purple anthem
restless phantom
darkening autumn
haunted cavern
enemy's verse
stranger curse
awakened by
yesterday's hearse

.
So you snuggle in to your bed
as you hear mid-winter calling.
The cold north wind is blowing
as the last of Autumns leaves are falling.
Did you ever stop to think
as you pull up your blankets tight?
That out in the doorways of the city
desperate figures shiver in the night.
Crowding around the soup van
blue hands grasping for the heat.
Hallowed eyes and frightened expressions
as the rain turns to stinging sleet.
The concrete pavements are hard and cold
the bridges provide scant protection.
The hot food and volunteers words
stir memories into recollection.
Once they were people of society
with homes and jobs and cars and love.
Now they fight behind the charity shops
for clothes and coats and hats and gloves.
So as you snuggle deep in your bed
and your fire starts to burn low.
Remember the people of the streets
as the sleet begins to turn to snow.

Pagan Paul (Dec 2008) ©2016

I'd rather shoot and miss in a city of tears
where stars grow cold beating like my
heart.
A dark undercurrent of woe which seems
to draw but it will not be so.
The heat of a thousand suns won't reignite my
heart, only one will do so.
Only one shall embrace my soul.
All the stars will beat again in warmth,
all the stars will beat blessed like this one sun.

Refusing to be
healed.
A wound will stay awake.

Mired in bitter controversy,
the captain said―
the war was not a deliberate act of
atoning for the soul.

That prevents the sun
to come out after a long night.

You walk in the light years,
gaunt and dazed,
in pain of hunger. The words
hang in shame.

A city fails, for
another voice of verse,
in favour of renunciation.

I know sometimes I sound like a black hole,
and my poems are only of unhappiness,
But i swear there are good days.
It's just that if I were to put the good days and the bad days on a seesaw,
The bad days would outweigh the good ones.
Their weight would keep them planted on the ground while the good days float 3 feet above with a smile on their face and a stupid halo around their head,
No fear of the word "fat" or worrying about taking up too much space,
And sometimes the bad days would get so low, they'd take their feet out from under them and hit absolute rock bottom,
Because what's the point of that support if it won't ever be good enough?
What's the point in living a life where nothing you do is ever good enough?
But the impact of the fall is so forceful that the bad days bounce back, Causing the good days to slam onto the ground while the bad days get just a sliver of what it's like to be in the limelight.
Sometimes the darkness needs to have their moment, even if it's only a millisecond long and they end up breaking their tailbone on the fall back.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I seem to have a lot more bad days than good, but I swear I'm okay.
I find the strength to fight back and push the darkness upwards in attempt to save it from its bad reputation.
Turn it into art.
Offer it some adjectives and shiny words to make it feel better.
Share it proudly with the world to show that not every day is a good day.
That most of the time I am a mess
With a head consumed by a thick, dark, fog
Weighing me down so low that my thoughts are being dragged in the dirt on the playground as kids stomp all over me.
Giving me black and blues that only cause me to become darker.
But I will not let the bad days bring me down.
Instead I will bring the bad days up.
Because even the longest, darkest, tunnels have an opening.
Whether it be a small crack, or a staircase of light,
It is this darkness that gives me a purpose.
It is the darkness that gives me a light.
It is the darkness that gives me a voice.

I feel the weight of my words
crumble more with every day
that passes by,
like Autumn leaves beneath
my feet.
And I wonder if they ever
meant anything,
or if they ever will again.
Someone once told me that
life is merely a series of moments,
like blury foreign films
watched in a ***** haze.
Our lives are but a silver platter
of stories that can hardly be proven,
only eaten by those who listen.
There will never be certainty
that "then" ever really happened,
that words were ever said,
or even felt.
We are insignificant figures
of organic matter
and restless molecules
that spit out words,
to form phrases,
to form moments,
that never truly occur.
And again,
I wonder if I ever meant anything,
or if I ever will again.