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Can't you see?
Just look out of you.
This beauty
comes not only from within,
but from farm, field, mountain, and glen.
Happenstance and luck had no place
within what is simply heaven's grace.
But yes another gift was choice,
and yes what shakes is my voice
because I cannot force
this society's course.
I cannot show you this is real,
that it is not just how I feel.
That this is truth.
This is light.
But what hurts the most
is seeing the ghost,
the old you,
the knowing you,
the you that's gone.
I wrote this poem in a rush of emotion after a close friend who had helped me establish my own faith confessed to me that she did not believe in God anymore.
Sometimes I sit,
and I ponder,
and I claw for inspiration.
Filth encrusted metaphors
burst like bog bubbles.
Fill my mind.
Sleek and killing similes
pounce through synapses.
Claws in brain.
All sing of fall,
of decay.
Of mud and grime
clinging to souls,
like guilt to a survivor.
Sometimes I sit,
and I ponder,
and I claw for inspiration
only to find
that these aren't true,
they can't be true,
or at least
they're only shadows
compared to the giant flame,
because the world
is always getting better.
I find that I normally see the world, and especially people, in a continually negative light. However, when I look closer, I can always see how life is improving. While it may be a bit idealistic, this poem addresses that.
Sometimes when I lie in bed,
I imagine
your essence of being
laid in outline with mine,
our fragile bodies melded close.
I imagine
us swimming not only
in these earthly pleasures,
but the cool-glass waters of the mind
I imagine
all of the joy,
how it would be,
if it simply could be.
Somewhat of a "typical" teenage poem, but I still felt like writing it.
The walls of fate
tower before me
stone and
unyielding
mocking
in its
immortality
I close
my eyes
my guts
roil
squirm while
faces erupt
and subside
green oceans
waters in a storm
inside me
they're all me
but not really
It's past time
I finally
need to
choose
a face.
No punctuation was on purpose, and it's meant to be read at a rushed, hectic pace. My own struggle with who I am.
How do we escape?
This prison isn't steel,
iron,
even simple sticks.
These bars are made of bone,
wrapped in pleasure,
flesh.
Bound in nerves,
veins.
My prison is pulsing,
beating.
I know it's a trap,
a misconception,
but even so it's tempting
to live in the moment,
to do what gratifies me
here,
now.
My body is a traitor,
fallen,
demanding,
insidiously reaching.
Da
This poem would not let me write it.
For years it kept me looking elsewhere,
Kept me at bay with other, more seductive subjects.
Hiding in a corner of my mind in its invisible cocoon,
Slowly growing, transforming itself, evolving,
Until one day it announced its presence like Hamlet’s ghost,
Asking me to remember what I thought I never knew.
There is a secret that no soul will willingly share,
A hurt so deep we bury it alive and pretend it never lived.
What was it that crept out to pull me back, erasing the years—
A picture, a random thought, a boy shedding tears?
The poem now commands me, insisting on its need to be,
Refusing the excuses, rejecting my self-justifying fears--
That after all I will not be able to write the words,
Too weak or too afraid to make the thoughts a living thing.
The heart aches to find a way, to manage the voice,
To shape the words and sounds so they come out true.

Da, I wish you’d have let me know who you were,
I wish you’d have allowed me inside your life,
Your mind, at the end, was a sealed vault, locked,
And I would never, never know what you loved or
Why you lived your life, and what you thought of me.
We went fishing twice, together but somehow irrevocably alone,
After that, there were visits, the Christmas dinner, the tv.
What became of you and me?  Just before you died,
Lost in the fog of a morphine drip and numb to the pain of life,
You placed your hand on my head—and that was all.
It was enough, I think, to let me know what I needed to do.
I'm tired
of receiving.
I'd rather be
giving the scars.
10 word poem. Yes, I took liberties with my contractions.
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