Not often do I boast about my own writing... but this one is good. Perceive the darkness...
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Longings

I long to hold a can of worms.
Corruption in my hands.
A seething rain of gnashing teeth
to filter through the lands.

Or moths to claim the skies and clouds,
in darkness they shall reign.
And silence shall endear the earth,
the fields and barren plains.

I long to view a memory
of blood, and heightened screams.
A wail of such regretfulness,
it lingers in your dreams.

As the days grew cold and quickly
life begins to freeze.
I long to be the life-force that
resembles your disease.

I long to be a single tree,
the last among the ruin.
Or maybe just a frozen rose,
the last on earth to bloom.

Origin

How do I find the pathway to origin?
I have searched all the pasts of the past,
and held onto the past longer than necessity.

I have seen an awakening turn into a darkening
of clouds,  as breeze sharpens with each gust
and this brain yields to... what?

Nothing.

In the distance I see a reflection. It is
emerging to me,  and waves into a
silhouette of shapes and confusion. Who is this? Is it bravery I see? Or just imagination.

Help me!

Help me?

Do you even hear me?

Do you even listen to a fool such as me?
What God worth following would answer
the wretched of the world. Me,  and me,  and... I. And I alone have abandoned the
God within myself..

I had a mercenary as a muse. I think she
left and seduced a better writer.

© Wanderer

Should you debase,  the structure in place,
which seemingly lives here without a trace?
Or see with due cause, the untimely flaws
which poets detect and mold without pause?

What are we to do? I have a wide view
of what should be done in poetic tune.
But the fools of today would take that away,
and tell us rhyme has long since had it's day.

Just imagine a while, each scribe has a style.
Is it right for them to blindly defile
a brave institution, which came to fruition
long before they even held an ambition

to fight against rhyme. To fight against time.
Oh... to see their mad schemes is surely a crime.
So I ask of my muse, 'What way would you choose?'
But she turns away, for fear she should lose.

It sits, plain to see, conveying to me,
a message that writing is drowning... silently.
If you relax your pen, step backward and then
you'll see the rhythm the world is, and when
you finally see, the things I can see...
maybe the world will truly be free.

Rebellious Poet

The world is a **** travesty!

(Pencil pusher in a suit seeks a talented
personality. Has many references to
personal opinions. Will **** d*ck for
fame.)

My question is this. Are there any voices
left at all? Any fingers with which to
actually inspire?
Are all the poet's really dead and extinct?
And only hopeless left, extinguishing the fire?

(Young teen seeks ways to vent rage.
Picks up a pen, writes about false suicide attempt. Cuts self for release. Will remove shirt for attention)

What happened to the singers of the past?
Did they all get lost in the crowd of rejects?
Is a spot on a page really considered art?
Makes me confused and very perplexed.

(Old man seeks renewal of old hobbies. Picks up a pen and writes. Shows people,
and is accused of radicalism. Will read
basic works just for love)

Am I wrong in my view of this world?
Has my heart truly died to all life?
Is it wrong to see flaws in existence?
Is it right to think difference has died?

(Young boy seeks love. Will allow self to be groomed and abused for attention).

Injustice. Ridiculousness. Absurdity.
It is wrong to be radical? To be free?
Will I let you chain my uncontrolled soul?
Nah. Never. I like being me.

I have seen my share of the world and its kicks,
and I tell you my friend... it is not a pretty sight.
Racism is put on the back burner now.
No more black against white.

For the world has resorted to grey and death.
They are not people.  They are just... normal.
While the romantics. The real rebels,
and the sympathetic of life are abnormal.

I want to read a really great scope of life.
A philosophy of hope on art and song.
And although there are many who are useless,
I pray they raise their voice and sing along.

So join me in this final, last embrace.
The truth of life that many have ignored.
This young guy just seeks a world of artists.
A place where sight and sounds can be adored.

A sigh.
A smile.
A chuckle.

And then... contented guilt.

Oh to feel the pulsating vibrations once
again. The chaos of her fruit.  The lust
of her delight.

If only... nothing.

Her ripples led to destruction. Well, a fertile ending of all things good.

The cry in the night.
The tears of a girl.
The loneliness of desire.

For each wave of madness ended some
other pleasure. A glee long since regretted.

We called him Josh.

Crazy or not?

Is it odd to be crazy?
Or to think in a rhyme?
To believe in a world,
which is less than sublime.

To be random, impulsive,
or an uneven fixture.
To throw in self talking
just to finish the mixture.

Is it anger? Is it hate?
Are we like the whole race,
who would throw all the dirt
back into your face?

I don't trust or believe it.
I can't even conceive it.

If you told me a joke,
would I see round the lines?
Would I turn it around
and break the confines

of a freedom of spirit.
Or a hopeless recluse?
Do I win if I'm different?
Or do I always lose?

There's a question within me.
It hides in my muse.
Is it wrong to be crazy?
Is it wrong to be true?

What is a truth?

Truth is, a scale. A weight.
A line between distance.
A time within patience.
Hope within strength.
The grey in your hair.
The blew in the wind.
The cold in a heart.
The posture of deception.
The curve of a smile.
The flow in the air.
The faith of a spirit.
The love of a God.
The shower in the rain.
The burn in the sun.
The focus in the study.

These are truths.

© Wanderer