Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Expectation is the enemy of perfection,
A natural expression of idle curiosity.
And I have felt that need **** me years ago,
For I am a poet, as a poet I am known.

And this carries with it a certain expectation,
Which over the years has slowly grown,
That my writing should progress into perfection,
And so, is no longer my own.

And there, a poet slowly dies. Crushed under the weight of their own self-criticism. The world has robbed them of a free-moving pen, by way of expectation.

The death of such a spirit, is both subtle and moving. A nexus for emotion sapped and stomped out to the beat of life, until there is nothing left but embers, and the words which can be gleaned from a heart weighed down by expectation.
AngelAutumn4 Nov 11
Politics is the war of words, where conceit and defeat are closer linked than kin and ties of blood. To accept peace through understanding is the mark of both a fool and a king, who’s impact is long-lasting throughout the ages.

But why accept the calming touch of tranquility, when financially, a ****** victory is worth so much more? And so the words turn to weapons more fearsome than debate,
to the elated joy of generals separate from the populace.

Who have no stake in this to claim, other than placing food upon the tables of their families, remembering proudly the name of the man that came home changed from the war, that started over nothing more than words.
AngelAutumn4 Sep 13
Don’t you understand? It spreads. It all spreads. Your head-poison becomes mine and I’ve already had you tell me you’re going to bite the bullet, swallow that pill, at least 3 times now. And every single time you always say the same thing. You stay because of me. Because despite all the bad, I just seem to persevere and you think that’s incredible. Well what if I told you that every emotion you’re feeling right now is something I’ve already felt? The pity, the uselessness, The entrapment, the self-loathing, the hatred. And I was so young...you don’t understand, I’ve already been there, and I’m still here. Now I’m not saying I don’t have scars. I do. I’ve told people several times that I’m supposed to be a counselor or a therapist professionally, but something pulls me away from that. It’s you. Under a different name, a different face, but it’s always still you. You keep trying to bite that bullet and expecting me to pull it out. But it leaves a wound that oozes your particular brand of head-poison, and I can only come in contact with that so many times before I start feeling the effects.

But my biggest fear is that I will do that to someone else. Leave them a part of me that weighs them down forever. One of my friends recently developed anxiety you know? And I suspect in no small part thanks to me. Judging, criticizing, because I can’t handle meeting you again. Another one needs to talk, but understands the way the poison spreads, and refuses to give me more. I don’t know what I can do. I want to help. If anyone, I want to help them most of all, but they refuse. And it’s all because you didn’t understand when to stop. Now someone who actually needs my help refuses to get it because they see the mark you’ve left over the years.
I didn’t write this as a poem. It was just something I wrote to get my thoughts down on paper, but I showed it to someone and they said it was a beautiful poem. So why not post it here anyway?
AngelAutumn4 Aug 29
There he stood with sword in hand. Looking out over the fields. He walked among them, the long departed. Checking over armor for family crests. The wealthy nobles had paid good money to guide their spirits first. Of course, he knew this was pointless. Souls go when they please, and return all the same. The issue lies with those who do not understand they are dead, or those who refuse to. A phenomenon common on the fields of battles long passed. But that did not really interest him right now.

He was looking for a Regalian surcoat, a family of some note in the border lands between the two kingdoms of Erasta and Celune, the only one with any weight in the middle-ground game of royal politics as a matter of fact. The youngest son of house Regalia, Hensen, was due home from the ****** Fields days ago. Armed with the best weapons and armor a royal name could buy, and still sent to die all the same for the gain of his father. Not that it mattered, but that wasn’t his place to say.

He searched for some hours, scanning through the corpses until finally he broke concentration with a sigh and a smile.
“Ah, there you are!” quickly he moved the bodies of the dead around him in order to make some space, carefully inspecting each one for wounds as he did so.

He pulled out an ornate flask and a small hooded lantern with a gently burning candle from his bag. “Well Hensen, today’s your lucky day!” He turned to face the others around him, “Buuuuut..you!” he said, pointing a finger at one of the solders. “You’re quite a stiff looking fellow, but remarkably well preserved considering. You’ll do nicely.” With that, he began pouring out the contents of the flask in a circle around him. Taking special care not to splash Hensen as he did so. Once 3 full circles leading to and from Hensen had been made, he placed his lantern on the body he had noted.

Once he was sure those preparations were done correctly, he pulled a flute from his pack and began to play. The somber, eerie notes of the Taker’s song rang out soundly through the fields. And in a few moments time, seemed to be joined by voices unknown, keeping the tune. To the untrained ear, this chorus would appear to have no origin, but he knew better. And as the voices grew louder and louder with the song now rapid and thunderous in nature, he let the instrument loose from his lips and held his sword at the ready. Suddenly there, a spirit came, quick as a flash and gone again. And a moment later, a burning sensation. It made the first pass. Luckily, not fatal.

It came again a second time. Though now that he was expecting the attack, not fast enough. In an instant he turned and instinctively his blade had found a fatal resting place. With a horrified look, the spirit let out the word, “Taker…” and was gone in a blink. The body of the soldier it had once belonged to now drained entirely of what little color remained as he turned to face Hensen. “Right on que.” He said as the spirit of Hensen began to flutter in and out next to the body of the soldier. For a few minutes the voices continued to sing until eventually the song came to a quiet close. And with a start, The eyes of the soldier opened.

“Welcome back Sir Hensen of Regalia. We missed you.”
Just passing time :)
AngelAutumn4 Aug 25
What’s yours is mine,
What’s mine is mine,
Peace of mind is hard to find,
So I will give it to you,
All so we can live.
No greater use am I,
Than so great a use as this.

But to some I am defined,
By that kind of trait,
And so many of them hide,
In such a loving place,
For it seems a heart so true and kind,
Is a rarer find these days,
But I like this heavy thing,
So I will hold the weight.

And every little sin,
Shall find a hold in me,
To you I welcome in,
Everything you’ve seen,
So sit beside and tell me now,
Of bitter life,
What’s got you down?

I will in time,
Take that too,
And leave behind,
Something new,
Peace of mind,
All for you,
And maybe I,
Will have some use.
AngelAutumn4 Aug 13
For all the want of greater men,
To hold their power as a pen,
To open history and write within,
Their name forever until the end.

It is the work of simple folk,
Who find themselves truly woke,
By flames of passion fiercely stoked,
That see their names remembered.

So to that end then no surprise,
That for all great men to arise,
An air of humbleness in life,
Must always tame those truly wise.

For all great kings can walk with men,
Of lower standing and think them kin,
And speak of things unknown to them,
Whilst keeping crown well-centered.
AngelAutumn4 Aug 9
There you are old friend, I haven’t seen you since...how long’s it been? Doesn’t matter. You’re here again. So why don’t you pull up a seat? Please, it’s like you never left. Emptiness on tap, I cry until I’m deaf.

You thought childhood was bad? Well this **** gets worse. See I’ve been around the block now and I know how this works. You can cry as loud as you want if no one sees the hurt. And you get front row seats, VIP, for everything it’s worth.

But I’ve heard that it’s nothing, a token joke at best. This life that we’re all loving, is nothing but a guess. So don’t tell me that I’m blessed or that I have the best and biggest heart. My life’s a work of art but the canvas fell apart.

Here’s a piece for them and you, but I hate to break the news. A pictures worth a thousand words but mine aren’t any use. Since the day you left my side without a muse, my life’s passed me by, and I’m back to what I knew.
Next page