Arabesque #1" by Claude Debussy.
I'm a sucker for passionate, yet gentle, piano music and that song fits the bill eternally, with scarce a rival.
I edited the post (some of the subject matter) to fit a more poetic and personal theme.

Here's a Youtube link to the song with an amazing visual cue.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6s49OKp6aE
Share in the bliss :)

Enjoy!

DEW
Next page